time and space, in-between

by DivinetoDefine

Summary:

When a cross-dimensional collider goes screwy in Brooklyn and kills the world as she knows it, MJ Watson-Parker finds herself loveless and unexpectedly cast in the role of Spider-Woman—powers and all.

Four years later and way too late, the Spider Society comes to call, offering MJ top billing in the fight to defend the multiverse. Desperate for purpose, she joins up and quickly learns there’s a lot more baggage that comes with the whole mind-bending mystery of how she ended up as a wall-crawler.

But, hey, at least the guy in charge is easy on the eyes and fun to fluster. It's the little things, ya know?

OR: The Spider Society really isn't big enough for Miguel O'Hara and an MJ with everything to prove and nothing to lose.

Chapter 1: time and space, in-between

Notes:

#author is a huge believer of petermj otp & enjoys some good xinaguel & tempest/miguel & is asking, quite desperately, how the hell they got here

time and space, in-between

i. opening rites

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Four years and a day after the end of the world, Spider-Woman watches the dawn-bruised sky split open above Brooklyn, and she curses. Heavily. Brutally. Each word catches in her mask, muffled but severe. 

After a blissfully uneventful patrol—a rarity in a city as crime ridden as it is filthy—she has just a sliver of enough time to finally patch and bleach her suit before the sunrise. She doesn’t want to deal with aliens or time travelers or surgeons turned sorcerers or whatever is currently gestating in the sky. 

Above the dim skyline, concentric rings of red and yellow swirl within each other. Growing brighter and brighter with each spin. Each blink bears the blinding imprint of it. It’s the most beautiful, vibrant thing she’s seen in a long time. 

There’s a high whining, too artificial and chiding. Not of this world. It makes her teeth pang. Her ears ring. She’s two blocks away, but she’s careful not to lose sight of the distorted sky as she races through the streets.

There’s no risk of losing the sound of it. It gives off a shrill, grating cry like a spaceship readying to take flight. It rips through the empty streets. It only grows louder as she draws closer. 

That preternatural flashbang—what Peter always cheekily called his Spidey-Sense—doesn’t need to tell her it’s bad news, but it helps ratchet up her apprehension. She doesn’t want to get any closer. Every instinct—Spider or otherwise—within her screams to just leave it be.

But she’s Spider-Woman. She doesn’t get to leave things be. No matter how much she stares into empty corners and longs for the days when these things weren’t her problem. Back when she was still just MJ. Back when it was Peter’s job to right the wrongs in the world. 

The busted storefronts and boarded up homes race by as she vaults over the urban debris. Few people call Brooklyn home anymore. Most use it as a staging ground for petty crime and drug running, two of few industries that thrive in the post-apocalypse. For the most part, MJ ignores them, only intervening when the petty crimes become violent or the drug running turns bloody.

It isn’t the Nu York that Peter would want, but it’s the best she can do with the maggia waging war across the boroughs and a cavalcade of super villains using every abandoned skyscraper like the set for their big comeback film. Spider-Woman is one of the few superheroes left. She’s the only superhero left dedicated solely to Nu York.

Spider-Woman’s no Spider-Man, but MJ does her best. On the rare good days, she thinks she might even be making a difference. 

Today has not been one of those days. 

MJ turns the corner into Cobble Hill proper and skids to a stop.

Overhead, the crackling maw spits. The air quakes in its passing, wavering like jello knocked with a fork. Something large lands on top of her house.

Then, it's dark as it ever was. The meager stars seem all the dimmer.

Again, she curses, spewing poisonous profanities. Of all the places in the whole wide world, of course this thing would land on her house. Not on the crumbling apartment complex across the street. Not on any of the empty brownstones up and down the block. Not on Strange’s doorstep. 

Nope, directly on top of her house.

Quiet as she can manage, MJ creeps up the time-worn facade of the Lees’ neighboring brownstone. The Lees haven’t lived here in years, but it’s a kindness to consider the hollow home as theirs. Otherwise, it’s just another empty home on another empty street. 

One brick comes loose beneath her foot, crumbling under the pressure. The dull noise echoes. She winces. Presses herself flat against the side of the building. Not for the first time, she wishes invisibility was inherent with the Spidey mantle.

Thankfully, whatever’s taken up residence on her rooftop, doesn’t hear (or care about) the noise. She creeps the rest of the way up, quick and adroit as a real spider. Reaching the ledge, she vaults up and over onto the patio proper, careful to soften her landing.

Crouched against the ledge, MJ takes stock of her surroundings.

Once, the Lees’ rooftop patio housed an oasis of a garden so vibrant and beautiful that MJ had been inspired, with little success, to recreate it on her own patio. Over the years, the planters rotted and the dirt petrified. The squirrel statues Mrs. Lee so loved warped beyond recognition. Grotesque lumps of buffed cement and plaster mark where they once lay. Only a table remains in the center of the patio, standing vigil over a pathetic monument to something once so beautiful. 

Now, it’s infested. Hazy yellow lights flit around the garden grave, spilling over the lattice fence dividing the Lees’ property from hers. They blink and bob like fireflies, but there’s no shape to them. When they dim, they vanish completely, only to reappear a few inches away, bright as ever. With baby helicopter floodlights, they cast broad swaths of electric light, nosing through the dust and decay. 

Spider-Sense remains dormant, but she puts little faith in it. Unlike Peter’s super special extrasensory sidekick (his phrase), hers only pipes up when there’s a bullet already streaking towards her brain or a fist inches from connecting with her gut. It doesn’t often tell her anything she can’t see with her own eyes.

Crouched against the ledge, MJ studies the lights for a moment, but can't find any pattern in that on-off twinkling. She can’t draw the lines fast enough. 

MJ keeps watching. Her breaths sound impossibly loud, even dulled by the excess of fabric bunched over her mouth.

No route forward makes itself known as one pesky light creeps closer and closer and closer. She’s left with no plan. No better choice. 

Lunging forward, she aims for a dark patch, but it explodes with light a split-second before her landing. Midair, she twists serpentine to another stretch of darkness. She barely manages to stunt her momentum before strafing her pinky against a fresh blast of light. Ahead of her, a series of lights dim, lying out a clear path to the patio table. Or a trap. 

With few options, MJ braces one foot back and squints. The table is a decent distance away. It’ll be one hell of a jump. If she gets caught, at least it’ll look pretty metal.

She dives.

The air whistles and the lights blink around her. She skids underneath the table, elbows and knees taking the brunt of the hit. It’s a discordant landing. One of her feet fishtails, knocking against the central support. The table warbles like a gong.

MJ whips her body, constricts it tight as a noose around the support. The warbling stops, but not soon enough. 

A light blinks into life overtop the table, zooming from edge to edge to edge. Light and shadow lick like flames, edging closer but never quite brushing against her.

All it would take is a shift in axis for the light to find her. Up and down, instead of side to side. 

Breath held, MJ locks her body into rigor. Her chest aches. Her pulse pounds black at the edges of her vision. She holds onto the support tight enough that it creaks, giving into her grip. 

Spidey-sense might not recognize the threat, but she knows better than to let some spooky alien lights have their way with her. Her thoughts are a steady beat of: Go Away. Go Away. Go Away. 

“Fuck!”

MJ startles. Squeezes sharp and hard.

The tabletop falls against her head with a thunk, support snapped clean in two. Her hands catch it, palms pressed flat to stick to the underside before it can clatter to the ground. 

All the lights wink out. Only stiff darkness remains. 

A barrage of Spanish booms in the night. It’s the same voice as before. Male. Not too deep, more tenor than baritone, but rich. Commandeering. It swallows up all the creaking, shuffling sounds of Nu York battening down for the coming day. Most importantly, it doesn’t get any closer. 

Still, MJ waits. Listens. Her mind regurgitates high school Spanish, but two classes nearly twenty years ago do little to help her now. Still, she gets the gist clear enough. Mr. Fell Out of the Sky is not happy. 

Carefully, MJ leans the tabletop back from her head. Her pecs and neck elasticize, activating that pleasant burn of a good stretch. She feels kinship with turtles everywhere as she cranes her neck out further and scans the area, searching for her otherworldly visitor. Try as she might, her angle sucks. She can’t see over the top of the lattice fence.

Even worse, the grumbling stops, silenced mid-rage. Her only frame of reference is her memory, the place it sounded like it was coming from. 

Thinking fast, MJ repositions the tabletop over her head and begins an inching duck waddle towards her patio. She could close the short distance in a single stride, but experience (and a few beatings) tells her to be cautious. 

The world is still around her, but there comes a constant, unsteady clicking. It’s the sound of fingers typing an old, clunky keyboard. Hooves clacking over cobblestone. Skittering mandibles. Exposed bone scratching against the lid of a coffin. Each sonic association conjures a more frightening imagination of her visitor than the last. 

Slow as honey hung from a spoon, MJ moves the tabletop to the ground. Nothing jumps her. The clacking doesn’t stop. The lights don’t come back. She doesn’t know what to make of either, but she’s confident she hasn’t been caught.

Straightening to her full height and rolling her stiff right heel for good measure, MJ finally sees her visitor. 

Just visible above the fence, a lone figure stands on the overhang of her rooftop access door. Clad head to toe in a skin-tight suit of bruise blues and crimson rich enough for royalty, he isn’t anyone, or anything, she recognizes. And she would certainly remember someone so well built. Legs like industrial pistons. Shoulders broad like a private jet. Biceps to rival Thor in his prime.

The shimmering crimson of his suit emphasizes the defined musculature, dimming and glowing like a pulse. Whoever he is, he looks like a funhouse mirror reflection of her late husband, as big and broad and masculine as Peter always longed to be.

Thank God he faces away from her. Still, he’s too close. If he turned around, he’d clock her immediately. And then what would she do? 

Gritting her teeth around a fresh curse, MJ thrums her fingers against her skull. No ingenious plan shakes loose of the snarl of fear and anxiety.

First encounters with new enemies, historically, haven’t gone well for her. This one is shaping up particularly bad, on account of her opponent's positively jacked physique and the fact that he fell out of the fucking sky.

With few choices, she chooses her best one: hide. 

Though the electric fire no longer works, the pit jutting from the back end of her patio, close to the street, remains like a vestigial limb. It isn’t perfect, but crouching behind it should cover her enough to observe her visitor a little longer.

She steadies herself, counting down from five, but launching into the air on two. With a single flip, she clears the fence. One quick roll later, she kneels beside the firepit. The road below to her back, she locks her fingers tight along the crumbling lip of the pit. Maybe she’ll break it loose and wield pieces of it as blunt weapons if it came to that.

Another cursing barrage. Some of it she recognizes, run of the mill goddamnits and bullshits, interspersed with rapid-fire Spanish.

Up above, her visitor rocks back and forth on his feet. A far flung arm gestures aggressively. He shouts, “How is this possible? The chronometers should all be synched! I set this one myself!”

A small white light, distinct, and vaguely person-shaped blips over one of  his broad shoulders. It moves, a small yellow screen popping into life in front of it. A woman says, “Still scanning, but the temporal stability here is, well, not very stable. Scale of one to ten, it’s not good. It’s bad.”

There’s a grumbling of something MJ doesn’t understand as he shakes his head.

The unknown woman huffs, and says, “Monitoring the multiverse isn’t a perfect science, and it isn’t easy. Even if I make it look that way.”

“I know, Lyla. I’m not blaming you." He turns his head, just enough to reveal a crimson crescent on the face of his mask. It pinches smaller, dejected, as he sets his jaw like a sulky cat. 

“Sensors report a sharp decline in the population density of 7782,” the woman says. “Down two-thirds from the last reading. Pending additional scan to confirm. So, no time for a classic O’Hara guilt spiral. Chip up, big guy.”

Lyla. O’Hara. MJ rubs the heel of her hand between her brows, hoping to massage some errant memory loose from the snarl of her past. Peter always rambled about his myriad of crazy and kooky encounters. She always did her best to listen, but, if he ever mentioned a Lyla or an O’Hara, she can’t remember. She definitely doesn’t remember any wild stories about giant masked men popping out of the sky for a visit.

There’s a crackling noise from above. A voice, familiar as a toothache and just as disorienting, says, “You know, babysitting is a bit above my paygrade. Rampaging super villain? Sure, call me up. But babysitting? Are you trying to kill me?”

The masked man, O’Hara, huffs. “This line is for emergencies only."

“Told you to encode it,” Lyla mutters at the same time the little person-light shifts and crosses their arms. MJ squints, trying to make out whether Lyla is a ghost or an alien. Or a ghost alien. 

Any option is bad. MJ’s way out of her depth. 

“Oh, is it for emergencies only? Maybe put more holo-notes around it saying so. Thirty isn’t enough of a deterrent.”

The voice is unnerving in its familiarity, but MJ can’t place it. There’s an affability and good-natured sarcasm to it that are sorely out of place in her nocturnal hellscape. It reminds her, achingly, of her husband. But it isn’t her husband. It can’t be. 

Peter’s been dead for years. 

“What is it?” O’Hara says. His shoulders draw tight. The fabric moves like a second skin over the musculature. MJ has a sobering thought—what if the unnatural blue is his skin? 

No. Ridiculous. Unless he is an alien. Then she’d really be fucked. She’s never fought an alien before. MJ worries at her temples. Wavers on her toes. Debates running. Really, she’s not cut out for this kind of work. 

“Is Gabi allowed to watch The Oozes? She says she is”—the voice softens, addressing someone else—“okay, but just nodding your head isn’t as convincing as you think it is.”

There’s a squawk of indignation, shrill as only a child can be. Then, the voice says, “I’m not convinced, Miguel. Looks a little too scary for an eight-year-old.”

Another sweep of her memory finds nothing in Miguel O’Hara, which is a distinct enough name that she thinks she would remember. Maybe.

Peter talked so much about everything and everyone, but there had been so much going on in her own little world that she didn’t always catch everything he said. The tragedy of it all is that she hadn’t known how much she was missing until it was too late. She should have paid more attention. She should have paid more attention to everything.

“Lyla—”

“Don’t sic Lyla on me! She already gave me the spiel on babysitting. I’m asking you, soon-to-be dad to dad. How do you know it’s okay for her to watch?”

MJ clutches at her head. It’s too much. It’s too familiar. It’s not like anyone really knows,” she says to Peter, running a quick hand over the pudge of her belly. 

They sit across from each other in the dining nook of their newly purchased Brooklyn brownstone. Half-eaten plates of an honest attempt at pasta alla vodka sit in front of them. She is two months pregnant. He is two months petrified.

“And that’s terrifying!” he cries, throwing his hands up. His upper lip quirks, caught between smile and exasperation. “How can you say that and not want to upchuck all of the very lovely dinner your beloved boyfriend slaved over?”

MJ rolls her eyes, but her smile betrays her. “Because then your darling girlfriend would have to clean it up since my beloved boyfriend would be running to the bathroom to upchuck his very lovely dinner.”

Peter groans and knocks his head back, squeezing his eyes closed and making his mouth a wobbling line. “Okay, no more talking about upchucking. I’m queasy.”

She laughs and lays a comforting hand over his, slotting their fingers together to squeeze. He looks at her with a twitch to his mouth. His eyes are the sweetest green she’s ever seen. She hopes their baby will have his eyes. 

“It’s like you’re always saying, with great power, must also come great responsibility. And this little bean will be our greatest responsibility, but also our greatest power.”

“Oh, Christ, MJ,” he says, laughing through a cringe so hard it looks painful. “That may just be the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

MJ comes to with a faint ringing of nostalgia still in her ears. The man that sounds enough like her husband to split her head in two, says, “Are there some Parental Powers that kick in once you have a kid or are you just winging it? Because if you’re winging it—"

“I’m hanging up, Parker.”

She hisses in a breath of surprise and knows immediately it is a mistake. Miguel O’Hara whips around, just as she panics, flipping backwards with enough force and height to clear the safety rail of the patio and plummet over the edge of the building.

Her senses relay his appearance in a series of flashbulb afterimages. Harsh, red curves, mirrored reflections of the other, over the face of his mask, narrowed in suspicion. Curving, bladed protrusions of the same unreal color bursting from each arm. A watch with a broad, plasticky orange screen over his left wrist. Fingers ending in the pointed talons of a bird of prey. The emblem of a sinister spider sprawling along the planes of a broad chest thinning into a trim waist. 

Quick as a snakebite, MJ lashes out, slapping her hands flat against the side of her house to halt her freefall. She narrowly misses bashing in the bay window of her bedroom, hitting the strip of brick just beside it. With quick, panting breaths, she scrambles back up the ledge, peeking up over it.

Miguel O’Hara is already gone. 

The lights have returned, cutting through the darkness in uneven and sudden intervals. The bricks of the building jut at uneven angles into her hands. Thunderous in her chest, her heartbeat pounds. She needs to move. Now. 

That raw, panging nerve ratchets within her head, offering a flash of a migraine over her left eye as a warning. She lurches to the right as a thwip thwip thwip of red, glistening webbing blooms over the ledge where her hands just gripped.

A shimmer of crimson reveals his location—the caddy cornered rooftop behind her. How can he move so fucking fast? 

MJ flings herself back over the railing, careful to avoid the webbing, but she isn’t quick enough. The bursting instinct in her skull fails to understand. It blazes across her subconscious. 

There’s another thwip. Her feet catch, cemented to the ground by red webs. She jerks to a sudden, unpleasant halt. She has to windmill her arms to keep from pitching over. 

She struggles, but the webbing is too strong. She doesn’t try to peel it off with her hands, fearing she’d lose both to its stickiness. Just curses and turns her ire to the man swinging over the street to drop beside her. He lands easily with a grace discordant from his massive stature. 

Up close, his size is all the more staggering. At 5 '11, MJ is not a small woman—though she was once—but Miguel O’Hara makes her feel small. He remains several feet away and still manages to loom over her, squinting down at her through his mask in the same, discerning way as a pathologist on the brink of dissection. 

But she refuses to be cowed. She meets his gaze, masked glare to masked glare, and strains again against her binding.  

“You’re not Parker,” Miguel says. He waves a taloned hand. 

Blisters of light dot the air around her. One blips in front of her. It casts over her in a full sweep, and she glares into it to hide her wince. Her rough-hewn mask isn’t quite as expressive as his, but she expects the intent comes across well enough. “Where is he?”

“I was going to ask you.”

“You were talking to him! From your watch!”

“It’s better than a watch,” he says, quickly, like a reflex. He prods at the Better-Than-A-Watch with two fingers.

The person-shaped light reappears over his shoulder. Up close, MJ can see that the white light is a person. A little woman in an exquisitely white puffer and pink-heart glasses, she scrunches up her nose to report, “Signature’s wonky, Miguel. It mostly matches up with the data for Marilyn Jane Parker-Watson, but there’s a lotta  interference. Standard radiation and cosmic. I’m also getting some trace Spidey readings and that shouldn’t—"

There’s more crackling from the Better-Than-A-Watch, a strangled Hey! from Lyla as she vanishes with a wink of light, and then: “Very rude of you to hang up like that. Think of the example you’re setting for your daughter.”

“Peter!” MJ cries.

“Whoa, is that a woman? Did you saddle me with babysitting duty just to—”

Her husband’s voice cuts off. Lyla’s voice, pitched high with urgency, overtakes it. “Sensors are giving out bad readings, Miguel. Temporal flux imminent. You have to—”

The line goes dead. The twinkling, firefly lights blink back into nothingness. A shiver crawls along MJ’s spine. Goosebumps break out across her skin. An aluminum taste coats her tongue. Her heart spikes with a cold pulse of anxiety, but the sensation’s familiar. It happens, every so often, ever since the collider blew. Nothing ever comes of it. Just a nibbling unease in her chest that lingers until it’s gone. 

Miguel curses loudly—Spanish again—and begins tapping rapidly at his Better-Than-a-Watch. The orange glow has died with the other lights. She can’t see but suspects the entire apparatus has gone dark.

“Lose touch with the mothership?” she asks. 

“I’m not an alien. Obviously.” He doesn’t look at her. He continues to fiddle with his watch. 

“Dude,” she says. “You fell out of the sky. And you’re glowing.” 

He drops his wrist and draws himself to full height, rolling his neck in a way that would probably be impressive if she was willing to be impressed. Instead, she just raises a brow when he announces, “I’m from another dimension.”

It doesn’t phase her. Just last Wednesday, she got into a scuffle with a burn-scarred woman claiming to be a failed clone of her husband. When the so-called clone lost her balance and took a jutting steel girder through the chest, she disintegrated into dust. So, sure. Why not?

Miguel O’Hara is from another dimension and MariJane Watson-Parker is Spider-Woman. Big whoop. 

But, she needs to keep him distracted long enough to think up a stunning escape plan. It’s a classic Parker Play—if you can’t compete, infuriate—and one she’s used for her own purposes with mixed success. “An alien dimension.”

“No,” he says. Frustration bites in his tone. “A future dimension.”

“You came back to fix this then? You’re about four years too late, champ.” 

He just stares at her. His mask is unlined, unemotional, but the sharp red curves over and around the outsides of his eyes give him a perpetually skeptical and skeletal appearance. “What happened here?”

“You’re from the future, you don’t know?”

“Not your future.”

“Oh, okay, sure.” She nods, making a small mhmm noise. “That makes sense.”

The red of his mask pinches together, glaring. He says, “My name is Miguel O’Hara. I lead an elite strike force dedicated to upholding and maintaining the multiverse.”

“Well, that sounds very important.” She upturns her nose with a snobby sniff. “Very made up too.”

“It’s not—”

“Why are you here? Did you know my husband?” she demands. “He never mentioned you.”

His shoulders tense. His jaw juts. “He wouldn’t. Where is he?”

“Gone.”

Miguel’s masked eyes pinch tighter. He repeats, “Gone?”

“Gone.”

Miguel huffs and brings a hand to his face, plying the bridge of his nose through his mask. His tone remains low, clinical, but there’s a nip to it now. For a self-proclaimed messiah of the multiverse, he’s easily frustrated.  “Where did he go?”

“If I knew that, I'd be preaching on a street corner, not running around in spandex.” 

“The fate of the multiverse—”

And then, like a blessing from a heaven she doesn’t believe in, the sky lights up once more with swirling, crackling cosmic flare. The split erupts and a figure clad in red and blue blasts out. He catches the edge of a faded billboard across the street and then hangs from the side, offering a two fingered wave.

“Yikes. No offense to this universe, but wow. I’m glad I do not live here.” He flips off the billboard and onto the rooftop, landing right beside Miguel. He’s only a few feet away, a distance she could cross in a second (pesky webs on her feet aside), but the shock of it all overloads her system. 

Looking at him, her senses erupt. Sight and scent and sound and taste and touch all narrow into one continuum. MJ at one end. Him at the other. All the history and the horror between them. 

When the maelstrom quiets, she can scarcely breathe. Peter is here. He’s alive. He’s home. 

He looks exactly like he should, exactly like she remembers, save for a pair of ratty sweatpants over his suit. Even the strange fashion choice doesn’t alarm her. Peter never had an eye for style. Without her and Harry, he would’ve ended up in the dictionary beside Sloppy instead of Spider-Man.

Peter doesn’t acknowledge her beyond that first glance and that’s okay! He’s always been a little airheaded and distractible. Even superhuman sensory enhancements hadn’t been able to help him there. 

He tosses something small and silvery to Miguel, who catches it deftly and begins to tinker with his Better-Than-A-Watch. The noises of his machinations aren't as pronounced. His fingers are no longer talon-tipped.

“Lyla says it’ll be about a half hour or so until the next temporal flux,” Peter says, “so, you got some time, but let’s make with the getting out, right?”

Miguel nods once, sharp and assenting. Then, his masked eyes shoot wide in alarm and his head whips to Peter. “Where’s Gabriella?”

“Cuddled up, watching Inspector Gizmo, holding down the fort—”

“You left her—” 

“Of course I didn’t leave her alone!” Peters shouts, throwing out his hands in exasperation. “Jess is with her. Jess, who you probably should’ve called first anyway!”

Peter turns to MJ and juts a thumb at Miguel. Lightning cleaves through her body. She is alert and anxious and aching, all at once. Because Peter is here. Peter is here and he is alive and he is talking to her.

“This guy! Calls me across ten dimensions to watch his kid but has no faith in me. Can you believe that?”       

MJ swallows, thickly, because it’s real and she’s not dreaming. She’s not concussed. She’s not coming down from Venom. She’s not hallucinating. 

She’s here. He is too. 

A thousand questions flick through her mind, but only one sticks. She asks, “Where’s Mayday?”

“Mayday?” His masked eyes squint, discerning, and he cocks his head in that cute, oblivious way she always loved.  “Uh, she’s good, I hope. That’s very weird of you to ask, Spider-Person I’ve never met before.”

Faced with a reality she never thought possible, she can hardly choke down the glut of emotion in her throat. It’s even harder  to speak, but she manages. “It’s me, Peter. It’s MJ.”

A quick rip of her hand tears off her mask. The years have sapped all the softness of youth from her face. The radiation has washed out all her little vibrancies. Her freckles have faded. Her hair has dulled from blazing fire to muddy copper. Her eyes have lost all their gold-flecked richness. But she’s still MJ; his first love, his wife, his best friend, his daughter’s mother.

MJ stares at him. Expectant. Half-crazed. Mask dangling lank from her fingertips. Mouth edging towards a grin. Eyes wide with hope. He’s here and Mayday is good and they’re alive! The air already tastes a little sweeter! The burden of her Spider-ness is a little lighter! 

Soon, he’ll take her into his arms and it will all be okay and she can hold her daughter and make up for every single day they’ve spent apart and tell them both how much she loves them, how much she’s missed them, how sorry she is.

And she won’t have to be alone ever again.  

“No kidding?” Peter shakes his head. Chuffs. 

The manic joy-state freezes on her face like a bad paparazzi photo. The hope in her eye stings. The exhilaration curdles.  

“Wait ‘til I tell my MJ. The magic of the multiverse!”

I’m your MJ, she nearly insists, but then he tugs off his own mask. Most of his face is the Peter she remembers: same long face, same bowed mischief to his mouth, same perpetually mussed mop of brown hair. But his eyes are the wrong color. Brown instead of green. And his nose is crooked. An ancient break bisects the bridge. Crooked. Flaunting its brokenness. Something Peter would have been too self conscious to leave untouched. 

Tears well in her eyes, pressure threatening to burst the ball from the socket, and a guttural, tearing scream butts up against the back of her teeth, begging to be freed. Neither sensation breaches. MJ collects her expression, drawing it tight and sharp and still too exposed without her mask. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

“Watch out! MJ’s hot!” the Peter that isn’t Peter says, chuckling in discomfort. It’s the same awkward laugh as her husband. When he sweeps a quick hand through his hair, it’s with the same jerk of his arm. The same endearing slant of his eyes. 

Four years without him, but she never forgot him and all his intricacies. Never let herself forget.

Acid burbles in her throat. She grits her teeth together until her jaw throbs. Once more, she strains her feet against the webbing. Both break through in a little bunny hop. The webbing dissolves immediately.

Miguel’s head whips towards the small rip of the webs, but she ignores him entirely. She swells upright, stretching her spine tall as she can manage, and steadies her stance.  Her fingers itch, but she doesn’t move them. She glares into the brown eyes of the man with her husband’s face, even as her heart revolts at the wrongness.

“Who are you?” 

His expression strickens—just like her Peter—but Miguel answers for him.

“He’s from another dimension.”

She whirls on Miguel instinctively, seamlessly redirecting the full force of her fury. Rage crawls over her skin like a bad itch when he asks, “What happened to your husband, MariJane?” 

Righteous anger quickens her tongue, makes her spit her response because how dare he call her by that nickname, any nickname, like he knows her. Like he knows anything about her. “He’s dead. Just like the rest of the world.”

“How did it happen?” Miguel presses, frustrated and clearly trying not to be, but failing all the same. 

So, MJ presses right back. “Your little lady friend didn’t tell you? Seems like she knows a whole lot.”

“Lyla? No, she just interprets the data.”

The little woman pops up over his shoulder. She crosses her arms and pouts her lips, saying, “Wow, you really know how to make a girl feel important, Miguel. Just interpreting the data is taking up 43.44% of my drive. If you—”

“Enough, Lyla,” he says. Lyla glares and then turns her back on him with a dignified huff. She winks away.

“What happened here?” he asks again.

It strikes MJ that she’s never had to explain it all, never had to detail the how and the why to anyone who didn’t live through it, who doesn’t already know. And now, faced with interdimensional beings, one with the face of her dead husband and the other with perpetual disdain in his voice, she doesn’t want to. 

“Look, Mr. Leader of an elite task force—”

“No, you look," Miguel says. He emphasizes his frustration with a pointed, lecturing finger that she doesn’t appreciate. She glares at his finger, imagines taking hold of it to pitch him into the street below. “We lost contact with Parker three hours ago, but the readings here say years have passed. There are temporal fluxes every half hour. Radiation levels are off the chart—”

“Oh, is that why I feel like my brain is bleeding?” Not-Her-Husband mutters.

“—Parker shouldn’t be dead, and you shouldn’t be a Spider. This world is completely off-model, and if you don’t tell me exactly what happened here, we won’t be able to stabilize it.”

MJ bristles. She itches for a fight she will most assuredly lose. Miguel’s already proven himself to be faster and better equipped than her. Not to mention the backup he’d get from Not-Her-Husband. But she’s gotten her ass kicked over smaller things. It would feel pretty good to slap the holier-than-thou tone from Miguel’s voice. 

“MJ,” Not-Her-Husband says, “I know this must seem completely insane, but, please, Miguel knows what he’s talking about. If he says things are bad, they’re probably worse. We just want to help.”

Turning on him so quickly the world around her smears, MJ snarls, fire and fury and pure Watson rage. “You want to help? You should’ve been here four years ago to stop the collider.”

“Why’s it always a collider?” Not-Her-Husband groans, hanging his head. 

“A cross-dimensional collider?” Miguel asks. “Built by Kingpin?”

“Goblin called it a quantum collider,” she says, crossing her arms. “What the hell is Kingpin?”

Miguel’s already running for the ledge, lithe as a cat, saying, “Lyla—”

“Already on it, big guy.” 

Then, they’re off into the night; him swinging between the buildings with his eerie red webbing and Lyla hovering just over his shoulder.

MJ watches them go, curling and uncurling her hands into fists against the crooks of her elbows. She struggles to breathe. Not-Her-Husband takes a step towards her. His hand is outstretched, flat palmed and straight out in a gesture of goodwill. She glares at his hand first, and then fully at him before taking a pointed step back.

His hand falls. He sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. “Look, I feel a little awkward about this. Like, you seem kind of… mad at me?”

“I am mad at you. You’re not my husband.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says with a wince. “And for whatever happened here. I had a bit of an incident with a collider myself and I know it could’ve been bad, very bad.”

Trans-dimensional interloper or not, he has the same wounded puppy dog eyes her husband so loved to employ. She wants to be mad, and she still is, but the edge of her anger dulls. She considers his response, rolls her own around on her tongue, wanting to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but unsure whether to maintain her rage or feign an apology for her tone. 

Before she can open her mouth, his watch tootles a shrill little tune. A small projection of Miguel’s glaring mask pops up over the surface. “Peter! Enough chit chat. Get over here!”

As fast as he appears, Mini Miguel vanishes. Not-Her-Husband rolls his eyes. He shuffles to the ledge but stops just short. Turning over his shoulder, he draws his mouth to one side, contemplating. He sticks a hand in the pocket of his dingy sweats.

“You should come,” he says at last. “We’ll help fix your world, and then I’ll sweet talk Miguel into letting you come back to HQ. Meet some other Spider people, yeah? There’s even a couple of other MJs there. Always weird for me, but might be good for you.”

He flicks his wrist and a burst of webbing—white and stringy, the kind she remembers—sails from it, snagging the edge of the nearest tall building. He gestures with his other hand, encouraging her to do the same. A flush of embarrassment rises in her throat. She shakes her head.

“No can do on the web slinging,” she says. “This Spider-Woman is ground support only.”

He smirks. The left side of his mouth rucks up higher than the other. Her Peter used to smirk like that once, when life was kinder. “Makes it a tough gig, no?”

“I figure it out,” she says, shrugging. Inadequacy hollows her stomach. Her shoulders hunch, tightening with resent.

“Of course, not just a pretty face!”

She only stares at him, letting her expression betray nothing. Is he hitting on her? 

Peter course corrects with alarming speed, near-shouting, “Not that you look stupid! Or that you’re too pretty to be smart. MJ always, not you MJ, my MJ. My wife. MJ. My wife always says she’s not just a pretty face. It’s funny when she says it. She’s funny.”  

When he runs out of steam, he stares at her. She stares at him. Then, she laughs. It bursts out of her, delightfully unexpected, and he laughs with her. He throws his head back when he does, completely taken with the motion. 

“This is such a head trip,” she says.

“Yes, extremely!” He nods enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you said something. I was really sweating over here.”

It shouldn’t be this easy. She shouldn’t be falling into familiar cadence after years without him or accepting his goofy, stupid charm so easily. But she is. Something within her, the part that’s more Spider than MJ, knows that this Peter isn’t her Peter, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still Peter.

It confuses her, even if it makes perfect sense.

“I know, extrasensory senses and all that.”

His face scrunches, perturbed. He asks, “Wait, really? Can you smell me?”

“Yes? Should I not be able to smell you?”

“No, I mean like can you smell me, smell me? Do you have super Spidey smell?”

MJ sniffs, smells the ever-present stink of the world scrubbed raw, the lingering lash of blistered ozone, and the sharp, sweat-laced, citrus bright and woodsy Peter smell emanating from him. No further revelations whirl in the scent. She can’t smell deeper than his skin, his presence. Can’t scent anything strange on the wind or reach beyond the small space around them.

“Well, I wouldn’t say super."

“Ah, okay. So just heightened then. I know a guy, Spider-Ham, watched him catch a whiff of a fresh baked pie on a windowsill three city blocks away! It’s crazy what some of us can do!” 

“Spider-Ham?”

“Yeah, good guy. Bit heavy on the gags, but—” Peter’s watch chirrups again. His eyes widen with comic alarm as he breaks his web line to smack his hand over the watch face. Trapped beneath his palm, the orange light shifts, searching for an escape. 

“Parker!” Miguel shouts. 

“Right, I’m en route. Almost there, actually. Just taking the scenic route,” Peter says with an exaggerated wink for her benefit. She stifles a snort, chews on a smile.  

“I can see your location.”

“Well, no, you can see my hand.”

Miguel’s huff of frustration sounds like static through the watch. “Lyla? Will you—?”

Peter’s smile cracks when Lyla flickers overtop of his hand. Crossed legs dangling between his pointer and middle finger, she sits in the divot between his knuckles like a chair. With a fist pressed to the edge of her jaw, she cocks her head. “Hey Pete. Might want to get on the rendezvousing. Miguel’s in a mood and it’s only gonna get worse. He skipped dinner.”

“Oh god,” Peter says. Then, shooting MJ a look, he adds, “He’s a nightmare when he’s hungry.”

Suddenly, Lyla pops upright, shifting from sitting to not in the blink of an eye, and nods vigorously. “He’s the worst when he’s hungry! Always like"—Her voice drops into an alarming imitation of Miguel’s, as if she were a dummy and he, the ventriloquist—“Lyla, power down! Lyla, just do your job and stop messing with your avatar. ¡Ayúdenme! Lyla, run the schematics for Earth-8415A and no, I will not say please! Lyla, ¡vete!”

MJ can only listen, transfixed, while Peter chuckles. 

An exasperated groan rustles from beneath Peter’s hand. Miguel says, “Still on the line, Lyla.” 

Lyla shifts again. Her body angles towards the underside of Peter’s hand, leveled with the watch. She shouts directly into the ear of Miguel’s stymied projection. “Tell me I’m wrong! No? You know it’s true, Miguel!”

Miguel huffs something new in Spanish, more to himself than anyone else. “Just get over here, Parker.” 

The light under Peter’s hand fades. Lyla disappears too, but not before blowing a kiss goodbye. MJ doesn’t know what to say; what to do with her hands. She shifts, uncomfortable, but amused.

Peter takes one look at her and laughs. “They’re like an old married couple. You get used to it. Eventually.” 

With a flick of his wrist, a fresh jet of webbing thwips out over the still street below, catching the edge of a tall building across the avenue. He offers his free hand to her, palm up. “I’ll swing us over.” 

MJ bites her lip. Talking to her dead husband’s dimensional double is one thing, but pressing up against him while he swings them through the city? Too intimate. Too familiar. Too soon. 

“No, that’s okay, thanks.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’ll only be a little awkward.” Peter emphasizes with his free hand, flexing the fingers out, insisting. “If we don’t swing, I’ll have to walk with you and then I’ll die because Miguel will bite my head off when I’m not there in two minutes.”

MJ balks, remembering with crystal clarity the B-roll horror movie she starred in early on in her career—the one about humanoid, cannibal spiders the director swore were based in a real phenomenon. She has no idea what Miguel looks like under the mask. Maybe the skull design is more indicative of his actual face than just a flourish of style. Maybe he’s actually a huge, anthropomorphized spider. Maybe he’s hangry because he skipped his daily portion of Spider-Man. 

But MJ’s not stupid. She doesn’t really think one Spider-Man would eat another, especially not the self-important leader of the Spider-men, but she lets the notion propel her forward, lets her take Peter’s outstretched hand without feeling too much about it. 

Peter smiles, thin and awkward as her heartbeat. Then, he effortlessly scoops her up with one arm, holding her to his chest with palm pushed flat against her back. She wraps her arms around his neck, resisting the instinct to curl her legs around his waist. She doesn’t slot against him as neatly as she should. She’s not the same, soft MJ anymore. He’s not her Peter.

As he thwips between buildings, she can only think of her Peter, of the first time she clutched him tight after his identity was revealed. She held him like a secret then. He was precious and sacred and all hers. Until he wasn’t. 

Other-Peter says nothing as he swings her out over the quiet, cold city her Peter left long ago. 

***

The collider site is mostly as MJ remembers her. There’s a few pieces freshly scavenged, and a swarm of incessant, flickering lights sweeping the place. Otherwise, the same hunk of rubble. 

Peter swings them in through the convenient hole in the ceiling, depositing her on a bit of still-standing scaffolding where Miguel stands, fussing with a projection of lines and numbers and letters that looks like alphabet soup. 

“Took you long enough,” Miguel mumbles over his shoulder, not bothering to greet them further. 

“Took a wrong turn off Atlantic Ave,” Peter says. “Honest enough mistake since all the street signs have been sold for scrap around here.”

Peter presses his hand to his shoulder and then rolls his arm, wincing. MJ squints at him. 

Up close, she noticed threads of gray weaving through his mousey brown hair, but couldn't place his age. He still looks fairly young—late 30s, at most—but Spider metabolism is a strange thing. Her Peter reached 32 before the end, and he didn’t look a day over 21. Is this Peter much older than her Peter? If he is, does that mean there are other Peters that are younger? Are there MJs that are older/younger too? Have any of the MJs lived through what she has? Are there any that haven’t yet, that she could forewarn?

Mind spinning with possibilities, she barely takes note of Miguel’s crisp orders to Peter—get readings from the other side of wreckage—and Peter’s cheeky salute—aye aye, Cap’n—until she’s left alone with the Leader of an Elite Strike Force.

On Miguel’s end, he seems to have forgotten she exists.

MJ crosses her arms and leans back against a jut of rubble. It shifts and then the top of it breaks backwards, leaving her half-sprawled over the bit that remains upright. She scrambles to salvage her appearance, hefting herself into a sitting position and crossing her left leg over her right.

Miguel doesn’t say anything, doesn’t turn to her, but, by the way his shoulders suddenly tense and his breath silences mid exhale, he’s trying not to laugh. She glares at the back of his blue-covered head until she can breathe through her embarrassment. 

Based on Other-Peter’s earlier comments, there’s a greater game afoot, one in which Miguel seems to be both referee and star player. She needs Miguel to explain all this interdimensional nonsense and her husband’s role in it. Chewing him out for the unlucky circumstance of bearing witness to her embarrassment won’t get her very far. It’s hard to swallow her pride, but she manages, keeping quiet and maintaining the performance. 

But, the silence elongates into sinister shape. It prickles at the back of her neck. Makes her toes twitch. She never wanted to come back here. Ever. 

Once and only once, soon after it all ended, she dug through the rubble, looking for something to lay to rest. But there was nothing. So she never came back. Swore against it. 

Though, it’s easier to be here now than she would’ve expected. Though, she didn’t factor in two variant Spider-Men occupying her attention. How could she have expected that?

Still, even with Miguel tapping away at his gizmo and the occasional hoot and holler from Other-Peter across the gap, vapid and half-formed memories dance at the edges of her vision. Teasing and cruel. Gone when she looks. Just like her nightmares. 

Harry asked about it once, how it all ended, and she tried explaining how awful it was to be in the heart of the world when it died. But he didn’t understand—couldn’t follow her metaphor to save his life. Her explanation went something like this:

At 16, her wisdom teeth impacted down into her jaw. At the dentist, terrified of a needle drip, she opted for laughing gas. The consequence? All throughout the procedure, she kept waking up, droopy, but fully aware of it all. The stick and pull of thick, latexed fingers in her mouth. The crunch of her teeth between pliers. The sharp snap of her jaw. The spurts of warm, gooey blood from ruptured tissue. Everything. But she felt none of the pain. 

Living through the end of the world was the opposite. She wasn’t aware of any of it, but felt all the pain of being strung apart and welded back together. 

Sometimes, she can still feel it. And she shatters all over again. 

Miguel mumbles something. A quick explosion of words that sounds vaguely scientific. Like Peter used to grumble in his sleep and she would roll over, smoothen the wrinkles from his brow with a slow swipe of her thumb, and snuggle into the hollow at his side until he fell quiet. 

It’s all too much. 

Ever the actress, she doesn’t let any of it bleed into her voice when she sighs and asks, “How long will this take? I did have plans this evening.”

“Oh, really? Anything fun?” Miguel’s sarcasm is oddly cheerful, nearly chipper with faux brightness. All the more unwelcome. 

“Oh, just the usual. Dry rations for dinner then just sitting around hoping the world doesn’t end a second time.”

Miguel doesn’t offer a response, once again engrossed in the slow rotation of equations in front of him. 

MJ huffs, hanging her head. 

From across the way, Peter surfaces above the crumbled concrete, flipping through the air to reach the other side of the collapse. He moves with ease, totally at peace with his Spider-ness as he sails through the air. Envy pokes her in the sides, but she doesn’t flinch. Another dimension or not, he’s Peter. Of course he’s a perfect Spider-Man. 

Then, he disappears beneath eye level, back to investigating the wreckage, and MJ is left with three options. 

The first: Fall deeper into reminiscing on the horrors of this place—the fabric of reality ripping apart, waking up alone in the wreckage, stumbling over the Green Goblin’s unquiet corpse. 

The second: Go mad with the anticipation of unasked questions—is this one great trick? Can she trust Other-Peter and Miguel? Is she a fool for even considering that she can? What would Peter do in this situation?

The third: Make conversation with a Spider-Man pretending she doesn’t exist. 

It’s a fairly simple choice, all things considered.

“So, what’re you doing?” she asks, toeing a bit of rubble. 

“Calculating the polarity of the temporal axes.”

MJ scowls. The expression carves through her face, more familiar than smiling. “And for those of us that don’t speak scientific gobbledygook that means…?”

“Saving your world from imminent implosion.”

“Right. Well, much appreciated.”

Silence. Again. She would bang her head against the wall if she didn’t think the whole structure would collapse overtop her. 

Thankfully, the projection in front of Miguel vanishes. He turns, slightly, head tilted back to her as he clears his throat. Slowly, testing out the words, he asks, “Your daughter… is she okay?”

The initial ice-cold shock dispels along her spine, stiffening her posture. Her fingers clench against and into her forearms. How can he know about Mayday? What does he know about Mayday?

But, then, she asked Peter B about Mayday. And Miguel admitted to knowing her Peter. Her Peter, who hung the moon and the stars by their daughter’s antics, who jabberjawed about Mayday to anyone who would listen (or wouldn’t). 

Miguel’s question is kind, gentler than she would have guessed him to be by first impressions. But, he is Spider-Man. Spider-Man from a future, distant dimension, but Spider-Man all the same. That has to mean something. 

“I don’t know. I’ve looked for her, looked everywhere for her, but I’ve never found her, alive or otherwise.” She swallows and the motion is thick, uncomfortable. “I have to think I would know, but I just… what kind of mother just loses their daughter?”

Miguel’s eyes narrow, but the expression isn’t cruel. It’s considerate, resolute. He nods, once. “I’ll help you look, once the data’s processed, but, there’s a chance, a big one, that the answer won’t be the one you want.”

MJ’s hands don’t feel quite like hers as they flex into open air. She’s lived so long with the certainty that Mayday is forever lost that the possibility, even as small and fragile as it is, brings a physical ache. It’s as close to hope as she can manage. “I have to know. If you can help me, I’d owe you everything.”

With a final, acknowledging nod, Miguel turns back to lord over the wreckage, holographic screen flickering into life in front of him again. 

She stares at the colors that bleed and breathe in sharp lines along his suit until her eyes sting. She doesn’t cry. She isn’t even sure she still can cry. She says, “Thank you. God, thank you so much.” 

Because she can’t help it. Because she can’t leave it unsaid. Four years ago, she would’ve hugged him. Now, a pithy thank you is all she can do. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, low, like he doesn’t want her to hear.

The silence passes quickly as her thoughts churn with the sepia-toned memories of her daughter. Mayday’s first day of kindergarten. Mayday’s slapdash attempt at fingerpainting. Mayday’s fifth birthday. Mayday’s gentle, rustling snores. Mayday dancing in the kitchen with her little feet tap-tap-tapping to the reggaeton beat of a song MJ definitely shouldn’t have played around her. 

Soon enough, Peter returns, reporting on parameters and structure and thinness. MJ can’t make heads or tails of it, but Miguel hums in understanding. Before she can even ask for a recitation in English for the redhead, a portal is summoned with Miguel making overtures of safe haven and training while his Spider Society mends the temporal instability of her world. Peter hops through, offering to take her for burgers back at HQ. 

“We’re not all like Miguel,” Peter says. “Pinky promise.”

And then he vanishes.

“I won’t force you,” Miguel says, all earlier softness gone as if it had never existed at all. The whir of the portal punctuates his every syllable. The colors around him teem, blending through the bright light of the portal. “The Society isn’t in the habit of conscripting anyone.” 

MJ casts a glance over the rubble, remembering the way the place looked just before it all ended. The plain layout of the warehouse, drawing all attention to the sleek metal monstrosity in its belly. The incomprehensible sounds and colors spilling from the collider after it started up, after it failed. The sour taste of the gag in her mouth. The rough cut of the bindings over her wrists. Peter. Beautiful, brave, Peter, fighting against the Green Goblin. Fighting to keep her safe. Fighting and failing. 

And then, she thinks of her life After. She thinks of Harry, toiling somewhere close, but far away. Not that he'll miss her—they're not on speaking terms. Again. 

But there are some who might miss her. The soup kitchen in Greenwich. Mr. Al Khoudi, who asked her to investigate his bodega robbery. The basil plant she's managed to keep alive on her windowsill. Theo and Jesse, the lackey drug runners who feed her info on the bigger goings on of the streets in exchange for safe harbor from bigger menaces. The mayor's office, though they should really get the hint that—

“You coming, MariJane?” Miguel asks. He offers his hand, massive and long-fingered, but un-taloned. It’s a nice gesture. 

She doesn’t take his hand. She sets her jaw. Straightens her spine. Stands stronger than she feels. Giving the rubble left from the end of the world one final glance, she turns and steps past him, through the portal.

It’s not running away if she promises to come back.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, No You're Not

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: The Bugle newspaper clipping of the front page headline and cover drawing of the June 10 Edition of The Bugle from Nu York of Earth-7782. The boldface headline reads: “Double Trouble or Blast From the Past? Spider-Woman Seen Web Swinging with Spider-Man Through Brooklyn Badlands”. Beneath the headline, a black and white drawing shows SW-7782 “MARIJANE”  held in a pseudo-bridal carry by SM-616B “PETER B” as he swings from a web. One of PETER B’s arms is beneath MARIJANE’s legs while the other grips the web. MJ’s arms are around PETER B’s neck. Both are fully suited and wearing their masks.

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Exhibit was found among subject’s surviving possessions at HQ. Breach of LEAVE NO TRACE "LNT" was reported to LYLA at time of incident and no further action was deemed necessary. Notable as one of few remaining images of MARIJANE and the only one to remain unaltered by DISTORTION. 

Further follow up in progress.

Notes:

story & chapter title from "The Liminal" by Chelsea Wolfe

this started as just a way to pass free time and at some point i realized it had evolved beyond a silly little spitballing and i found myself with a fairly fleshed out fic so figured i'd post and see if anyone was gonna match my freak (ie enjoy reading the product of 2099 brainrot, MJ watson fanaticism and a dying adoration for all things & themes spider-man). i'll scream into the void either way, but always happy to scream together

all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: fun with interdimensional decontamination

i'm on Tumbr as Divine2Define and have intentions to someday start posting things on there for real so be there if you want - i'll never tell ya what to do!

10/23 - updated the summary and tags again. I almost never read on mobile so hadn't seen the beast of a text block in the works page. Definitely not my intention to be annoying since this updates weekly and most dont want to see it chewing up the thread when theyve already passed on it lol

Here's the tags i cut because i think they're relevant/funny:

#coping with my 2 fav characters done consistently dirty by spidey editorial by smashing them together like dolls
#Comic compliant Miguel backstory through Spider-Man 2099 (1992) #38 though NOT CEO Miguel
#attempting to thread the needle between comic Miguel and spiderverse Miguel characterization
#Miguel O'Hara's daughter is here (for a hot second)
#Blame Exiles & Spider-Man 2099 (Vol 2) #5 for this idea
#MJ's characterization inspired by classic Spidey NOT whatever the hell is being done to her nowadays
#lots of guest appearances but none large enough to merit a full character tag
#post-Into the Spiderverse (2018)
#pre-Across the Spiderverse (2023)
#author is Desperately Trying Not to Spoil the Plot in the Tags

11/15 - Fic Playlists

11/30 - Companion piece, Miguel POV - in your dreams, in your song

12/15 - AU (but can be read standalone) w/ eventual tie-in, inspired by Spider-Man 2099 Meets Spider-Man - Here for the Weekend, Gone Tonight

Chapter 2: no hands of fate

Summary:

The ins and outs of interdimensional decontamination procedure

MJ’s first day at Spider HQ is spent locked in a sterile room. All four walls, floor and ceiling emanate a slow, rolling white light. It pulses from the corners and constricts to the center of the room. In and out. In and out. The room is like a living, breathing thing. She’s caught in its gullet.

There is a constant whoosh of crisp, filtered air from vents she can’t discern. It only heightens the boxed-in, swallowed feeling. It does not make her breaths easier. It does not make her feel safe. It itches in her chest, too pure for lungs accustomed to radiation rich air.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she sways in unsteady rhythm, trying to find her balance in the constant, roiling light. Her mask lies crumpled beside her left foot, cast-off from the spatter of her body. 

Via a holographic projection, Miguel tells her that the process should be completed in under 24 hours, but the slow process of outward decontamination is complicated by the necessity to keep her internal radiation in-tact so that she doesn’t suffer complications upon re-entry.

Whatever that means. 

To his credit, Miguel offered to sedate her for the procedure, admitting it could be totally unnerving. She didn’t accept, not quite trusting him enough to get pumped full of who-knows-what.

But, stuck in the unending push-pull light with nothing but her own thoughts, she almost regrets the decision. She definitely regrets not pushing back against the decontamination mandate. Too trusting in that by far. 

Peter swore it wasn’t a big deal. Promised the gizmo Miguel strapped to her wrist and instructed she never remove wasn’t a big deal either. Promised to keep her safe. And she believed him. Believed him even more when the light sequence started and no cluster headache of Spidey-sense alerted of imminent annihilation.

Now, MJ bends over herself, touching her forehead to the ground beyond her crossed legs as her insides squirm and her outsides sting. The vision of Miguel stands just before her prostrate form, thin and ephemeral in its projected state. There’s no color to him, just the details of his image cut in grayscale. An effect of the radiation interference, according to him. To an unknowing observer, she could be praying to his digital phantom. 

The notion burs so she forces herself back upright, swallowing the swell of nausea that rises with her. “Is it like this every time?” Each word is heavy with exertion. Gasped more than said. 

“Yes,” he says, “but you’ll only have to undergo extensive decontamination once. So long as you return regularly. It’ll only be five minutes after this.” 

MJ bristles at the idea of willfully returning to this disorienting cell, subjecting herself to the same torment, but doesn’t have the stomach to protest. The offer to join—to be a part of the Mission that has yet to be explained—lurks in the background. Unspoken, but heavy all the same. 

“How much longer?” she chokes out. 

Miguel doesn’t offer an estimate. He only shakes his head. “You really don’t wanna know.”

***

At some point, MJ manages to pass out. 

She does not dream.

***

When MJ wakes, the pulsing lights are dimmer, slower. The room itself has darkened from stark white to grainy gray. It’s easier on her eyes and stomach. Uncurling from the sad shape she’s made on the floor, she steadies her palms against the floor and then, thinking herself stable, she stands. On two legs, she wobbles, clutches at her stomach as it lurches, but doesn’t fall, doesn’t spew bile. 

Once her body quiets, she takes count of herself. Fingers feather over her limbs and torso for signs of disturbance, of violation. She finds nothing other than the swampy stick of sweat pooled in uncomfortable places within her suit and a snarl of hair at the back of her head that takes excessive finger-combing to flatten.

In front of her, Lyla pops into being. 

Small and lithe as a faerie from myth, Lyla wears the garb of a socialite, rendered in grayscale. A static flickering overwhelms her form, sharp jumps between the flit of her eyes and the pulling of her mouth into a smile like harsh jump cuts in a poorly edited film.

There is something not-quite-right about the woman’s hologram, unstable in a way Miguel’s hologram wasn’t. 

“Hey there sleepyhead,” Lyla says. Her eyes spark with dazzling intelligence behind heart-shaped shades. “How’re you holding up?”

Her cheer is misplaced, shattering against the brick wall of MJ’s discomfort.

Voice like gravel, MJ says, “Terrible. When can I get out of here?”

“Ooh, you’ve got a couple more hours, give or take, but you’re in the downswing now. Your body wasn’t quite as resistant to decontamination as projected.” 

Small as Lyla appears, she disappears for brief moments as the pulsing lights cross her form, swallowing her whole before spitting her back out as they pass. MJ fears looking away, spooked by the idea that Lyla will disappear entirely without constant supervision. 

“That’s good, right?”

“Right. Speaking of good, you good? This room can really take a lot out of a girl.”

“No kidding,” MJ says, wanting to hug herself, but thinking better of it. She wants to trust Lyla, Miguel, the promise of answers and community, but she doesn’t. Not yet. Not entirely. And, until she does, better to project a hardened, unflinching badass than indulge in weakness. It’s a part she’s always played well.

Lyla twitches from standing, empty-handed, to holding a datapad in one hand and pushing up her glasses onto the bridge of her nose with the other. MJ blinks, trying to trace the sudden movement in her memory.  

“Well, your vitals are stable at least,” Lyla says, waving her hand over the datapad. The screen changes, showing a bar graph of values MJ can’t make out. “Though, your stress levels are slightly elevated and you’re severely malnourished. We’ll get you to the cafeteria, soon as the de-irradiation is done to get you squared away.”

“Cafeteria?” MJ imagines a long line of suited Spider-Men. All holding the red plastic trays, they cringe at the schlorp of mystery meat scooped out by a pinch-faced lunch lady, also in a Spider-suit.

“Yep.” Lyla gives a concussive pop to the p. “You’ll get a full tour of HQ once you’re cleared here so no need to go into details now, but, spoilers, it’s pretty impressive. Everything here’s kind of impressive. Don’t tell Miguel I said that.”

A smile cracks the sore, thin skin of MJ’s lips. “From everything I’ve seen so far, you’re the one in charge here anyway.”

“Aww, you’re too sweet.” Lyla swats the complement away. “I’m so sad I can’t capture footage in here. I’d love to add that to my ever-growing Lyla Deserves a Raise case!”

“Happy to repeat it once I get out.”

“I’ll hold ya to that. Now, I came in here to tell you that with the decontamination winding down, it’s safe to use your gizmo.”

As Lyla speaks, the watch on MJ’s wrist flashes a bright red light. Three times in quick succession. Ready, set, action! The brightness blinds. Then, the face of it softens into semi-transparent, orange light. 

“I’ve booted it up with the welcome video set to auto-play,” Lyla says. “You’ll have to watch it before you do anything else, but feel free to snoop around afterwards. Read through the manuals. Check out the Webb. Of course, you won’t be able to post or actually do anything until you officially join the Society, but should help you pass the time.”

MJ brings the gizmo up to her face, squinting at it. She pokes at the surface, once. A moderate sized projection, no bigger than a college student’s laptop, pops up over it. It’s a black screen, save for the words So You’ve Joined A Secret Spider Society scrawled in white. Little webs serve as the dots of the i’s. An orange Play button hovers in the center.

Eyebrows raised, MJ lowers her wrist and the screen vanishes, flickering back into nothingness. 

Lyla gives enthusiastic jazz hands. “Ta-da! It’s a quick video, but should give you the basics. I’ll get out of your hair and let you watch it in just a sec, but really really quick, before I go and since you really don’t have anything better to do, care to give your heroic backstory?”

MJ frowns. Peter had a heroic backstory. It served as a preface for his book, the official blurb on his website. But her? She doesn’t have a heroic backstory. She barely has a backstory. Her past is just a series of mysteries and misfortunes that spilled sloppy into this current misfortune. 

Relaying all this to Lyla, however, only earns her a resolute shake of the head and a tsk.

Lyla insists, “You’re Spider-Woman. You have a heroic backstory. Your own heroic backstory.” 

MJ almost pushes the issue, almost burrows deep into herself to keep the truth of the thing private and personal, but her story is the story of the world and of its end. She can’t keep it secret, not if she wants to save it. 

So, MJ tells Lyla about the collider, about Peter’s failure, about falling into the mouth of the multiverse, about waking up and she can feel the squeeze of his arms around her, feel the press of his body over hers, feel the heat of his breath against her face, but he’s not there. Peter’s not anywhere. And the wreckage is all around her, broken concrete and bent steel and cracked ozone. A murder without a body. 

He’s holding her still, telling her it will be okay. But he’s not. Not really. He’s dead. She knows he’s dead. She feels it in the twisted pit of her stomach, carries his ghost wrapped around her. It’s suffocating. It’s absolutely suffocating to carry him. But he’s nowhere. Vanished. 

Where the fuck is he? Hiding? One last joke at her expense? It can’t be. He wouldn’t joke with her like that. He would never scare her like this. He has to be somewhere. Bodies don’t just disappear. There’s always a body. Even if it's just bits of a body. Drops of blood. Scattered hair. Something. There’s always something and—

“Earth-928B to MJ, come in MJ.” Lyla flits around MJ’s head. Silver sparks jump from snapping fingers without noise. 

“Sorry,” MJ says, blinking through the daze. “What was I saying?”

“Umm, you were describing what happened after the collider exploded." Lyla squints and peers close. Between flashes of the sequenced lights, she scribbles in a notepad that leaves no trace once she’s done with it. “You okay? De-irradiation can really scramble your eggs. It’s fine if we pick this up later.”

MJ shakes her head and continues. She tells Lyla about waking up with Peter dead, but gone, with Mayday only gone, with the world all but dead. 

Skirting some details, she relays the parts that seem important. The moment she realized she had changed in the collapse. Cobbling her suit together from a Vogue creation and one of Peter’s masks. Battling the villains who survived and the few born from the ashes. She leaves more than a few things unsaid. No need to dredge up muck better left settled. 

Lyla asks questions here and there, particularly about Peter’s death and how she came to have his powers—both of which MJ can’t answer—along with a few questions about Harry Osborn’s comings and goings, but, mostly, MJ talks and Lyla listens. And MJ surprises herself with how much she talks, how much there is to tell, how grief stalks every word but pride for her city, her people, keep it from overwhelming the narrative. 

When, finally, she comes to the events of yesterday, MJ falls silent. She has questions of her own for Lyla, but her throat hurts, both parched and overused, so she just asks, “Is that good?”

Lyla smiles, nodding. Whatever inhumanity lurks within the woman subsides to the sincerity of her smile. She smiles like a friend. She says, “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty good.”

***

After the credits roll for So You’ve Joined a Secret Spider Society, MJ has the definitive Do’s and Don'ts of the place.

Do Report Everything to Lyla, the not-human life approximation.

Don’t Question that Lyla’s Not a Person.

Do Keep Your Gizmo On At All Times.

Don’t Sweat the Things That Don’t Make Sense. Seriously, Do Not Sweat Them. Time is Liquid and Reality is a Gas, Baby Girl. 

Thankfully, MJ has a brand spanking new doodad to distract from the mind fuck of the unwelcoming welcome video.

The gizmo’s easy enough to figure out. One swipe of her finger over the face and the interface opens up. The system itself is surprisingly intuitive, laid out like a smartphone with small icons for different apps, arranged in a tight grid when she swipes her finger across the surface. 

Most of her options are grayed out, offering an audio clip of Lyla announcing Nuh Huh when she taps on them. The few apps that are available include a clock showing synched time between Earth-928B and Earth-7782, which is apparently the designation of her homeworld; a manual that clocks in at nearly 6000 pages she pointedly ignores; a call button simply titled LYLA, HELP!!!; and a neutered version of the Webb, the Society’s eminent social media apparatus. 

The Webb lays like Instagram, scrolls like Twitter. Pre-equipped with a blank account (username: MariJaneWatsonParker7782. Password: LylaRox5eva!), MJ browses the feed. It doesn’t take long for her to be overwhelmed. 

Even when the Internet was still an everyday convenience back home, MJ never made much use of social media. Good money was spent managing her online presence and she never took an interest in it. She didn’t even have any private, personal accounts of her own. There was never any need. 

Peter did his best to get her up-to-date on the latest trends, particularly the memes that got big and the lingo of the youth, but, eventually, he got the hint and stopped hounding her. It was around the same time he started calling her chronically out of touch. MJ never took offense. She liked being chronically out of touch. It made existence easier. 

The memes on the Webb make as little sense to her as Peter’s did. Hundreds of Spiders post the same things, over and over, with small variations to the image or text, but she doesn’t get the joke. Why are there so many images of fully-suited Spiders pointing at each other? Why is every other post a jumpscare of J. Jonah Jameson throwing his head back and laughing?

There’s candid photos too. Some taken with a steady professional hand show fantastical landscapes. Action shots of a black-suited Spider cartwheeling through a shallow pond of glowing pink lilies. Selfies from a Spider with wide eyes, jutting a thumb over their shoulder at the skyline of translucent city. Timelapses of a gold foil moon traveling through a starless sky. 

Others are of a lesser quality. Blurry images taken by unsteady hands. Out of focus subjects. Too dark or too bright environments. A gloved thumb eclipsing half the lens. They’re the kinds of photos she would take—ruined by impatience more than inability. 

Sandwiched between the memes and the photos are long text posts, spiraling past her attention span. Info dumps. Storytimes. AMAs. She reads everything she can before her eyes start to glaze. They use familiar formats, but the content quickly rises above her head. 

One Spider asks, Am I the asshole for making a deal with a demon that ended my marriage and irrevocably changed that course of history?  

YES, is the overwhelming consensus. Nobody asks what she wants to know—demons are real? Does that mean God’s real too? Is she going to hell?

Another posts an angry rant against travel via wormhole, boldly titled, Consider the Worm! After a dogpiling of staggering proportions in the comments, the author posts a retraction: Wow, sorry I was popular in high school instead of learning that wormholes aren’t actually made by worms. 

Before MJ’s eyes, the comments on the post double and then triple. Most are negative. Each by a distinct Spider. Their little profile pictures and usernames supersede each other with every new comment. All before a minute passes. 

Uneasy, MJ lowers her gizmo. The projection winks away. The gizmo’s face dims to its base, solid amber color. 

There’s too much and not enough for any of it to make sense. Her head pounds. She wants to go home, flop into bed, crawl headfirst under the covers to huddle at the foot of the bed, just like Mayday would do after a practically challenging day as a rugrat.

Mayday. Her vibrant, beautiful, miracle of a daughter. All the best parts of MJ. All her favorite parts of Peter. 

In the strange mores of grief, Mayday often remains far from her thoughts. Too painful to remember; too incinerating to miss.

When she does filter into her mind’s eye, it’s easier to remember Mayday in abstracts and glancing memories. The burble of her laugh after slapping a chubby handful of spaghetti sauce against Peter’s cheek. That hawkish tint to her eye whenever she got a craving for mischief that Peter claimed was pure MJ. The cool press of her little toddler feet against MJ’s torso in the middle of the night when she’d burrow between her and Peter, running from a bad dream—all cuddles and snuggles for Peter, kicks and cold feet for MJ. 

There’s a small thwip like a web shot from the world’s tiniest Spider. A message bubble pops up in the center of her gizmo’s screen. Memories of Mayday fizz away like soda bubbles. 

LYLA - Pretty neat, huh?

It takes MJ a few seconds to figure out how to respond and another minute or two to figure out what to respond.

interesting 4 sure - SW-7782

Instantly, an animation of Lyla’s face, stylized sleek and simple like a cartoon, appears and makes a kissy face, blowing a little red heart. 

LYLA - Oh, you have no idea, babes. 

LYLA - Sit tight another two hours. We’re in the endgame now. 

LYLA - Maybe take a nap or something. Those under eye bags are wicked, bestie.

With little else to do (and absolutely no interest in subjecting herself to the perils of social media again), MJ lies flat-backed on the floor. Much as she resists it, she closes her eyes and follows Lyla’s advice.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, LYLA Will Be Authorized to Strip You of Agent Status and Kick You Back to the Minor Leagues of Street Vigilantism 

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Final script of  “Spider Salutations,” as prepared by MARIJANE’s Spider Thespians with input from LYLA and adapted from “So You’ve Joined a Secret Spider Society”. Full text is as follows:

SPIDER SALUTATIONS

by

The Spider Society Thespians & LYLA

We open with the title card, stylized with spiderwebs serving as the dots for the i’s. From the spiderwebs, a flurry of white spiders burst out, crawling all over the screen to white out the title. The spiders teem for a moment and then scurry away, out of frame. 

EXT. SPIDER SOCIETY TOWER ENTRANCE -- DAY

We look up the edifice, lingering a moment on where it brushes against the clouds. It is a MARVEL of architectural achievement. We look back down to the polished doors in front of us to see our reflection—a nondescript, ambiguous, and focus-group approved Spider-Person with a name tag reading HI, I’M NEW staring back.

INT. SPIDER SOCIETY ENTRYWAY

The hall is empty, but it carries the weight of an oft-walked route. The lights lining the walkway blink in soft intervals, like an airport runway, drawing the eye forward. We walk a small way into the hall, pausing to look up into the maze of archways overhead. 

LYLA

Careful, newbie! You’ll go cross-eyed if you stare too long!

We are greeted by LYLA, who looks like the love child of a rockstar, a supermodel, and the prettiest person you’ve ever seen in your entire life, but in a non-offensive, non-threatening way. She’s your best friend and your role model, all-in-one. 

LYLA

C’mon, let’s thwip and chit. There’s a lot to get through and only a five minute runtime to squeeze it all in. 

We begin walking again. LYLA keeps pace at our side, blipping between frames at an even, soothing rate. She cants her head, responding to an unheard question. 

LYLA

Oh, me? I’m LYrate Lifeform Approximation, but my friends all call me—

The path ahead of us alights with a wealth of projections. Each shows a different SPIDER in a perilous situation. As we walk, the projections we clearly see include: PETER B. PARKER-616B overstuffing his mouth with cupcakes, a gluttonous smear of frosting over his left cheek; MIGUEL O’HARA-928B turning to face a disembodied tap on the shoulder only to have a cartoonish anvil smashed into his mask; JESSICA DREW-332 fantastically and heroically saving civilians from a collapsing bridge and then looking down at her hand to see she’s chipped a nail; MALALA WINDSOR-835 running out of web fluid mid-swing, but managing to dramatically catch herself on the side of a skyscraper. 

SPIDERS -- in unison

LYLA!

In each of the projections, LYLA appears to save the day. Of those in the forefront: LYLA daubs PETER B. PARKER-616B’s face with a napkin; LYLA holds up a sign that reads ‘yowch!’ beside MIGUEL O’HARA-928B as cartoon stars swirl around his head; LYLA reshapes JESSICA DREW-332’s nail with a fashionable pink nail file; LYLA offers a brand new cartridge of web fluid to MALALA WINDSOR-835. Each SPIDER gives their variation of a thumbs up except MIGUEL O’HARA-928B, who makes a disgruntled snatch at LYLA but misses. 

LYLA

Just remember, if you ever need anything, call for LYLA. I’ll be there in a blink! Now, onto the boring stuff.

One of LYLA’s projections turns and obscures our view of the hallway. We ‘walk’ into the projection and see MIGUEL O’HARA-928B reviewing blueprints marked as SPIDER SOCIETY. We see the SPIDER SOCIETY go from drawn plans to structural reality via a timelapse. MIGUEL O’HARA-928B features heavily in the timelapse, ordering a platoon of SPIDERS to scurry over the construction site, intercut with scenes of coffee breaks and impromptu group naps. 

LYLA -- over

The passion project of founder Miguel O’Hara of Earth-928B, the Spider Society was formed as a central hub for defense and maintenance of the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse after a destabilizing incursion event skewered the Multiverse like swiss cheese and cast anomalies out in every direction.

The projection fizzles, revealing the long hallway ahead once more. Around us, the gentle phantoms of other Spiders begin to take shape, moving at super speed in a timelapse of motion and movement. The image is reminiscent of Grand Central Station at its busiest or Rockefeller Center at the Holidays; full and busy, but not overwhelming. It is welcoming, a buzz of excitement. Our hands pop into the bottom of frame, gesturing through an inaudible question. 

LYLA

Never heard of the Multiverse? Newbie, you’re living in it! If we don’t all do our part to keep it safe, the whole thing goes kablooey like Gobby’s pumpkin bombs!

We walk into a new projection just as animated explosions fizzle across its surface. We enter a replica of the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse’s structure, surrounded at every angle by points along the starlit web. We spin in place, MARVELing at the scope and span. 

LYLA -- over

Joining the Spider Society can be a huge adjustment for some Spiders, especially since we’re based in the far flung future for most. The technology alone can be daunting, not to mention having to wrap your head around the infinite possibilities of the Multiverse, and keeping anomalies from enacting world-ending devastation. There’ll be more rules and procedures forthcoming with training, but let’s just talk about the big four for now, mmkay?

The web around us begins to fade, save for one point of light, quickly growing brighter and bigger. 

LYLA -- over

Rule #1 – Keep the Secret Society, Secret! Loose lips sink ships, folks, even retro-futuristic, basically perfect ships like this one. The last thing we need is a bunch of universe hopping losers trying to hijack the project. We know the Spider Society is super cool, but secrecy is what keeps it cool! That means don’t tell your spouses, partners, friends, foes, or anyone in between anything! 

We see a series of SPIDERs in various interpersonal interactions. Some are surrounded by hearts and holding hands. Others are handing photos of SPIDER HQ or SPIDERS to J. JONAH JAMESON. Others still are talking animatedly to a MENAGERIE OF VILLAINS.

LYLA -- over

You never know who or what might be listening in!

We pan to PETER PARKER-92100 as he talks to a NONDESCRIPT PLACEHOLDER PERSON. From the window behind him, a pair of eerie yellow eyes peer and then begin to take notes with a disembodied hand. 

LYLA -- over

Rule #2 – There’s no I in Team, but there is one in Spider and double in Spider Society! Though most Spider-people prefer to work alone, the Spider Society implements a buddy system, which has proven time and time again to save lives and boost efficiency in catching baddies! Buddies are assigned on a mission-by-mission basis via the handy dandy Algorithm™ of yours truly. Though we strongly encourage teamwork on missions, we also fully endorse maintaining your own personal style and ingenuity.

We leave the scene with PETER PARKER-92100 to enjoy a montage of various TEAM UPs. SPIDERs of all creeds and costumes swing through the iconic NYC skyline, take down anomalies, leap through portals, share sentimental moments of simultaneous SPIDER-SENSE, and high five each other after jobs well done. 

LYLA -- over

Rule #3 – Take care of yourself out there! The multiverse can be a dangerous place for an itsy bitsy little Spider. We have protocols and precautions in place for a reason—we’re not trying to send anyone the way of disco and organic foodstuffs! 

We end the montage and pan to a funeral held in PETER PORKER-8311’s memory, attended by a cluster of SPIDERs. MARIJANE-7782 approaches PETER PORKER-8311’s open casket. Weeping, MARIJANE-7782 produces a red apple and gingerly places it in PETER PORKER-8311’s mouth. 

PETER PORKER-8311’s eyes open wide. MARIJANE-7782 screams and collapses. PETER PORKER-8311 spits out the apple in alarm and disgust. 

PETER PORKER-8311

What is? Is this an apple? An apple? Really?

PETER PORKER-8311 hops out of his casket. He dusts himself off. The SPIDERs in attendance express joyous disbelief. 

PETER PORKER-8311

I am a serious actor and you have me doing pig gags! The nerve! The sheer gall! The pure porcine preposterousness! 

PETER PORKER-8311 storms off set. MARIJANE-7782 collects herself, wiping tears from her eyes. 

PETER PORKER-8311 – over

I can’t believe I passed on Quentin Tarantula for this garbage!

LYLA -- over

And, most importantly, Rule #4. Never remove your gizmo. Ever. Or you’ll glitch into a corrupted mass of flesh and particles with your brain matter scattered between dimensions, living in perpetual agony—not quite alive, but never able to fully die in an existence of pure and utter misery.

We cut to a cartoon rendering of BEN REILLY-35 in line for Spidey-Joes in the cafeteria. He removes his gizmo to scratch at his wrist. As soon as the gizmo is removed, BEN REILLY-35 glitches through a series of horrific and grotesque iterations.

BEN REILLY-35

Ms. LYLA? I don’t feel so good. 

BEN REILLY-35  falls over and bursts apart into cosmic ash. 

We suddenly pull out of the hellish projection. LYLA stands in front of us, surrounded by screens of her own making. On each, a SPIDER looks at her with colorful, waving tendrils emanating from their heads to show SPIDER-SENSE at work. LYLA glances around sheepishly. 

LYLA

What? BEN asked for the MCU treatment! 

The surrounding SPIDERs calm, but still maintain a skeptical, skeeved out expression. Their faces blip away, in a rushing wave of new projections of SPIDERs in various states of play and socialization. 

LYLA – over

But, there’s more to this place than responsibility and missions.

SPIDER BUDDIEs laugh and hug and high five. Clips from the Intra-Society BASKETBALL, HOCKEY, and WRESTLING tournaments flash. Brief segments from the SPIDER THESPIANs’ quarterly showcase are featured prominently, including various monologues, dance numbers, performance art pieces, and plays. Also featured are events put on by the SPIDER SOCIAL COMMITTEE—birthday parties, pie eating contests, mixers, karaoke night, movie screenings, the only very doomed and cursed open mic comedy night. 

LYLA

So, you ready to light this candle or what, Newbie?

The screens around LYLA shift to make a clear path forward to a bright lit archway at the end of the entry hall. We walk towards the archway as the music swells and the light grows bright enough to engulf the frame.

FIN

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Mentions of MARIJANE’s role remain in the final script despite her disappearance from the vid-record of “Spider Salutations”. Unclear why DISTORTION manifests as an active distortion of image, sound, etc, in certain instances, and completely erases all evidence of MARIJANE in other instances. There is not yet any discernible reason behind these discrepancies, though extensive analysis continues. Of note, most textual evidence remains unaffected by DISTORTION, but there are exceptions. 

Of further note, poll taken of Agents who viewed “Spider Salutations” prior to DATE OF INCITING EVENT “DoIE” reveals 85% have no memory of MARIJANE’s appearance in the vid. 13% reported memory of a “Mary Jane type,” but unable to describe in any great detail or clarity. 2% admitted to “not really paying attention” to the vid.

LYLA says that the removal of MARIJANE’s “campy yet compelling” performance, as referenced in the script, is “a real bummer.” SM-928B inclined to agree with LYLA analysis, but with more of a generalized, permeating malaise. This entire investigation is a real [REDACTED] bummer. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Only Love Can Save Me Now - Acoustic" by The Pretty Reckless

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: one heckuva welcome tour (AKA Peter B Parker returns)

Chapter 3: all the heaven, all the time

Summary:

A welcome tour led by the man, the myth, the legend, Peter B Parker

MJ’s first, real foray into the Spider Society comes moments after the decontamination room goes dark. From the center of the far wall, the outline of a door etches itself with laser precision. Skittish as a newborn foal, MJ creeps towards the door. 

Nothing happens as she approaches. The door is still there but it doesn’t do anything other than exist with an alarming surety. Has it been there the whole time and she just failed to notice? Had Miguel and Lyla banked (correctly) that she wouldn’t investigate her surroundings and realize leaving midway through was even an option?

If it was a test, she’s already failed. 

The door doesn’t allow her a moment more to ruminate. It drops down in a pneumatic whoosh to reveal the hallway proper beyond it. Tentatively, MJ pokes her head out into a long stretching hallway, looking left and then right, checking for traffic and threats. She finds nothing of the sort. 

There's only Peter B. leaned up against the wall across from her. He wears the same ratty sweatpants, but has added a pair of truly offensive Spider-Man themed slippers to the ensemble. His mask is rucked up over his forehead, a few loose stands of fading brown poking out. He holds a massive metal tumbler with a bright green straw in one hand and taps out an antsy tune against the wall with his other hand.     

As soon as she steps into the hall, his head whips towards her. Their eyes connect, crackle. There’s that same, stinging discomfort at the sight of him. It doesn’t help her uneasy stomach. She winces to alleviate the pressure of his presence and it helps, a little, before the sensation vanishes entirely. Then, he grins, wide and crooked. Relief loosens her shoulders, draws an easy smile from her lips. 

“MJ! You survived!” Peter cries. He moves at her quickly, arms outstretched in the suggestion of a hug, but stops just short when she takes a shuffling step backwards. He rubs at the back of his neck, cheeks dusting pink, and she mumbles little apologies, waving away the offense like a bad smell. 

“Just happy you’re not a puddle of goo,” he says. “Miguel said it wasn’t impossible. I think he meant it to be funny. He really needs to work on his delivery.” 

She winces as a permeating sense of wet shivers through her mindscape. Gooification was definitely left out of the risks rattled off. 

Suddenly, remembering he’s holding it, Peter shoves the tumbler towards her and shakes it violently. The straw bobs back and forth like a cat’s tail. “Drink up. Doctor’s orders.”

It’s heavier than she expects, sloshing sloppily and hinting at a viscosity beyond easy consumption when she takes it from him. She squints, but can’t find any hint of deceit. 

“Hey, don’t look at me like that.” Peter holds his hands up in a show of innocence. “It wasn’t my choice. Doc said it’s either the mystery milkshake or a trip to the infirmary for injections. And I’m a wuss with needles so I know which way I’d go.”

MJ is not a wuss with needles (not since she experienced the joys of childbirth), but she’s not eager to be stuck full of them by an unnamed Doc at a mysterious Society in an unknown future. And she’s also not eager to drink a suspicious milkshake for similar reasons. 

Another shake of the cup gives a heavy slosh. No less thick. No less suspicious. Thinking of Mayday, mouth full of gluey, thick oatmeal one moment only to be bent over and projectile vomiting the next, MJ’s stomach turns. She scowls. Whatever’s inside, it’s the dead opposite of appealing.

“And if I don’t do either?” 

One side of Peter’s mouth rucks higher than the other, not altogether a smile. He shrugs. “Lyla’ll probably send the drones after you.” 

“Drones.” MJ keeps her voice stoic, but the pulse ratchets in her neck. Visions of hulking metal men, red laser eyes and spinning knife hands haunt her vision. Just what kind of future is this? If the Terminator walks around the corner, she’s booking it on the first flight outta here.

Peter’s smile grows. He nods exaggeratedly and gives a cavalier roll of his hand. “They supposedly outnumber the people three to one in Nueva York, but that’s coming from Miguel and he may have been joking. Hard to say.” 

While MJ frowns, uncertain what to say, Peter bumps her shoulder with his own. She stumbles and the tumbler slides out of her hand. With a burst of super speed, she hunches in half and catches it, fingers latching onto the sleek side with that strong, prenatural stick of a spider. 

There’s a beat of silence. Crouched and wide eyed, she stares at Peter. Peter, awkward and stiff backed, stares at her. She blinks. He does too. And then he’s turning to cough a poorly timed laugh into a closed fist and MJ’s scrambling to correct her posture, face flushing redder than her hair.

She does her best not to glare at him, but doesn’t quite succeed. Her face settles somewhere in the vicinity of mildly perturbed so she makes a point to stare at the very dark, very shiny floor at her feet. She can almost make herself out in it and tries to school the amorphous, pale blob’s expression into something nicer. 

Expression used to be the greatest tool in her arsenal. Whatever a script called for, she could offer divine interpretation through the slant of her eyes, the tiniest quiver of her nose, the snarl of her mouth. 

Even in her early years, before she really truly knew how to act, she could perform and twist the most resolute of minds around her dainty pinky finger. All it took was a pinch of her lips and a flutter of her lashes. It’s how she managed to convince the world she was more than an abusive childhood in Queens and a kink for self destruction. How she came to be MariJane, household name and TV’s favorite vixen. 

Before the end of everything, she would have slurred her features into an endearing blush or an uneven, chagrined smile without a second thought. Responding to the energy of the interaction would have been as automatic as breathing.

Now, her features don’t move as easily. She’s spent too much time under a mask. Too much time in her own head. Too much time alone. Her performance muscle has atrophied from disuse. 

And she hadn’t even realized. 

The back of her throat itches. Her eyes wither dry. She’s absolutely wretched—tired and hungry and angry and feeling oh so very small and useless. 

Peter, ever oblivious, sets off down the hall. “C’mon, lots to see, lots to say. Drink while you walk, yeah?”

The scourge of realization weakens, vanishes altogether. MJ follows after Peter, mysterious milkshake still in hand. She’s at his mercy until she finds a big flashing exit sign. Or a reason to stick around.

***

Over the next hour, Peter leads her all around HQ. He talks in sectors and subsectors, breezily explaining the structure of the building without any helpful details.

“I gotta show you the important stuff according to Miguel. Later, I’ll show the important stuff according to Peter," he says with a wink.

Their tour of the MedBay and the lounge is short lived, little more than Peter waving an arm at the entrance to each and announcing, “Well, this is it.” 

Their tour of the gym is even shorter. Peter doesn’t slow as they pass, opting instead to pick up his pace. He only pumps the brakes when she peers into the windows and gets crossed-up at the rows and rows of machines lining the floor. Far as she can see, they stretch off into oblivion. 

With a shake of his head and a gentle arm around her shoulders, Peter coaxes her on. “Wouldn’t want to disturb the gym rats in their natural habitat.”

After rushing past the gym, Peter leads her through the ever twisting maze to the tailor. 

A spindly Spider with a perpetual slouch to their spine, the tailor takes one look at MJ’s threadbare, mismatched suit and asks in a droning voice, “Why didn’t you come sooner?” 

MJ tries and fails to not take it personally. Her suit, battered and weathered as it may be, doesn’t look that bad. She’s worked hard to keep it in presentable shape and color over the years. Took great pains to sew it up when it ripped. Salvaged for bleach and peroxide to keep it pristine as bone. 

Of course, it's taken abuse over the years. The white isn’t quite white anymore and the dark blue flashing faded to gray at least two years ago. Quick stitch fixes stripe like scars all over the surface, offering a visual history of each and every hard blow she’s ever taken. 

But it's hers. And a little bit of Peter’s too. The mask, red and blue and completely incongruous to the rest of her suit, is stolen from one of old suits. It doesn’t sit right on her face, fitted for Peter’s long, drawn face rather than the strong, classic features of hers, but it serves its purpose. Keeps a part of him close to her, too. 

“I’m not really in the market for a new suit,” MJ says, rubbing at her worn elbows. 

The Seamstress-Spider clocks the motion. They shakes their head with a long sigh. “No one ever is. And then they try on their new suit and want to hug me. It’s disgusting. Don’t do that. No matter how gorgeous I make you look.”

“Shouldn’t be hard.” Peter says. Immediately, he develops a boyish, scattered flush that dusts from his cheeks to his ears. 

MJ’s heart leaps into her throat. Without a word, Peter yanks his mask down over his face and pointedly looks away. 

It’s a relief, really. It’s much better to look at a mask than the face beneath that.

More than once, she’s caught herself responding too easily, too smoothly, to Peter’s antics, teasing him with the same familiarity she once had with her husband. But he’s not her husband. 

How long will she have to keep reminding herself of that before it sinks in? 

With a wet hack to clear his throat, the Seamstress-Spider taps a few commands into their gizmo. Bright, yellow light washes over MJ. They drawls, “Don’t flinch.”

And then it’s all over and Peter leads her on through another series of twisting hallways and an inexplicable curve that turns them upside down instead of right side up. She’s crawled on ceilings, but never tried to walk outright. Apparently, it’s something she can do. It’s only a little disorienting as the blood sloughs around inside her, off kilter from the sudden shift. 

Thankfully, the tumbler holding the milkshake doesn’t upend, holding the drink as firmly as she holds it. The milkshake is no longer a mystery. One sip revealed a strong honey and cardamom flavor that every sip after has reaffirmed. She’s still got a long way to go to finish it, but it’s far from the worst thing she’s ever tasted. 

Peter leaps down, twisting midair to land on his feet on the floor. Far less elegant and successful, MJ stumbles on the landing. And Peter catches her. Easily. Too familiar. He touches her shoulder, the slip of her waist. His fingers contour to her skin, steadying her.

Even through his gloves, his hands are warm. Warm as the first sip of brandy after a long day. His touch saturates through her skin, stirring cold, stagnant blood. 

It has been a long time since anyone has touched her with such kindness. 

Oblivious to a fault, Peter sets her right and then claps his hands together. “No falling over on my watch!”

He walks away. She follows. Dazed, but recovering.

***

R&D, their next stop, is pristine to the highest order, not a speck of dust out of place. The floors and walls are white as pearl with the same pinkish tint. Projects are laid out like museum exhibits, equipped with placards that flash with titles and descriptions as they pass. Panes of glass separate the different projects and departments, but they’re so spotless only the occasional glinting reflection of light reveals their existence. 

Overall, R&D looks more like the Oscorp lobby back in the day than any workshop MJ’s ever seen. 

Peter doesn’t dilly dally. He points out gadgets and gizmos. In the same breath, he names each and admits that he has no idea what they do, only that they’re Very Important. 

A few Spiders mill about the space, tinkering at different stations. Those that aren’t totally engrossed offer small nods to her and Peter, but they otherwise keep to themselves. Except for one: a real, solid mountain of a Spider, who swats at Peter’s gesturing hands when he waves them too close to their station. A loud crack echoes on contact. 

Leaping away, Peter whips his hands like he’s putting out a fire. His masked eyes bulge wide. The other Spider just grunts, turning back to their project. 

“You good?” MJ asks, quiet but not quiet enough for the space. Her voice carries. All the Spiders shift to look at her and raise a group shushing. 

Peter’s spent the last ten minutes loudly rambling, but she gets shushed. Go figure. 

“Ignore them,” Peter says. Still nursing his slapped hands, he cradles one in the other, rubbing delicately at the palm like it's a wounded bird. “There’s no silence policy even though some people"—He shoots a pointed look at the Slappy-Spider—“keep raising petitions to get one implemented.”

Even with the reassurance, MJ makes a zipping motion over her mouth and then flicks away the key. Though never hesitant to speak her piece, it’s nice to remove the expectation that she will.

“Their loss,” Peter says. 

Staring into the bright red and blue that makes him more cartoon character than man, she considers slipping her own mask down over her nose out of solidarity, but she’s too selfish.

The air is too clean and fresh, totally free of that acrid, radiation cloy she’s breathed for the last four years. Every breath is a joy, filling her lungs to capacity with ease. 

As they walk and walk and walk through the facility, she never loses her breath, never needs to stop and catch it. With each full-bodied inhale, she feels stronger, healthier, more alive.

Briefly, very briefly, she wonders how Nu York would fare without her. Surely it couldn’t get much worse, right?

Guilt sours the thought. So, she turns her thoughts outwards, taking in all the science and innovation around her. It all looks very complicated and future-y so she can’t make heads or tails of it. Peter’s quick blurbs about each piece aren’t helpful either, all quips, few facts, but there must be something here to fix everything. 

Passing by a collection of body armor studded with rippling, liquidus metal plating, MJ catches sight of herself.

Faded, sullen, and far too gaunt, she’s an eyesore amid the miracles and marvels of the future. Beside Peter, vibrant, full of life Peter, she’s practically a ghost. She draws her arms around herself and her reflection mimics, wrapping too thin arms around a bony frame. 

A lifetime of compliments, both personal and professional, on her beauty, her body, her magnetism, went a long way to smooth out any concerns MJ may have fostered about her appearance. Then when the apocalypse came, there was little reason to consider her appearance, beautiful or otherwise, especially when she never suffered the severe warping and weathering of face and body that befell so many others. 

Now, staring into dull eyes that were once so very bright and mischievious, MJ is nothing but self conscious. She looks sickly and emaciated. Unnatural. The ratty suit doesn’t help. How long has she looked like this? How has she never noticed? Why didn’t Harry say anything? 

Her stomach churns and churns.

Peter keeps talking. His words pass in and out. In his reflection, his head bobs with each enthusiastic gesture and flair of his hands, but MJ fixates on the mask, more than the man beneath.

Compared to hers, the colors and textures of his suit—hell, even his grimey sweats and gaudy slippers—are rich and lavish. He looks every bit like a superhero. He looks like he belongs. She just looks lost.

With a scowl, she tears her gaze away from their reflections, forces her mind towards bigger and better things. She keeps her thoughts to herself, skeptical of the discerning eye of the Spiders who populate R&D, until they exit out into the main hall. 

Peter jabbers on and on about the miracles they’ve just left, but MJ is only half listening. She catches something about worlds beyond their scope, Spiders unable to brave the radiation. But she doesn’t care, not really. Her thoughts are too polluted with the struggles of her own world, her own people. 

As they walk, side by side, close enough that she could reach out and grab his hand if she needed, MJ asks, casually as she can, “So how do I explain all this to the people back home?”

One eye of his mask stretches wider than the other. “Uh, you don’t. Didn’t you watch the welcome video?”

“No, I don’t mean about the Spider Society just, like, how do I explain I’ve fixed all our problems without also explaining the rest of it?” 

“I can see how you got there and that’s a totally fair conclusion.” Peter rubs at his chin, nodding like a very responsive shrink. “But, that’s not how any of this works. You can’t bring this tech home.”

MJ crosses her arms. “So, I can fix all my problems with a couple doodads, but what? I just don't? I ignore it? Some superhero that’d make me.”

“You ever watch Star Trek?"

The question surprises her into laughter. Peter doesn’t laugh with her. Not a poor attempt to transition from the conversation at hand then. MJ sobers. “My husband did. I was in callbacks for the reboot. Didn’t end up closing on it though.”

“Yeah, that’s… reboot?” Peter shortcircuits, stopping mid-stride to stare at her. His masked eyes are inhuman and large. “You were… you were almost in the reboot?”

She nods, continuing onward without any real idea where she’s headed. Peter skitters behind her, long legs propelling him to her side in only a few steps.

He says, “I have many, many questions.”

“I signed an NDA.” 

“Don’t think those hold up across dimensions.”

“If I answer all your questions later, will you tell me what Star Trek has to do with sitting on my hands and singing the blues instead of fixing my Earth?”

“Sure, sure, yeah.” Peter nods so fast that his head is a smear of red for a few solid seconds. “Major, massive pin in that.” 

MJ snorts. Her husband was a dork about the whole thing too. Often, he introduced her as my wife, MJ. She was almost in the Star Trek reboot, but only when he felt he was overusing the tried and true, this is MJ, the most wonderful woman in the world who, for reasons unknown to science, agreed to marry me. Experts everywhere are still scratching their heads. 

“Okay, so,” Peter says, intervening before she can slip into reverie, “basically, in the show, there’s this overarching principle that every member of Starfleet has to follow. The Prime Directive. Everyone, people, alien lifeform, conscious gas, whatever has the right to live and develop naturally, and Starfleet can’t interfere with that natural evolution, even if lives are at stake. The Society operates on a similar idea. Leave No Trace. LNT. Miguel’s acronym. Kinda sucks, but, hey, not everybody’s got the creative juice like Roddenberry, right?”

Peter trails off with a big sucking breath, looking as gleeful with his nerdy analogy as an otter who just plucked the biggest fish from the river. 

It goes right over MJ’s head. “Okay, great. So what, there’s aliens here?”

Deflating, Peter shucks his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “You know, I actually don’t know if we have an alien Spider or not. It wouldn’t be impossible, right? I mean, Peter Parkedcar is a sentient car and I feel like an alien would be less… puzzling.” 

In total, she’s seen about twenty or so odd Spiders at this point. All humanoid—even the one in the welcome video with four arms—none alarming beyond the singeing discomfort of colliding Spidey-Sense and the reminder of the seemingly endless supply of Peter copies. “A sentient car? You’re chomping my chain.”

“Nope, totally real. They’re great. You’ll love them. But yeah, Prime Directive. LNT. If we interfere, entire universes get sent way off course.”

Off course. Miguel had said something similar, back on her roof. That her world was off course. De-stabilized. Did someone interfere with the direction of her world? Is that why things went so sideways?

“Off course how? Like where I’m from?”

“Possibly. Total annihilation is another possibility.”

“But how?”

“Do you really want me to try and explain how this all works? Because, fair warning, there’s a lot of math and physics involved.”

MJ’s nose twitches. Sniffing, she glares at the floor. Never in her life has she regretted not making an effort in the hard sciences like she does right now. She wouldn't understand a damn thing Peter explains. He knows it too. 

“Let’s take the long way to the lobby,” Peter says, jerking his head towards a branching hallway off to the side rather than the path ahead. “I’ll tell you a little story all about my first foray into multiversal travel and maybe that’ll help this all make a little more sense.”

MJ takes a long pull from her shake. Whatever’s in it, it does make her feel a little better to have something on her stomach. She’s not as jittery. Less an outline, more a solid shape. 

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

Grin stretching the fabric of his mask, Peter says, “No, no you do not.”

***

After a rousing tale of proteges, near-obliteration, and multidimensional jaunts, Peter leads her up a sheer wall. Natural as breathing, he shifts to a crawl as she struggles to make the same transition. The unwieldy shake doesn’t help. She has to take an inch worm approach, pushing up with her calves and catching herself one-handed.

Quick enough, Peter takes pity on her and webs the cup out of her grasp. With a flick of his wrist, he hucks it up the wall, dinging it again with another web so it catches near the top. 

“You’re giving me web envy,” she says and Peter laughs. 

Up and up, they scuttle until the wall levels out into the lobby of the Spider Society. Peter beats her up by nearly a full minute, though he has the good nature to bend in half and pretend to be winded by the climb.

When she’s nabbed her drink and dragged herself upright beside him, he snaps to full attention and shouts, “Spider Society, new MJ. New MJ, Spider Society.”

A roaring of variations on hello, New MJ, greet her as Spiders all across the lobby pause to wave at her. Then, they continue on in their given routes. Up, down, left and right and backwards and forewards. The vision is kaleidoscopic and always moving. It’s impossible to focus on any one part.

A burble of nausea tickles her throat so she drops her gaze, sucking on her shake. She mumbles, “You know, I don’t love ‘New’ MJ.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Peter says. “You’ll be New MJ for a day or two until a newer MJ comes along and then you’ll just be MJ. Unless you’ve got another nickname you want to toss out. Bonus points if it’s a pun.”

“Just MJ’s fine, I guess.”

There’s a piping chorus of, Hi, Just MJ, from the Spiders nearest them. MJ twists her mouth while Peter laughs. 

“Don’t worry. That won’t catch on. Probably. Unless, you’re unlucky like me. Introduced myself as Peter B. Parker and, well—”

The Society cuts in. Shouts from all across the hall reach them. Hey Beter! and Gotta be positive! and B’s a passing grade in my book! 

Peter waves the comments off with a swatting hand, shooing their jeers like pesky flies. “It’s all said with love. They gotta keep me humble. After all, I'm pretty important around here.” He fists his hands against his hips, juts his chest out. “Did I tell you I was one of the first Spiders recruited?”

A nearby Spider, walking upside down alongside them, snorts and shakes their head in a choppy, bombastic motion. The spikes on their head bristle and gleam.

“Oi, one of the first hundreds, maybe,” the Spider says. Their accent is thick and chewy—the kind of Cockney MJ would have butchered without months of accent coaching. 

“Don’t you have to go incite a peaceful riot or something?” Peter snipes. He picks up his pace, hustling MJ to do the same.

“That’s only on Tuesdays!” the Spider shouts before fading back into the bustling society. 

When they’re well out of earshot, Peter says, “Good kid, lotta trouble. Doesn’t believe in authority or seniority. Doesn’t believe in believing, probably.” 

“Sounds pretty punk rock.”

“Guess it's not a huge leap to see how he got to Spider-Punk, yeah? I wish I’d come up with something like that. Spider-Man’s great and all, but sometimes I just want the oomph, ya know?”

MJ scoffs. “Try being Spider-Woman. Do you know how many times I’ve been called little lady? Or gotten hit on?” 

“Oh, gross.” Peter’s mask wrinkles around his nose, distaste bold even through the spandex. 

“It does make it extra nice when I punch ‘em in the face though.” 

“That sounds terrifying, honestly. I’ve been on the end of more MJ tirades than I care to remember. The only thing that could make them worse is if she could deadlift me over her head. Though… now that I say it…” Peter trails off, sucking in a sharp breath to hide whatever thought would follow. MJ looks anywhere but at him. Her face is a wildfire. Yet again, she debates tugging on her mask. 

It shouldn’t be this awkward. She was married to Peter for years, dated long before that. She’s seen him naked hundreds of times. Helped pop unreachable back pimples. Rubbed his stomach through bad cases of indigestion. Massaged his feet, making extra effort to crack his freaky, triple-jointed toes. 

But this Peter isn’t that Peter. And this Peter has his own MJ with her own store of intimate memories. Maybe they’re even the same memories as hers. And if they are the same, then would it be so awful for them to—

“Jess! Hey Jess! Jess, I know you can hear me!” Peter shouts, breaking into a sudden, light jog after a nearby Spider-Woman. 

The Spider-Woman, Jess, hardly gives a backwards glance, but she does slow, letting MJ catch up without too much effort. When Jess drags a discerning eye over her, MJ does her best to keep her surprise below the surface. 

Even with the charming mandatory video introduction, her conception of the Spider Society is rudimentary at best. In her head, there’s a society of Spiders, stretching across parallel and different (but not too different) versions of her world. Every Spider just kind of looks like Peter. Or her. 

And Miguel is there and he’s from the future, but he must look like Peter under the mask, even if he’s built like a tank. Maybe he’s a relative, way down the line? Much as that notion boils her bile, if he’s not then that means there are no rules. No structure. How could anyone keep it all straight?

This conception implodes because Jess looks nothing like MJ or Peter. And not just that, she looks way cooler than them both too. In a slick red jacket over black biker gear, matching red boots, and angular honey-color shades, Jess looks far cooler than MJ and leagues cooler than Peter could ever dream. 

Despite the whirlwind state of her head, MJ breaks out her best first impression smile. Jess returns the smile, though it's a little weak.

Peter, fighting to catch his breath, gestures between them, saying, “Jess, Just MJ. Just MJ, Jess.”

After a withering glare at Peter, MJ says, “Hi. I really dig your shades.”

“Oh, thanks,” Jess says. Her grin is gap toothed and a little shy as she touches a hand to the edge of her shades, adjusting them ever so slightly. “They’re kinda goofy, like gotta remind everyone I’m Spider-Woman, right? But thanks. I like them.”

“Jess here is one of our best Spiders,” Peter says. He cuts in front of them to walk backwards, gesturing animatedly as he does. It’s unclear whether it's Spidey Sense or sheer luck that keeps him from running into any of the dozens of Spiders around them.

Jess scrunches up her nose and waves a hand as if to say can-you-believe-this-goober. Right then and there, MJ decides she likes Jess. 

Peter continues, “She’s really the only thing keeping this place from catching on fire. Her and Lyla.”

“Someone has to be competent around here.” Jess cants her head back, looking at MJ over her shoulder. “So, how’re you finding the place, newbie?”

“It’s definitely interesting,” MJ says. “Seems busy.”

“Ha, just wait ‘til we get you up and running missions. Busy is an understatement.” 

Is it just a given that everyone the Society tries to recruit says yes? From the way they all talk, it’s like there’s never been a skeptical Spider before her.

Unenthusiastic, MJ says, “Yeah, well, I guess we’ll see.”

“MJ’s still undecided on joining up,” Peter says, saving her from an uncomfortable explanation, “but she’ll change her tune after we finish my magnificent tour.”

“Oh,” Jess says, eyeing her with more scrutiny. Her gaze lingers on the drink in MJ’s hand. “You’re the Spider from 7782.”

“The one and only.” It sounds lame even as she says it. She drinks more of her milkshake, almost all gone now, to keep from pulling an ugly face. 

Jess’s eyes soften. “I was sorry to hear about your husband. He was one of the good ones. Even if he never shut up about SNL.”

“That’s kind of you,” MJ says, inclining her head with the obligatory thanks. It’s comforting to know Peter’s idiosyncrasies had extended into the multiverse. He never shut up about SNL, even though it wasn’t nearly as funny as her episode hosting. “SNL and becoming a father were the proudest moments of his life.”

“He did SNL?” Peter asks, glancing erratically between her and Jess, who rolls her eyes. A Spider cuffs his shoulder, glares at him. Their masked eyes narrow into dangerous slits. Peter offers appeasement with his hands, little calm down, no harm meant motions, and then turns to fall into proper step beside MJ. 

“You don’t remember?” Jess asks. Her expression is placid, but her tone teases. “You always went a little red in the eye whenever he mentioned it, B Team.”

“Ha, yeah, well, I was staying focused on the Multiverse. You know, our job? Not another Peter talking about the gig of a lifetime.” Peter chews on his thoughts for a moment before clearing his throat and nonchalantly asking, “How’d he even swing that anyway?”

MJ shrugs. “His agent set it up. I guess there was a lot of demand after Celeb Jeopardy.” 

Though muffled by his mask, she can hear Peter’s mouth open and snap shut sharply with a little click of teeth. He mumbles, “I have got to get a better agent.”

Snorting, Jess shakes her head. “The day you get on SNL is the day I start riding a unicycle.”

“Well now I have to. Thanks for the motivation, Jess.”

Jess rolls her eyes. “Look, I gotta web, but it was nice to meet you, Just MJ. Looking forward to working with you.”

MJ returns the sentiment and then Jess is gone, headed off to the left through the sea of Spiders.

“Gotta web?” MJ repeats, looking at Peter with squinted eyes. 

“She’s been trying to get that to catch on for awhile,” Peter says with a shrug, “but everyone’s too nervous to tell her it stinks.”

“Why nervous? She seems cool.”

“Yeah, she’s not too bad. But, she’s Miguel’s right hand. It’s awkward telling your almost-boss their catchphrase is trash.”

MJ shakes her head. “It’s awkward for you to tell her, maybe. Do you know how mad I’d be if I thought I had a really cool catchphrase and it actually sucks?”

“Oh, I can imagine, MJ,” Peter says, laughing a little. The unfiltered affection in his voice is intoxicating. It’s every bit her Peter. 

For a moment, she revels in it, well aware of the dangerous waters she treads and the deadly plunge just below, but unafraid of either. 

***

The HQ tour ends in line at the cafeteria with Peter insisting she has to try the Web Bomb Burritos. 

“I could probably eat like nine of those bad boys,” Peter says, rocking back and forth on his toes. 

The Spider ahead of them ums through an order of a burger and fries. With the help of six, spindly mechanized arms, the Spider working the counter loads up a tray with steaming fries and a burger the size of MJ’s head. It's more fresh food than she’s seen in years.

“Gotta watch my figure though,” Peter says, rubbing thoughtfully at his stomach, which pudges around his fingers. His pooching belly isn’t nearly as off putting as he implies. Coupled with the delicate threads of gray in his hair, the gentle slouch of his posture, the soft laugh lines around his mouth, the ease of his smile, he gives every impression of a life well-lived and enjoyed. 

Staring at him now makes her envious. And desirous. 

Neither is good. 

“I’m not hungry,” MJ says. She turns quickly, but not quick enough to miss as he deflates. All good humor dissipates from the lines of his body in one sudden hunch. 

Common decency thumps in the back of her throat, tastes like sour spittle, but she needs to get away from him. She marches away, heading aimlessly through the throng of Spider-populated tables. 

Halfway across the room, she yanks on her mask with a harsh tug. It’s a dumb move. One that screams look at me, something’s wrong, but she can’t take the slip and slide of gazes on her bare face. Not when so many have her husband’s eyes. Or her own. 

Thankfully, she makes it across the cafeteria and into the hallway without incident. Free of prying eyes, she stumbles back against the wall, knocks her head against the smooth surface. 

The mask is too tight over her mouth. She breathes faster and faster, struggling to find her breath. Her fingers make quivering, grabby motions at her sides. No, fuck! She’s so not going to have a goddamn panic attack right now! 

Frustrated, MJ begins to pace from one side of the hall to the other. The drink in her hand is empty, but the cup is still heavy. She debates smashing it into the wall. Wonders if it or the wall will break first. 

Quiet as a creeping kitten, Peter enters the hallway, saddles up against the doorway. He lets her pace without interruption, only pipes up when her steps slow and she takes up residence on the wall beside him. 

“You alright?” 

She doesn’t want to answer, honestly or otherwise. All she wants is to fall against him, bury her head in the crook of his neck, and fade into a fantasy where none of this is real and everything is as it should be, where he’s hers and she’s his and Mayday is on her way back from school, ready to jump into their arms for a big Watson-Parker family hug. 

God, she’s getting awfully sentimental. Maybe it’s the milkshake working its way through her system to soften the canals of her calcified heart. 

“I don’t know, Peter,” MJ answers, honestly. Her voice is weary, roadworn. And she resents it. Frustration at herself, at her own indecision and turmoil, rises to constrict around her throat in a hot vice, threatening tears. She’s never been prone to crying, even in the worst throes of emotion, but she’s tired and overwhelmed. What she wants, her body ignores. 

Peter doesn’t move, not really, but there’s a tension in the air, a small resonant pluck, like he wants to lean into her as much as she wants to lean into him. 

Neither one gives in. 

“Look,” Peter says, softly, “whatever you want to do, I’m here for it. No matter what Miguel says.” 

MJ jams the heels of her hands to smear away the beginnings of tears and demands, “Where is Miguel, anyway? He has a lot of nerve sticking me in that damn decontamination room and not even bothering to check if I made it out alive.” 

Whatever tenderness stretched between them is gone now, trampled by her sudden, blunt frustration. 

Peter sucks in a breath, wavers back and forth from foot to foot. “Miguel? Oh yeah, he’s around. Probably in his lab. But don’t feel too bad about it. He’s not the most social of Spiders. Or, maybe he’s just not social with Spiders. He likes to say we give him a migraine, but I think maybe he’s just prone to migraines. Special eyes and all.”

MJ squints at him. “Special eyes?”

“Yep. He can see in the dark. Or has super vision. Or something. I’m not really sure. He’s sensitive about it.”

Fixing Peter with a summary glance up and down, MJ crosses her arms and shifts her weight onto her back leg, thumping back against the wall. “I’m getting a vibe that you don’t want me to see Miguel.”

“What? No. Maybe.” A nervous hand slips back over his masked head. “I may or may not have been given an express mission to convince you to join up. If I haven’t won you over with my great and informative tour-giving abilities and you go and tell Miguel that, well, it just wouldn’t be a good look for me.”

“You’ve convinced me. Miguel hasn’t.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, disbelief overwrought.

“Yes, you’re a great tour guide. You should consider it as a back-up if the whole Spider-Man thing falls through. You’ve got a natural gift for it.”

“God, you’re such a charmer. Is that an MJ thing? Must be an MJ thing, right?”

It would be so easy to turn his unabashed praise into flirtation. To look out from under her lashes and say something like, It can be an us thing. Our little secret. Or something way less forward. And way better. Christ, she’s out of practice. Out of her mind, too.

So, she just shrugs, unable to meet his eye, and says, “I dunno. Haven’t met any other MJs.”

“Oh, you will and it’ll be weird." Peter hesitates, grappling with a decision. Then, he sighs. “One adventure at a time, let’s go see the man in charge.”

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Prepare for a World of Pain Bithead!

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: A photo post made on PETER B’s profile on The Webb. The caption reads: “Just showing Just MJ around #PeterB #JustMJ #FirstRecruit #NewRecruit #Newbie #OG #Hospitality #TourGuide #Friends”

Alt text generated by LYLA reads: BETER & JUST MJ stand in the middle of the lobby. BETER has his mask on, which is out of character for him but hey, who’s to say? BETER gives a thumbs-up and leans heavily against JUST MJ, who smiles with a neat and pretty little professional smile that strains her eyes. JUST MJ holds up a SUPER NUTRISHAKE™ so that the SUPER NUTRISTRAW™ is visible. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: DISTORTION in photo is consistent with manifestation in other, remaining photographs. PETER B reports no memory of taking the photo, but able to describe incidental details of events and circumstances surrounding it. He is unable to determine when this took place. He does not remember MARIJANE.

Notes:

chapter title from "Welcome to the DCC" by Nothing But Thieves

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: Miguel O'Hara will return

Chapter 4: sound to the depths of the soul

Summary:

Miguel O'Hara explains the multiverse

The journey to Miguel is quick, but jittery. Peter is nervous. Aimless conversation falls from his mouth and MJ responds in kind. As they skitter up yet another sheer wall and onto a broad walkway, just beyond the lobby, MJ worries her lip. Her thoughts are a messy stew of nerves.

Miguel wants her to join the Society. Obviously. And Peter does too. Obviously. 

On the surface, it seems like a good gig. A really good gig. Food, shelter, training, community—all available to her with a simple yes. It just seems a touch too good to be true. 

Peter’s explanation of non-interference makes sense, but she doesn’t like it. Nu York is in shambles. The rest of the world is little better. How can she live with herself, knowing the technology exists to solve everything but leaving it untouched? How can anyone in this Society live with themselves doing nothing?

This LNT protocol just sounds like a fancy way of justifying inaction. 

By the time they cross into the ominous, cluttered passageway that is apparently the less than welcoming entrance to Miguel’s lab, MJ has no set plan. Her nerves have settled, but not her mind. Half of her wants to blow a kiss goodbye to the entire Society. Half of her wants to be wooed to stay.  

That was always the best part of her acting career, the wooing from studios, directors, peers. It was a charmed life. Her life with Peter and Mayday was better. But, sometimes (more than sometimes), she missed the excess. The desperation for her approval. Her opinion. Her presence.  The wooing of it all. 

So, yes, she would like to be wooed. Preferably, in the form of a promise to save her world. And maybe a gift basket. With muffins. And a nice Cabernet. 

She and Peter draw to a halt at the end of the claustrophobic hall. A massive platform hangs like a stalactite just overhead. A soft orange glow emanates, contrasting the dull red light of the rest of the lab. It’s part spooky, part ostentatious. Neither part impresses her. 

“Miguel, got a visitor here for ya!” Peter shouts. His voice doesn’t echo, despite the cavernous room around them. All the waylaid machines soak up the sound, giving way to a beat of silence.

MJ pictures Miguel pacing the platform above, hands behind his back, peering imperiously down at them from on high. He seems the type. 

The platform descends, slowly, with a slight whine. MJ raises her eyebrows, staring at Peter to explain. Peter meets her eye before he leans back to crane his neck up at the top of the platform. He sticks his hand in his dingy sweats’ pocket. The blasé cut of his masked eyes is overt. He thinks the pose is much cooler than it actually is.

“It’s a thing,” Peter says, conspiratorially out the side of his mouth. “He may seem all gruff and tough, but he’s got a real flare for the dramatics.”

“Building anticipation?” she mumbles.

Peter snorts. “Something like that.”

They stand together, shuffling restlessly, while the platform continues its sluggish descent. Soon enough, the beginnings of Miguel’s massive form appear, clad in his suit, but unmasked.

MJ tugs her own mask off, thankful to do so. Masks have their purpose, but she’s better face-to-face. Even if she is a little rusty at it.

Beside her, Peter keeps his mask on. She shoots him an appreciative flick of her eyes. He nods, quick and assenting. Beneath his mask, there’s a twitching suggestion of a smile. 

Finally, the platform stills with a chugging of brakes. Well-defined arms crossed over a broad chest, Miguel O'Hara stands before her, tilting his head back in imperious examination. The arrogance of his stance is evident, but it whizzes right past her. 

Miguel looks nothing like she expects. Even though her perception of the Society at large has shifted more inclusive, MJ clung to the image of him as vaguely Peter-ish. The same long nose, wry mouth, crinkled, congenial eyes, but stretched stronger and sharper to fit the wider canvas of Miguel’s proportions. But Miguel looks nothing like Peter. 

He’s handsome. Strikingly, immediately so. All hard angles with smoldering eyes and dramatic lips, it’s impossible to look at him and think anything other than, shit, he’s good looking.

Of all the superheroes MJ’s met, both before and after she became one herself, none of them were especially blessed in the looks department. The majority of them levied their powers and their intellect and their money to add to their physical appearance. They weren’t necessarily ugly, but it made some sort of karmic sense that they weren’t effortlessly beautiful and superpowered. 

Except for Thor, of course. Other-worldly god and all that. Though, he’s really let himself go since the apocalypse stranded him on earth. Still, totally bangable. 

So, in a Society she’s populated in her minds’ eye with Peter Parkers, who all bear a face she loves but isn’t arrogantly drop-dead, donkey-kick-you-in-the-chest handsome, she doesn’t expect a man like Miguel O’Hara.

In hindsight, a little ridiculous and short-sighted of her, given the multiverse but she’s new to all of this. She has to give herself a little slack. 

It's such a pointless and stupid deliberation to have with herself that she has to bite back a grin. In the post-apocalypse, there just wasn’t time for pointless and stupid deliberations over attractive men. She forgot how good it felt. 

At Miguel’s small nod of acknowledgement, she looses a short puff of air, not quite a breath and not quite a gasp. It’s a near laugh that she can’t fully voice. Peter’s masked eyes arch as he looks at her sideways, but she ignores him.

“Pleasure to meet you, officially. Face to face,” MJ says, inclining her head, smiling. She’s on her best behavior, friendly with a cheeky charm.

Beside her, Peter looks up, seemingly exasperated. For once, he doesn’t offer smart comment.

“Likewise,” Miguel says. He shoots Peter a surveying glance, but doesn’t linger. The edge of his mouth twitches like he might smile. “How are you finding the place?”

“The semi-retro aesthetic is a surprise,” she says with an airy wave of her hand. “Would’ve thought the future would be a little more groovy.”

“So not groovy?" he parses, thick brows pinching. “That’s your official assessment?”

“No, my official assessment is there’s way too many random hallways and the floorplan is super twisted. How can you find anything here?”

“Oh, you get used to that.” Peter leaps into the conversation. “It really gives you the opportunity to let your Spider-self go. You can flip, crawl and swing to your heart’s content...” Peter snaps his fingers and then points at Miguel. “Speaking of swinging, MJ can’t.”

Miguel raises a brow. The familiar flush of inadequacy nibbles up her throat. MJ glares at Peter. 

“It’s not that I can’t. I just don’t have any web-shooters.” She makes a few flaccid thwip thwip gestures for emphasis. 

“So make your own,” Miguel says, as if the thought had never occurred to her. Which it has. Many times.

The notes Peter left are confusing at best, total nonsense at worst. She’s read through them dozens of times, even swallowed her pride enough to let Harry take a look, but it was pointless. Peter wrote in such a cramped, scribbled shorthand that even the parts that should have made sense were totally illegible. 

“Well that I can’t do. No materials. No real schematics. Not a gearhead like Peter.” 

Miguel gives a broad sweep of his hand. A translucent screen pops up in front of him. It happens so fast, MJ startles, taking a harsh step away. Peter snorts, but Miguel doesn’t comment, too busy tapping a series of commands into the screen.

The text backwards, MJ can’t make any sense of what he’s typing. He doesn’t explain. Calm and self assured, his behavior reads more like arrogance than ignorance. She doesn’t love it. 

“We should be able to requisition some for you,” Miguel says. “Guessing Peter failed to explain that process?”

Peter winces, picks at the collar of his Spider-suit. “I may have forgotten to mention it.”

“It’s easy enough.” Miguel doesn’t look away from the screen. “It’s all in the manual.”

“Right.” MJ nods. She has no intention whatsoever to read the 1000+ page manual at any point, but it doesn’t seem pertinent mention. 

A beat of silence. Awkward. Stretching. With each ticking second, more evidence mounts to support Peter’s suggestion that Miguel isn’t the most social of Spiders. 

“So, I didn’t die,” MJ says, conversationally, rocking back and forth on her toes. 

Miguel looks over the top of his screen, says flatly, “No, you didn’t.” 

“Was a little dicey there for a bit. The risk of gooification was definitely non-zero.”

“Gooification,” Peter repeats with a snort. “That’s so nasty.” 

“That’s not a thing,” Miguel says. Then, with a deft flick of his wrist, the projection blips and then reappears. The contents are now right sided and legible. 

Most of it is numbers and nomenclature of gibberish, all overlaid atop each other like digital post it notes. Before she can question what exactly she’s being shown, the writing shifts, spreading apart from the center to make room for a photo of Peter, de-masked, caught mid-sneeze. Beside the image, red text flashes overdue.

Peter nods, snapping his fingers. “Right, debrief. Well, I’ve been busy prepping for MJ’s tour.”

“Seems like the tour’s finished now,” Miguel says. 

“Er, sure but I… I’m her emotional support Spider?”

“What?” MJ and Miguel’s disbelief rings in unison, spitting out sharp and intermingled. 

Peter winces. “Okay, not my best turn of phrase.” Shoulders held up by his ears, he placates with easy, easy motions. “But MJ’s a newbie. Making sure she feels welcome is more important.”

“Oh, I think I can handle myself.” MJ grins at him. Easily. Autonomously. “I’m a big girl, tiger.”

The nickname slips out without warning. MJ bites the inside of her cheek to clip the surprise from her expression. Gnawing at her cheek, it’s an old instinct, developed back in the early days of her acting career when she was apt to rage or redden when critiqued. Back then, her emotions had run as wild and ragged as she did from party to party and bad decision to bad decision. 

But she’s not that young girl angry at the world anymore. Just like Peter isn’t her Peter. And she isn’t his MJ. She has to get a grip on herself or she’ll end up breaking up her own marriage. Or just his marriage? God. It’s all so confusing. 

Peter, to his credit, doesn’t react to the nickname at all. He says, “Okay, fine, fine. One spectacular debrief coming right up. MJ, you’re in for a treat—”

“MariJane stays. We have more to go over.” Miguel leaves no room for argument.

“O-kay,” Peter says, drawing the oh long in disbelief. “Well, don’t bite her head off. I know how you can get and I still have to make good on the post-tour burritos. It’s just sad if I eat them all by myself. Though I am pretty hungry—”

“Lyla, suspend Parker’s cafeteria card until he submits his debrief.” 

A big read x flashes over Peter’s head along with an analog beep. He groans and hangs his head, slouching in defeat. “I’m going! I’m going!”

With a thwip, he webs out the door, mumbling under his breath about hunger strikes.

And then MJ’s all alone with Miguel, who says, “I don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Bite people’s heads off.” There isn’t an inkling of humor on Miguel’s face. His gaze is heavy, intense. 

“I figured it was a joke.”

“It was. But sometimes, people don’t realize.”

MJ doesn’t envy Miguel. Even if all the Spiders in the Society aren’t all Peters, there sure seems to be a lot of them. Wrangling one Peter had definitely kept her hands full. She can’t fathom hundreds. It’s a miracle the whole Society hasn’t collapsed under the weight of so many puns and quick quips. 

With a swipe of his hand, Miguel dismisses his projected screen. He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest again. In the din, the electric red accents on his wrists and knuckles leave traces as they move. When she blinks, his visage burns like sun streaks behind her eyelids. 

“We’ll have the specs on your daughter in another day,” he says. His expression twists, offering mild apology. “Processing the data is taking more time than I thought, but I’ve bumped up the priority on this one.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Just, thank you.”

He nods, a touch of a smile on his lips. She decides then that she prefers him unmasked. He’s less severe this way. His eyes are more forgiving than his tone suggests.

“So, this place, it’s really impressive, even if the layout leaves room for improvement.”

“It is really impressive,” Miguel agrees. 

“How’d you even come up with it anyway? The idea for the Spider Society, I mean. Like, I get that’s it’s meant to protect the Arachno-polyoid—”

“Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse,” Miguel corrects. 

“Right, that.” MJ defers, though annoyance spikes hot at the back of her mouth. “Did one of those anomalies crash land here and then you just thought up the idea? Or is universe hopping just your idea of a good time in the future?”

“Not quite. Didn’t Lyla show you the intro video?”

“She did. It was cute, but not super detailed on the how and the why.”

His brow furrows. “Lyla?”

“What?” Lyla demands with a huff, appearing in the air between them.

It’s the first time MJ’s seen Lyla up close since she learned the little woman’s basically a chic HAL 9000. The too-quick juts between movements, the uncanny ability to conjure something from nothing, the hollow edifice of her eyes, begetting intelligence but not quite humanity. It all makes sense now. 

What doesn’t make sense is if Miguel made Lyla, why did he make her so sassy and headstrong?

Their dynamic is one of bickering spouses, fed up with each other after years of uneventful marriage, or youth-flushed preteens, embarrassed by sincerity and falling into sarcasm instead. Both are dynamics MJ recognizes well. She’s played both on TV; lived a little of both too. 

Miguel rolls his eyes. “Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Lyla looks over her nails with a snotty little sniff. “I was reconfiguring my code. Not so much feeling the bob anymore.”

“You can worry about that in a second. Which vid are—”

“Oh no, Lyla! Don’t change your hair. It looks great the way it is. You’re so pretty, Lyla. I’m so sorry I interrupted you, Lyla,” Lyla mimics, dropping her voice into a rude approximation of Miguel’s. Far from the impressive imitation she performed back on MJ’s earth. “Any of those would’ve been suitable responses.”

“Your hair’s fine.”

“You should try bangs,” MJ suggests. “They’ll change your life.”  

“Don’t encourage her,” Miguel groans at the same time Lyla cries out with glee.

"Yes! Bangs! Oh, if I had lips I could just kiss you! You’re a genius! Goodbye Lyla Version 4.032 and hello Lyla version 4.032.1.”

Lyla shimmers and a sheaf of delightfully shaggy sidebangs blooms over her forehead, sweeping back into her bob. She conjures a hand mirror, preening and feathering her fingers through the newfound flop of hair. 

“Great, glad we took care of that,” Miguel says, not glad in the slightest. “Which vid are you showing the new recruits?”

MJ scowls at recruits, but doesn’t get a chance to protest the classification. 

“So You’ve Joined A Secret Spider Society.”

“So not the new one?”

“The new one that’s clinically boring and bombed in the focus group?” Lyla points a finger up over her shoulder. A small screen winks on. On it, a group of Spiders sit around a long table. One by one, quick as falling dominos, their heads slump and their masked eyes shut. The air above their heads clouds with stylized z’s. The video disappears. “Uh, no. I’m not showing that one.”

“It didn’t bomb.” Miguel’s bottom lip juts. If MJ knew him better, she might think he was pouting. 

“It tanked, Miguel. Complete mission failure. Game over, Spider-Man, game over. Face it Miguel, an auteur you are not.”

“I never—”

“Let’s show, MJ. She’s an actress. She knows the industry. She can offer an expert opinion,.” Lyla pops into the air before MJ, gives a playful boop towards her nose. Little sparkles fly out from Lyla’s booping finger. 

MJ scrunches up her face. She attempts to bop Lyla back, much to Lyla’s toothy grinned delight.

“No,” Miguel says, quickly. Dark eyes dart to MJ and then back to Lyla, settling into a glare. “No. Just… just set up the thing. I’ll explain the old fashioned way.”

Lyla’s eyebrows raise expectantly over the rims of her glasses.

Miguel huffs, knocking his head back with a few choice curses. “Please set up the visualizer?”

“You got it, boss man.” Clicking her tongue, Lyla makes a heart with the bridge of her fingers. The main lights cut out, plunging them into darkness, save for the fairy lights of Lyla and the neon, ever shifting red of Miguel’s suit. 

“Boss man?” MJ muses. 

“Quirk in her programming.” The accents of his suit cast him in bloody negative as he hops down the platform, coming to stand just before her. Closer, she can see the small upturn of his mouth. “I never have the time to get it straightened out.”

“Oh, please, you love it,” Lyla says. 

Miguel grumbles, working through another curse, but Lyla cuts him off with an at-at-at. “No need to agree. I already know, big guy.”

“Big guy?” MJ’s smile is small, hidden in the dark. 

No answer. Miguel just pinches the bridge of his nose The phantom light from his gloves deepens the exasperation in the furrow of his brow and the shake of his head. Lyla blows a kiss and then vanishes back into whatever ether she inhabits. 

Strobe-bright veins of light erupt from the floor at MJ’s feet. She flinches. They branch out, fractals growing and expanding, looping out and then back over each other to form intricate, dizzying patterns. Sheet lightning across a desert sky. Glistening street lights spelling out the lifelines of a city. Iodine veins lit up bluish white on an MRI. Sinew plied and crystalized from bone.

Webs. Thousands and thousands of tiny webs. One infinite, intricate web. Ghostly translucent and shimmering with bluish cosmic radiance, they surround her on all sides. They stretch even further beyond that. They ensnare, blocking off all avenues of escape. 

“What is this?” Wispy, her voice is unsteady from the effort of unsticking tongue from hard palate. 

“This is the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse.”

Explanations pour out of Miguel, detailing the how and the why with terms that mean little to her but seem to mean everything to him.

Interdimensional travel. Holes punched through the fabric of the multiverse. Glitches. Anomalies. Spiders turned Agents. The imperceptible, unshakeable web connecting them all. The bigger he spins the universe, the smaller she feels. 

The explanations he gives of her situation are easier to understand. This, she knows. She lived it. Breathed it. Survived it. 

By his metrics, her blighted world and everything in it (especially her) are anomalies. Earth-7782 wasn’t meant to end. On a thousand Earths comparable to hers, the collider was shut down before it chewed through the heart of the world. On a thousand other Earths, the collider blew, but the responding Spider didn’t die, didn’t take half the world with them. Didn’t leave a widow with super powers and no clue how to use them. 

“Something went wrong,” Miguel says. “Something I’m still trying to figure out.”

The webs around her twist and whirl, zooming in on a segment where the strands are frayed fragile. Several of them hang limp and clipped. Earth-7782, according to Miguel. Lyla flits around the broken ends, scooping them up in her hands. Kneading and sculpting, her fingers blip and blot over the gathered strands. With a flourish, she releases her project. Held together by a bright, pulsating plaster, the bundled web slots into place within the greater construct. 

Miguel says, “Specs should come through soon. Then we should have an idea of what the hell happened.”

Ambient lighting falls from the ceiling, swells from the monitors dotted through the lab. The ethereal multiverse fades into nothingness, even as its memory curdles in her mouth.

MJ’s far too aware of the sorry state of herself. Mismatched Spider-suit. Stale salvia. Bitter breath. Claggy sweat in her underarms, underboobs, all her underbits. Choppy curtain bangs. Lank, uneven layers of dull hair. The entire economy of the post-apocalypse written into the haggard shadows of her face. 

Anomaly. That’s what he called her. Is that what she is? Is that all she is? 

Shoulders hunch for her ears, but MJ forces them back down. No matter what she feels, she’s well trained not to let it show. 

Miguel stares at her. Brow crunched, mouth pursed. Expectant of… something. 

“You waiting for something, big guy?”

Though his nostrils flare, Miguel ignores the nickname, says, “I’ve never gotten through that speech without being interrupted by some awful pun.”

“Figured you get enough of that with all the Peters around here.”

“You have no idea.” 

“I have some idea. I married one of those Peters after all.” 

Good humor fades. Peter had been here. Maybe he stood in the exact spot she is now. Maybe he watched the same demonstration. He definitely would’ve had at least five clever jokes (and even more un-clever ones) locked and loaded. Probably annoyed Miguel to pieces. And he never told her. Why hadn’t he told her? 

There’d been distance in the year or so before the collider. Not enough for therapy or thoughts of ending things, but distance. Extra space between them in conversations, in bed. The things he wanted didn’t mesh neatly with the things she wanted. So, they argued. Sometimes. Only sometimes. Only ever behind closed doors or via text or phone call. Only in places where Mayday couldn’t hear. 

MJ never worried. Married couples, they fought. The honeymoon phase couldn’t last forever. Not when there were cities to save and careers to maintain and bills to pay and a child to raise and a second to panic about maybe someday having and a rumor about a certain black cat slinking around and a perpetual third wheel who kept popping in and out of rehab and… 

Honesty was never one of their problems. So, why the hell had Peter kept this a secret? 

“I didn’t know about any of this,” MJ tells Miguel because honesty is a good policy when it serves her. 

“Good. Peter wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“Peter wasn’t a big fan of doing what he was supposed to. So why did he listen to you?”

Miguel leans back, crosses his arms. Instantly closed off and unreceptive, he looks down his nose at her. It isn’t hard. He’s much taller. At least a foot. That makes him, what, 6 foot 10? 7 foot? 

Christ. She’s always been a sucker for tall men. Before Peter, before she accepted that she deserved love and softness, she had a special penchant for tall, unpleasant men. A lingering aftertaste of childhood trauma, probably. Best not to dissect now. 

“He believed in the work we’re doing here,” Miguel says. “Being Spider-Man is about more than saving one city in one universe, it’s about saving every city in every universe.” 

The harsh cut of his mouth, the barely restrained sneer he gives her—Miguel thinks she’s being ridiculous and couldn’t care less to hide it. 

MJ scowls. “Then why couldn’t you save my city, my universe? You didn’t even know. All of time and space at your fingertips, and you had no idea what happened to Peter until you showed up too late to save him. To save any of us.”

“I came as soon as he missed his check-in.”

“Four years too late. Some Spider-Man you are. You didn’t save anyone.” 

It’s a step too far. Painstakingly, obviously too far. There’s a clear dissection of before and after evident in the sharp snarl that rankles Miguel’s face. 

She’s quicker than he is, able to wrangle her rage back into polite shape. “I’m sorry. That was outta bounds. This is just so much to take in. You’re asking me to just accept that the world died just because it did and that I can’t do anything to make it better. That I just have to live, knowing that you’ve got all this techno wizardry and just be okay doing nothing. I mean, it’s just shocking”—She scrambles for the word to convey the absurdity of just doing nothing, but she can’t find it. Miguel’s eyes round back out, anger diminishing as she flounders—“it’s shocking…  I mean, shock, I…. you…”

Lyla pops up, offering insight. “The exact word you’re wanting doesn’t work here, babes. It’s a big, messy explanation, but the gizmo on your wrist replaces it with the universal equivalent. Kind of like a super special autocorrect. Keeps this whole project from going topsy turvy.”

MJ rubs at her temples, only half-listening to Lyla. She wants to say fuck. That’s what she means, what she wants to carry the full brunt of her frustration. How could fuck have gone out of fashion? Or did it never exist at all?

Ugh. Shock? That’s the best this universe can do? 

“Just wait ‘til you go to the Toonverses,” Lyla says. “The cursing there is so beyond. And so funny.”

“Toonverses,” MJ repeats.

Lyla claps her hands together and nods. “Yeah! Short for cartoons. Miguel hates going to those. The animation really goes overboard since he bulked up. Always makes him very, very veiny."

“Lyla.”

“And very handsome.” Lyla makes little pinchy motions at Miguel’s face. 

But MJ hasn’t moved on from short for cartoons. “Cartoons like cartoons? Like Saturday morning cartoons. Drawings?”

Lyla offers a glimpse via conjured screen. In it, a cartoon Spider-Man chases a cartoon Green Goblin through a hallway, popping in and out of different doors along the length of the hall. They exit one door and Spider-Man holds Goblin in a bridal carry. An incredulous look is exchanged before Spider-Man runs them both into another door. Farther down the hall, they pop out upside down with Goblin chasing Spider-Man over the ceiling. It’s all very Scooby-Doo—MJ’s favorite, before it was Mayday’s.

The scene vanishes. Lyla follows. 

“The multiverse is infinite,” Miguel says. “There are worlds that we can’t even imagine, but they exist out in the Unknown. That’s what we call it.”

The bait to tease him for such a basic, stupid name is low hanging and juicy, but she doesn’t have it in her. Not now. 

“And you go into the Unknown?” Still, even saying it, she feels foolish. 

“Not yet, but we have Agents who can. The network’s growing every day with Agents for every universe, every scenario, even the Unknown. That’s where you come in.”

“Oh, wow. That was good, Miguel,” Lyla says, flickering up over Miguel’s shoulder, sitting over it like a comfy lounge chair. “You’re really getting the hang of this recruitment schtick!”

Miguel gives Lyla a withering stare. She returns it with a gamma-ray smile, showing all her computer-generated teeth. 

“Like I was saying,” Miguel continues, once Lyla pops away, “you may not be sold on the Spider Society, but the Spider Society needs you. We don’t have many Agents that can withstand the radiation levels or temporal instability you can, even among the Spiders on the Unknown detail. There’s an entire cluster of the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse we can’t make much headway into.”

Radiation, MJ understands well enough. Temporal instability? Not so much. The rest? Not at all. 

“Wait, doesn’t poly mean the same thing as multi?” she asks. “So are there multiple multiverses?”

Miguel’s mouth twitches. “No, just the one.”

“But then why—”

“It’s just a naming convention,” he says as Lyla flares and conjures a tally board with Miguel on one side and Lyla on the other. She discreetly adds a tally under Lyla, which already boasts an inordinate amount of tally’s against Miguel’s count of zero.

MJ’s too confused to be amused, too drowned in possibility to temper her thoughts from the burgeoning hope in her chest. “If the multiverse is infinite, then there’s a world just like mine where Peter stopped the collider, right? Or one where I died? If every possibility is possible then that must exist. You just haven’t found it yet.”

Miguel exchanges a raised brow, pointed look with Lyla, who pops away after a terse shake of her head. His expression is subdued when he answers. “It’s not that simple. The multiverse is infinite, but the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse isn’t. There are deviations throughout, but the core tenets are the same. Peter either stops the collider, or dies trying—a binary outcome.” He holds up two fingers, folds them down and then back up, out of time with each other. “If the universe you’re proposing does exist, you wouldn’t be able to inhabit it. Your existence is anomalous; you shouldn’t be a Spider, but you are.”

 “And that’s bad, right?”

“It could be. Inhabiting that world could threaten the very fabric of its reality.”

“Could,” MJ repeats. It’s not a yes. More importantly, it’s not a no. “It could do that.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Miguel says. “I can’t allow it.”

MJ meets Miguel’s eye and searches for the catch in his I’m In Charge stance, the flaw to crack open along his Don’t Fuck With Me defenses. Long ago, she learned that every self important man has one. They’re easy enough to find, harder to make use of. 

Miguel isn’t as giving as others. She doesn’t know him well enough and it doesn’t help that he’s probably dealt with yearnings like hers hundreds of times before from hundreds of different Spiders hoping to correct past mistakes. But he’s never dealt with her: she’s never been in the habit of giving up. 

“If that world exists, I’ll change your tune. I have a way with Spider-Man.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says with a wry smile that welcomes her to try and fail. 

With a deft flick of his hand, he shoots off a bout of electric red webbing into the clutter off to his left. Another flick of his wrist and the web arcs, rocketing two small objects towards her head. She catches them, instinctively, without moving her head, only raising her hand to snatch them from the air. 

After he snaps the web, she examines her catch. The devices are no bigger than walnuts and made of the same semi-translucent material as the face of her gizmo. She presses the jutting edge of one and an explosion of red webbing shoots out like silly sting. The webbing pools at her feet for a moment before shimmering into nothingness. 

“Loaners, until yours are ready,” Miguel says. He steps forward, taking hold of one of her wrists, turning it fish-bellied and setting one of the shooters against her pulsepoint. It twitches and then a skittering of pixels bursts from either side, crawling over the edges of her wrist to fuse together on the other side. 

The sensation is uncanny, like it isn’t there at all. 

“Peter can show you how to use them,” he says, gesturing for her other wrist. She gives it and then she has two functioning web shooters. 

“But not you?” she asks. “Better things to do than train the new recruit?”

“Not better things. Just things,” he says, slowly, piecing the words together as he goes. Then, he clears his throat, abruptly banishing whatever thought may have followed. Deftly, he hops up onto the platform, turning to his monitors. The message is clear: MJ, you’re dismissed. Get the shock outta here.

The problem is she isn’t quite sure what she’s meant to do now. She looks over her shoulder at the long, messy hallway. The way out is clear enough, but then what is she to do? Go mosey along through the Society until a kindhearted Spider takes pity on her?

“Lyla, help her find the way back to the dorms.” Then, in an afterthought, Miguel adds, “And make sure she keeps her mask on until she’s past all the Parkers.”

“Yessir! Right away, sir!” Lyla chirps, popping up beside MJ and directing a stiff salute to Miguel’s back.

“I’m serious. We don’t need another incident.”  

Miguel doesn’t elaborate and MJ doesn’t question. She just follows the lighted arrows Lyla conjures to lead her out of the room and breathes a sigh of relief. Talking to Miguel just piled more exhaustion on top of an already exhausting day. She’s ready for bed and whatever that entails in this too-far-from-home future. 

***

After a dizzying experience jumping off a walkway and dropping several floors in what Lyla calls a shortcut, MJ arrives in the dormitory wing of HQ.

Situated somewhere near the base of the building, the wing extends in a tangle of hallways and rooms sprawling out from a central common room. The hallways are as sleek and bare as the rest of the building. A liminal space of smooth, glossy off-whites and sterile, diffused light. 

The walk to her room is quiet. For the first time all day, she doesn’t encounter any other Spiders. 

When she questions it, Lyla says, “Oh yeah, the dorms are super low occupancy right now. Everyone technically has their own room, but most of our Agents commute.” 

Thankfully, MJ’s room isn’t too far into the labyrinth. She’s almost confident she’ll be able to find her own way there after a try or two. 

The door slides open at the press of her hand, disappearing into a slot in the doorframe with a soft hiss like steam. She steps through and lights flicker on overhead, automatic and low. Soft lighting, it’s not too bright, not too dark. 

Her room is bigger than she expects. And far emptier. There’s no furniture within the bare, plasticky space. It looks like a padded room without the pads. Mouth agape, she turns to Lyla. 

Devilish glee splits Lyla's face as she flickers to the center of the room. She spins in a fast circle, arms outstretched. 

Jets of shimmering, glinting pixels plume in the corners of the room, convalescing against the far wall to take shape of a twin bed—sheets and all. Then, a hammock. Then, a cot. Then, a racecar bed. With each iteration, the walls change color, matching the accents of the sheets. Flat blue. Mustard yellow. Paisley print. Racetrack wallpaper. 

It settles on a plush queen bed dressed with stark gray sheets and a plethora of pillows. The walls turn french gray, smart and dark. It’s eerily similar to the bed and paintjob MJ has at home. The bed’s just a bit smaller. The walls are just a bit darker. 

“Cutting edge unstable molecule tech,” Lyla explains. “Not available to the public yet. Pretty sweet, right?”

MJ collects her jaw from the floor and nods, unable to do much else. 

“So, yeah. There’s an app in your gizmo. Web, Sweet Web. It’s self explanatory but if you need help, just give me a ping. But don’t fuss with it too much. The risk is very, very minimal, but sometimes the molecules get a little too unstable. Oh, also-”

Lyla reaches a holographic hand into the screen of MJ’s gizmo. Her tiny fingers wiggle and then the interface lifts from the watch, projecting bigger in the air. On it, Peter, her Peter, smiles serenely beside his name and designation—SM-7782—scrawled in bold letters.

“Miguel’s granted you access to your husband’s files. There’s not a ton, but you can see his debriefings and recorded statements and then any of his imported media if you want.”

Catching her dead husband’s gaze hurts so MJ turns her attention elsewhere, asking, “Imported media?”

“Yep. We let the Spiders upload media—movies, music, pictures, video games for the nerds—from their universes into the interface. Keeps ‘em busy and keeps me super entertained. I’m uploading this K-Drama from Earth-431 right now, and I’m soooo invested!”

As Lyla speaks, the screen on MJ’s gizmo scrolls through a series of title cards and descriptions, showing different movies and TV shows. Some are standard fare—Friends, Star Wars, Spongebob—things she recognizes from her own world. Others are like bad parodies: America’s Next Top Microbe; Ricky Rat Clubhouse; The Fast & The Furries.

Others still are too trippy to comprehend: hyper-realistic movies that seem to depict Peter’s adventures as Spider-Man; CCTV footage of a college students in a coffee shop; compilations of comic strips ranking Top 20 Biggest Baddies in Spider-Man’s Rogues’ Gallery and 10 Most Kissable Panels of Peter Parker. 

“I’ve seen all your stuff by the way! Big fan! Like huge,” Lyla says. With a wave of her hand, the screen fizzles into a selection of MJ’s greatest hits. Everything from the small, indie projects to the bit-role blockbusters. Not the first time she’s been blindsided by a fan, but the first time in a long time. 

“Uh, thanks.”

“I’ll get an autograph later, but I’ll let you get settled first. If you have any questions, just call for Lyla! Toodles!”

In a puff of sparkles, Lyla makes her exit.  

Shortly thereafter, MJ has the room fully furnished. The queen bed stays, easy enough. A small desk and rolling chair, a modest wardrobe (equipped with a set of graphite gray loungewear and matching, regulation underwear), and a set of bedside nightstands join the bed. It’s cute. Very hotel chic. 

After a bit of investigation, the wall across from her bed reveals itself as a TV screen, equipped with an endless supply of shows and movies, including the ones Lyla introduced earlier. A touch to a small sliver of tech mounted beside the door turns the screen on. It blares with sudden life and fury, pummeling her ears from all angles. Another quick touch turns it off. 

A recess in the leftmost wall swings open into an immaculate bathroom. Basic amenities dot the sink counter and populate a generous shower stall. There’s also a little bin that pops out from the wall, just beside the bathroom door, labeled, Laundry Bot. 

Of course, MJ has questions. Dozens of them, but none that take precedence over a hot shower. Which, as it turns out, is easier desired than done. There aren’t any handles. No evident spigot. Just the stall with tile smooth and soft as the pink belly of a seashell, a small alcove at her waist holding a collection of soaps, and the sliding glass pane to close off the stall and push back the chill. 

Naturally, MJ doesn’t uncover this until she’s uncovered herself and stepped into the stall. A mime with no penchant for imagination, MJ runs her hands over each of the tiled walls, feeling for an indent, a hidden button, something. She finds nothing. 

It takes a thorough investigation of the bathroom and her first, shameful use of the LYLA HELP!!! button to learn that the interface is on the back glass of the stall door. From there, the possibilities are endless. 

Beyond the basic hot/cold dichotomy that dominated every shower she’s ever taken, there are options for specific temperatures and pressure and jet directions and steam opaqueness and scent preferences and sound options and water types. Of all the wonders of the future she’s seen, the shower is most impressive.

Opting for a standard experience—hot water, overhead, minimal steam, no added scents or sounds—she showers briefly, but blissfully. The flat light of her inactive gizmo coalesces in the steam. Variations of distilled amber color her movements, giving them greater dimension and depth. 

It would make for a great shot in a moody, experimental kinda sequence—her favorite. Unfortunately, she only got those kinds of scenes later in her career when she had sway in the roles she took. Mostly, she was shooting scenes a little sexier, a little racier. Something befitting her status as femme fatale, if the publication was kind. If unkind, sex kitten. Reductive, but lucrative, in either case.  

The shower turns off easier than it turns on. MJ drip-dries in the stall, reveling in the lingering warmth. The door slides open. The cloying warmth dissipates. She toes at a slab marked Auto Dry beside the shower and receives a sudden, unbalancing burst of heat that blasts her leg dry. Setting her entire body on the slab invokes the same, sudden dryness. Unpleasant, but undeniably effective. 

From there, she readies quickly for bed, donning the provided loungewear and sliding into the bed. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily. So, she takes to her gizmo, opening and then closing the Webb before browsing the media Lyla unlocked earlier. The stuff that Peter left behind. 

The music media immediately draws her eye, as it seems the content least likely to hurt her. She finds exactly what she expects of her husband—some nu metal greats, the entire Beastie Boys discography. She imagines her husband trolling the multiverse, webbing out of portals with a skip in his swing, blasting the Nu-York virtuosos’ greatest hits, arguing the merits to doubting Spiders, and she snorts to herself. 

A bittersweet imagining, but it doesn’t hurt. Not like the playlist. The one labeled: Missin’ MJ.

It’s a collection of songs she hasn’t heard or even thought about in years. Quintessential early 00s classics from the mixtapes they made each other in high school. Their wedding song. Angsty pop punk Peter hated, but she loved. Showtunes ripped from the handful of musicals she did early on in her career, her own voice warbling in her ears. Club hits from the two ill-advised albums she did very early on in her career. And their song, hers and Peter’s, the one that started out as a joke that Peter didn’t understand, but became their song nonetheless. 

A history of a relationship, distilled into a playlist running a little under two hours. 

It doesn’t make her cry, though it would be easier if it did. MJ just fists her hands against her eyes, rubbing until the blackness of her eyelids blotches and bursts. Until it hurts so bad she can’t breathe. Until it doesn’t hurt at all.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, LYLA's Sent the Drones to Kick Your Spider Butt!!

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Brief narrative history of MARIJANE, as prepared by LYLA, based upon data collected during SM-7782’s “PETER” tenure in the Spider Society, and personal history given by MARIJANE. History is as follows:

On  XXXX XX 1989 at Mercy Medical in Nu York City (EARTH 7782), Marilyn Jane Watson was born the second daughter to Philip (total trash-hole) and Madeline Watson. She was 10 pounds—what a chunker!—and fully redheaded from the start. 

Early childhood was largely uneventful by our standards. In 1997, her father got fired from Empire State University (for being a real creep towards several grad assistants. This Life Approximation says again: TRASH HOLE). As luck (or the Web, really) would have it, the Watsons moved to Forest Hills, Queens, right next to the Parkers. The only kids on the street, Peter and MJ became fast friends. Peter served as a safe haven for MJ from her father (who probably won Worst Father Ever every year. No official sources on his behavior, but safe to assume he was an angry, abusive drunk. MJ’s older sister, Gayle, split town soon as she turned 18 and MJ does the same. Some evidence that Gayle reconnected with Papa Watson later in life, but MJ never does). 

In 1999, MJ’s mother passed away. She was diagnosed with brain cancer earlier that same year, but the injuries that led to her death were ruled to be self-inflicted. There’s a couple police reports that suggest MJ’s father was investigated for manslaughter, but never caught a charge for it. This Life Approximation’s deduction: he didn’t technically kill Madeline, but the years of emotional and physical abuse he inflicted, coupled with a terminal diagnosis, likely led to her taking her own life. 

Worth noting, MJ will later reference her mother in several interviews. An aspiring singer, Madeline inspired MJ to pursue her dreams and partake in every endeavor young MJ set her mind to. And there was a lot MJ set her mind to—dance, drama, sports, choir, debate. If there was a club (and it wasn’t total dweeb-core), MJ was a part of it. Even in her early days, her peers and mentors were stunned by the caliber of her performance and character.

In 2006, Peter Parker is bitten by a radioactive Spider during the course of a prestigious summer internship at Oscorp, but that story’s been told. 

2007, MJ graduated high school and immediately moved to Manhattan. Apparently, she did not say goodbye to Peter, just up and left. According to her, she didn’t have any contact with Peter for two years after that, but Peter (and The Bugle) suggested she was a favorite damsel in distress of Spider-Man’s. Maybe she doesn’t consider that contact with Peter because she didn’t know it was Peter at the time? Unclear to this Life Approximation. 

2008 saw MJ make the trek out to LA, where she enjoyed a modest acting career (mostly mediocre soaps and one extremely underrated Indie flick that has been added to Miguel O’Hara’s To-Watch list (and a reminder to thank Lyla later😘)). In LA, MJ starts going officially by MariJane—a move that was well-received and regarded by all as a good idea. 

Just when MariJane’s baby career hits its stride, she’s hospitalized for a prolonged and unstated reason (tabloids from the time suggest accidental overdose; medical records show complications of spontaneous abortion). Her career took a huge hit as she had to renege on numerous commitments and drop out of many promising projects. Soon after, MariJane left LA and returned to Nu York. 

Summer 2009, MJ started going steady with Harry Osborn, Peter’s best friend and roommate (can you say drama!?). Through Harry, she reconnected with Peter. By fall of 2009, MJ and Peter were dating. Harry, apparently, took the break-up well. He becomes a permanent third wheel in their relationship—the godfather to Mayday Madeline Parker and the Best Man at their wedding. They’re still on good terms, far as this Life Approximation can tell. 

By all accounts, Peter and MJ were extremely happy and in love at this time. Until they weren’t. MJ says not knowing why Peter was gone all the time and majorly screwing up in life was a huge strain on their relationship. Plus, it probably didn’t help that she was constantly being nabbed by goons with a grudge against Spider-Man.

Peter, in his book The Spider Inside, said he should’ve told MariJane sooner. Would that have made any difference? Probably not. Across the multiverse, the superhero gig can be tough on relationships. 

Peter proposed a year later and MJ said no. At some point after that and before they broke up in December of 2010, Peter revealed his secret identity. It didn’t stop them from breaking up. 

After the breakup (and some racy photos of MJ at a nightclub way soon after the breakup leaked online—remember how to say drama from before?), MJ moved back to LA and found a lucky break into superstardom through prestige TV, a modeling contract, and a leading lady role in a blockbuster series. The official ranking of MariJane’s film and television roles according to this Life Approximation are attached as an appendices after this report. 

In 2014, Peter was killed* during a fight with the Jackal and a group of clones, and his identity revealed as a result. Devastated, MJ returned to Nu York to attend the burial, but encountered a very much alive Peter Parker. The couple reunited (wink wink, nudge nudge) and, in October of 2014, their daughter, Mayday, was born.

Though not as active after the birth of her daughter, MJ maintained her acting career, releasing two or three projects every few years. Most importantly, she did Secret Hospital in 2017, which, HELLO series that changed this Lyrate Life Approximation’s Approximation of Life! 

By 2016, MJ and Peter are hitched. Their nuptials are considered to be one of the biggest events of the year and the photos are just gorg! Based on a review of available media, Peter’s own filed reports when he joined up with the Society in 2018, and MJ’s entry interview, their relationship was the stuff of dreams. 

Exactly four years after they get hitched, a pesky collider goes boom. MJ gets Spider powers, but loses her husband and daughter. It took her approximately six months to get up and running as Spider-Woman. 

There’s little to support it, but there’s also nothing to disprove MJ’s history of events. According to MJ, she’s spent the last four years battling baddies with little major developments or events that we typically see from fledgling Spiders. Her rogues gallery (attached as appendix E) is pretty standard, though the maggia poses a much greater threat than seen for most Spiders and Silver Sable is a nastier customer than most  iterations across the multiverse. 

Shortly after Doomsday or The End of the World (both MJ’s phrases—psych eval pending), NYC was quarantined by the feds. About a third of the surviving populace AKA the rich and wealthy skipped town before the quarantine was implemented. In that chaos, the maggia flourished. 

Allies for Spider-Woman are scarce, as a number of heroes were among those killed by the collider explosion and others have skipped town. Strange is apparently active in the area, but has shuttered the Sanctum Sanctorum to the public and seldom leaves. Street level vigilantes are also active, but crossovers are uncommon as the vigilantes can’t take on the stronger superpowered creeps. 

MJ mentions only Harry Osborn by name. Beyond him, she names no other friends or acquaintances. As far as this Life Approximation can tell, MJ leads a very solitary and stressful life, solely dominated by her duties as Spider-Woman and guilt over past failures. 

Sound familiar, bossman? 

*The circumstances surrounding Peter’s “death” and “resurrection” are detailed further within narrative history lodged in Classified File No. 7782.01

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Narrative prepped the day MARIJANE was brought to HQ. The history given by MARIJANE would later prove to be partially inaccurate and highly censored, but discrepancies arose from personal and private concerns held by MARIJANE. 

Further analysis underway, but difficult to parse, given lack of primary materials and firsthand accounts. 

Notes:

chapter title inspired by "Flute Loop" by Beastie Boys

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: mind the angst tag

Chapter 5: what's been and gone

Summary:

the angst tag comes in swingin'

On her first day as a fully fledged member of the Spider Society, MJ wakes to a blaring alarm that sends her flipping onto the ceiling, checking the room for immediate threats. Lyla, barely containing her glee, pops in to let her know she’s due to take an aptitude test in an hour.

After indulging in a morning shower—cold as NYC in the dead of December—MJ sets about making herself presentable for the coming day. Thankfully, bad breath is the least of her concerns thanks to the provided amenities, but without any cosmetics or products, she’s left to settle for a sweep of her fingers through her hair and a few quick pats to her cheeks for nature’s blush.

With the use of her gizmo, it isn’t impossible to find the training modules (which are closer to the lounge than the gym because the building is allergic to making sense). But it takes longer than she would’ve hoped. 

Two other Spiders beat her there—a monkey in a Spider-Man mask and a woman going by Jessica Drew who looks nothing like the Jessica Drew from yesterday.

Both of her contemporaries unsteady MJ. It isn’t just that initial blister of sameness over her frontal lobe when she locks eyes with them. With shiny suits and unapologetic confidence, they already look like members of the Society. 

Spider-Monkey is ultra agile, bending this way and that way, flipping upside and down through a series of warm-up stretches. Matte black eyes peer out from the cutouts in his mask. When he shakes her hand with an enthusiastic hoot, he bares his teeth in a lascivious grin that she politely returns. 

Meanwhile, Jessica Drew is the picture of calm, cool and collected, examining her red nails poking from the ends of black leather, fingerless gloves. The yellow spider on her chest is cinched in a black widow hourglass. Situated between her breasts, it draws the eye right to her impressive bust. MJ isn’t immune, caught in the pull when Jessica Drew gives her an accommodating nod. 

Altogether, it’s embarrassing, but the situation isn’t foreign to her. It’s just another casting call, another audition. She’s done this hundreds of times before. Albeit, she’s more than a little rusty.

Even before the end of her acting career (and the end of the world), it had been nearly a decade since she actually auditioned for anything. After some TV successes and her stint as Nu York’s official damsel in distress, the roles came to her.

Unlike a casting call though, MJ has no idea what’s ahead of her. It helps that the other Spiders don’t seem any more clued into what comes next than she is. Though, one brisk conversation with Jessica Drew leaves the impression of unbridled, nonplussed ego. Whatever comes their way, this Jessica Drew has no concerns she’ll fail. 

Once, before she knew things could go so very wrong, MJ had confidence like that. Now, confronting it in the face of another, younger woman, she just feels old.

The test, overseen and judged by Lyla (in a stylish pink and black striped ref’s outfit complete with matching ballcap) consists of an obstacle course laid out in an otherwise empty room. Boundaries are outlined in red, directing to the finish. A straight shot intercut by swinging arms and stretches of cavernous pits, it looks simple. Deceptively simple. 

MJ and Spider-Monkey exchange an incredulous glance. For a primate, Spider-Monkey arches a very dramatic brow. 

There’s a trick to the course. There has to be. MJ just doesn’t expect it to appear immediately after Lyla blows her starting whistle. Before the sound’s even finished, three baton wielding holograms appear directly in front of MJ. 

Spidey-sense blares too late. MJ dodges back, but a baton, very real and very not holographic, catches her across the shoulder. The area of impact pulses the sickly yellow of a mottled bruise. She pokes at it, expecting powder or paint, but her fingers come away clean. The wound is leached into the fabric. Fantastic. 

The holograms swing again. She spins away, out of range. 

Beside her, Jessica Drew dodges between two holograms of her own. Their blows hit each other upside the head and neck. There’s a tootling from a victory horn overhead as the holograms pixelate into nothingness. Jessica Drew grins, showing all her perfect teeth. 

Up ahead, Spider-Monkey peels through the course. Spring boarding from one obstacle to the next, he makes a horrible, hooting racket. Weaving in and out of the holograms only seems to enrage them, but they never catch him. Curling and uncurling, his tail drifts in and out of their reach. They grab for it frantically, and it whips away each time, teasing. When he crosses the finish line, pre-recorded applause echoes from the walls. 

The trio of holograms encircle MJ, slashing their batons wildly. She backbends. Coils serpentine. Drops into a split, once, when faced with no other option. Dodges dodges dodges. 

More holograms, the ones that chased Spider-Monkey, join the fray. One catches her across the back. Another cracks against her thigh. Her Sense is useless, throwing up constant, shrill alarm in every direction. More blows land. Yellow blots appear with every hit, marking each individual failure for everyone to see. 

Another round of applause sounds as Jessica Drew crosses the finish line. The holograms turn red. They move faster. MJ needs to hoof it to the finish. Now! But there’s no path forward. Not unless she wants beaten like an egg. 

So, MJ turns and hightails it off the course. For a beat, the holograms teem at the edges of the course, limbs and slack faces pressing up against the boundary, before they burst through with a bang, giving chase. 

Fast as she can, legs and arms pumping in full effort, MJ runs to the entryway. Like a storm surge, the holograms close the distance. One swipes a hand—now clawed, what the fuck kind of holograms are they meant to be anyway?—over her back, glancing between her shoulder blades. 

It’s now or never. 

With a mighty leap, MJ kicks up. She catches the upper lip of the doorframe with her foot. Pikes hard against it to jettison her in the opposite direction of the holographic horde. The holograms lean back, watching her arc over them. Vague mouthshapes gape like gutted fish.

Touching down clear of the mob, she charges for the finish line and scrambles on all fours to clear the obstacles, towards the end, utterly desperate to finish and uncaring how ridiculous she looks in doing so. The holograms chase, but they can’t close the gap fast enough. 

The applause that sounds for her is less joyous than the other two. It peters out quickly and pathetically. Lyla coughs over the dying claps.  

Afterwards, sitting in MedBay while a Spider-Doc takes MJ’s vitals, Lyla announces, “Little rusty, but nothing a couple training modules can’t fix.” 

Lunch follows. The options overwhelm. It’s been four years since anyone’s asked MJ, “what do you want to eat?”

After lunch, MJ hits a trio of training modules assigned based on her aptitude test—Combat Refresher I; Tactics for Newbies; and Mobility & Flexibility (Expert Level But Don’t Get a Big Head!).

Ignoring the warning, she gets a big head to be slotted in an expert class. The big head pops about two minutes into the first course, long before Lyla’s cheery announcement that Combat Refresher I was barely passed and Tactics for Newbies was a total failure. 

MJ isn’t one to fail. In fact, she hates it. Failure is like cat dander, it makes her puff up and itch in all the wrong places. For the rest of the afternoon, she gnaws on her cheek and watches training videos available via her gizmo. Everything from The Art of War to Guerilla Tactics of the Golden Age of Heroes is featured and detailed. It’s all incredibly boring, but it does help. 

The rest of her first full day is spent wandering around HQ, trying to make sense of the floor plan. There’s some sort of method to the madness, but it’ll be a long time before she can let go of her inhibitions to scuttle along the walls like the other Spiders. Swinging through HQ is out of the question as well. Her loaned web shooters work, just not how and when she needs them too. 

When dinner time rolls around, MJ’s only slightly more confident in the face of excess, choosing a hearty soup rather than the same, bland salad. Immediate regret slaps her across the face.

She doesn’t finish the soup, but her body is used to having little. It growls loud enough to draw a few eyes before it quiets, settling back into old habits. 

Several Spiders approach her over the course of dinner, introducing themselves and making small conversation. It’s nice, if a little disorienting. Two of the Spiders were MJs. Even though they kept their faces hidden, it’s disorienting to hear her voice, see her mannerisms coming out of a separate body. They all promise it’ll be less weird soon, but nobody gives her a real timeframe. Soon seems to be the favored measurement of time at the Society. 

At the end of the day, MJ returns to her room. As soon as she crosses the threshold, her gizmo thwips. A message from Spider-Seamstress: Suit TBD. Had an idea, but it was terrible. Might be done tomorrow. Don’t wait up.

The dour message doesn’t dampen MJ’s spirits. She’s in no rush for a new suit. 

Unable to resist the allure, MJ has another shower. The water blasts from a fanned fountain head in hundreds of tiny, concentrated streams. She runs her finger against the metal. Traces the pimpled outgrowths of the spouts. Stops entire swaths of the jetstream from reaching her body. Coats her hand in a running second skin. Watches the thin barrier of water rush over her gizmo like a hose against a car windshield, proving it totally waterproof. 

Steam coils around her. So thick and fluffy, it smears her reflection across the room. 

When she finishes, an hour has passed. She dries off with a towel after debating another go with the Auto Dry and then thinking better of it. After a quick brush of her teeth, a swig of mouthwash, and a slathering of moisturizer, she curls into bed nude, sinking into the plush mattress, drowning in the soft down comforter, luxuriating in the simple comfort. 

Her gizmo thwips. A message from Peter B.

SM-616B - How’s your first day treating you? Miguel and Lyla didn’t run you too hard this morning, did they?

nothing 2 unbearable. still in 1 piece. is it always this busssssssssssssssssrdyfhgjlkjlkn - SW-7782

Arm laxed over her forehead and eyes lulled shut, MJ’s gizmo slips enough to send out her message, garbled as it is. Peter promises her it gets easier and wishes her sweet dreams, though she doesn’t see it. Sleep takes her deep. After some time without movement, the lights kick off. 

So ends MJ’s first day as a member of the Spider Society. 

***

Day two progresses the same as the first. Training modules in the morning. Lunch around noontime. Conditioning in the afternoon. More exploring before dinner. 

At the end of the day, Miguel seeks her out personally, saddling up alongside her as she makes the trek from a tour of the Go Home Machine (and Margo, who proves to be a lovely little Spider) to the cafeteria. 

“You free for the night?” he asks.

All over, her body itches. Extrasensory realization strikes before he says it. The results are in.

“Yes,” she says, stopping, forcing a smile.

“We should talk alone.” He touches her arm, gentle even in his suddenness. “Your room, maybe?”

Heads turn. Masked eyes widen. The leader of the elite spider society doesn’t often make public appearances, let alone social calls.

Her body is electric, shivering with anticipatory dread. Cold sweat drips down from the furrow at the base of her skull.

Why can’t he just tell her? It can only be bad news, right? Or, does he fear her reaction either way, and doesn’t want to deal with her freaking out and hugging him in sheer delight?

“Fine.” Nausea twists her stomach like a corkscrew, forcing bile up into her throat. She almost crosses her arms, almost hugs herself to quiet the anxiety fizzing in her chest, but doesn’t.

MJ turns sharply on her heel. She walks to the dorm block with her head held high. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look back to make sure Miguel follows. She just walks and breathes and tries to keep her lunch down and doesn’t let herself hope. Doesn’t let herself believe. One way or another. 

Thankfully, it’s a short walk to her room and an even shorter transition into it. The door slides open with ease, linked to her biometrics. She steps through, and then turns to watch him follow after. The door slides shut behind him with a soft hiss.

“Do you want to sit down?” he asks. 

It hurts already. Sitting down won’t make it hurt less. She bandies on the edge of her toes, shaking her head. There’s a straining pain in her chest. It’s difficult to find her breath like she’s got a plastic bag over her head. 

Nanotech ripples through Miguel’s mask, baring his face. He doesn’t speak. His mouth is a tight, unmoving line. When she meets his eye, she already knows. She’s always known.

“The specs came through.”

Vision fractures into overlapping views. Reality and its afterimage. The pieces of Miguel don’t align. 

“Your daughter’s signature isn’t in them.”

Her knees wobble.

“I’m sorry.” 

There’s a knife in her chest instead of breath. A noose in her mind instead of thought. Her heart combusts, burning and breaking and bleeding battery acid grief throughout her entire body. She already knows, has known for so long, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t make it hurt any fucking less.

For one brief, beautiful moment, try as she had to resist it, MJ had hope. Little more than a flickering at the corner of her gaze, but it was something. A bright speck in her thoughts. A small, happy thing to think of and smile. Losing it is just losing her daughter all over again.

Miguel’s superhuman speed keeps her from becoming a pathetic blob of a person on the floor. He catches her when her legs give out, but she jerks away, stumbling. His hands flex as if to chase her, the minute movement heightened by the accents of pulsating crimson over his knuckles, but they just fall loose and empty at his sides. 

There’s a flash of self-consciousness, an inkling of embarrassment, and then nothing at all.

MJ walks to the bed in a fog, knowing her destination but unable to see the way there. Legs move slower than she wants, heavier than she remembers. She lowers herself to sit off the side. It's softer than it should be, plusher and more comfortable than she deserves. Not like her bed at home, not like Gayle has gone hard and cold by the time MJ gets into the condo. The solid door cleaves in two with a single kick and it shouldn’t do that, but she doesn’t care.

Gayle, her big sister, her first friend, her daughter’s godmother, lies face-up on her coffee table. Her head tips back over the edge, the sheaf of bleach blonde hair brushes the hardwood. Sweet, doe brown eyes, smooth as marble now, stare aimlessly into the baseboards. 

Gayle, who potty-trained her and taught her to speak and read and ride a bike. Gayle, who showed her the secret art of surviving their father. Gayle, who never judged her for turning down Peter’s first two marriage proposals and agreeing to the third. Gayle, who took one look at her and knew she was pregnant before she’d even known herself. Gayle, who told her she was made of the best parts of their mother, and the worst parts of their father. Gayle, who loved Mayday only a little less than she did.

Gayle. Dead.

MJ can’t stand to look at her sister, so she doesn’t. She turns from the body to the rest of the apartment, single-minded in her determination to find her daughter.

There are signs of Mayday all over the condo. Pink-glitter sneakers toppled on their sides in the entryway. PJs laid out over the bed in the guest room. Unfinished spaghetti oh’s in the sink. A threadbare blankie crumpled in the corner of the couch. But not Mayday. 

Mayday is nowhere to be found.

MJ calls her name, cries out every iteration she knows. May! Mayday! Mayday June July! Mini MJ! Baby Girl! Squirt! Sweetheart—

“MariJane.”

MJ stiffens. Her memory fades as quickly as it came on, dissipating into indiscriminate scenes—Gayle’s stiff body, Mayday’s half-complete drawing, a bleary-eyed survivor peeking around the corner—until she can’t even recall what she was reliving. It takes a second to feel real again. She counts her breaths and runs her tongue along the inside seam of her teeth and flexes her fingers until they twinge.

Her name is Marilyn Jane Parker-Watson. She is 35 years old. Her friends are dead. Her mother and sister are dead. Her husband is dead. Her daughter is gon—dead too. She has lost everything. She is still alive. She is at Spider HQ. In the future, but not her future.

And she’s not alone.

MJ turns her head just enough to take in Miguel, hovering by the door. Uncertainty and unease soften his expression. Without severity to strain his mouth and harden his eyes, he looks younger, friendlier. He looks like he cares, like he could be her friend. 

“Did you say something?” she asks.

Clearing his throat, Miguel says, “There’s a therapist on staff. Lyla can help you find his office. He’ll be happy to talk about something other than Uncle Ben.”

MJ doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t know what to say. She has no intention of seeing a therapist.

“That was supposed to be funny.” His voice is too soft. “Sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

MJ drops her gaze to her hands. Beneath the thin surface of her gloves sits the lump of her wedding band. She thinks, briefly, of its twin, dangling from the cord around her throat. Thinks of taking it out. Just to see it. Hold it. Ask it what she should do. 

She doesn’t. Feeling it is enough. A hunk of hammered gold, kept warm by the heat of her skin. It doesn’t fit neatly under her suit. It bubbles the spandex like a pimple. It’s always there, a mild nuisance, sitting uneasy over her heart. 

“Spider-Man saves the day,” MJ says. “He doesn’t deal with the rest of it.”

Behind her, Miguel fidgets, adjusting his stance. She’s being unfair. She knows she is. She expects him to argue. 

He doesn’t.

Instead, he asks, “Do you need anything? Want anything?”

She wants to be anywhere but here, anything but Spider-Woman. She wants her daughter, her husband, her life, her world. She wants them back.

There’s a little licking flame in her belly, begging to be stoked into a full rage, but she can’t muster the energy to be derisive. The floor has fallen out from underneath her once again, plunging her into the icy waves of despair and desolation, except this time, she’s going to drown in her grief.

MJ draws her arms around herself and squeezes until it hurts. She bends a little at the waist so that her hair glides like curtains over her eyes, blocking him completely from view.

“I want to be alone,” she says. 

There’s a moment of hesitation—she can hear the tick of his teeth as he bites back a response, the tiny shuffle of a hand opening and closing—but then he’s gone, leaving the room without pretense.

The only evidence of his leaving is the flash of light from the hallway outside as the door slides open and then its disappearance as the door slides closed. 

MJ stays curled until she feels nothing, but the nothingness is sharp. It saws through time-worn calluses and claws her heart in two until it bleeds and keens.

***

At some point, MJ decides she must watch Peter’s video—the biography she couldn’t stomach on that first day, when Lyla tried to show her. So, she fiddles with her gizmo until she locates it. She calls it up, stumbling into accidental genius and projecting it large and wide against the far wall. 

The first time, she can’t make sense of any of it. She doesn’t cry, but her vision blurs. The sound is hazy beneath the roar of pressure in her ears, the swell of despair in her throat. 

The second time, her sniffles are louder than the audio, but her vision stays steady. She watches her husband smile and babble with slowing tears. Until, he holds up his phone to scroll through photos of Mayday. 

Mayday freshly born and swaddled in a pink blanket. Mayday at the beach, stomping on a sandcastle. Mayday curled like a pillbug on their bed, sucking on one pudgy foot. Mayday fast asleep facedown on Peter’s chest, drool darkening the ESU logo on his shirt. Mayday hanging upside down beside the ceiling fan in the living room.

With a choking hiccup, MJ pauses the video then drags it back to the photo of Mayday on the ceiling. It’s more recent than the others. Mayday’s hair is long and even, which puts the photo before she turned five and massacred her hair with craft scissors. MJ’s never seen it before. Never had any inkling Mayday had inherited anything Spider from Peter. 

Rage and bile pool in her throat. How could he keep something so monumental from her? And how had she failed to notice? She spent far more time with Mayday than Peter. She put a pin in her career to keep Mayday from growing up with a rotating shift of nannies. And she never saw Mayday climb walls. Never saw her do anything remotely Spider. 

Peter had. Peter had seen it and taken pictures of it, but hadn’t told her. Failed to mention his interdimensional jaunts too. What else had he lied about? 

There were rumors. Affairs with other supers. Dirty money and favors to keep him away from the maggia. Cover-ups to hide human rights violations by Oscorp. Skeletons in the closet that kept his official invitation to the Avengers at bay. 

Rumors that kept her up at night. Rumors that caused arguments if she brought them up, if she revealed she thought him capable of such deceit. Rumors that came back again and again like a cold sore. 

But there were always rumors. About him. About her. About Harry. About everyone.

Better than anyone, she knew her husband. Better than she knew herself, sometimes. If he didn’t tell her something, it was only to keep her and Mayday safe. Even when the distance between them grew claws, she never doubted that he loved her. That he would do anything to keep her safe. 

MJ presses play on the video. More photos of Mayday scroll by and Peter says, “Isn’t she perfect? Maybe she’ll end up here someday. Oh my god, she’ll be so embarrassed. Hi future Mayday. Daddy loves you.”

Peter rambles on for a bit. So much so that there’s a very clear and very harsh jump cut from talk of his book deal to his awkward conclusion. Then the video ends. 

MJ watches it again and the despair in her chest begins to lessen, returning to that time-worn nothingness so familiar it’s become like a friend. The sour taste is back in her mouth, but it isn’t quite as bad. She’s turned down scripts only half as disgustingly tragic as her current life. They’d seemed too unrealistic. How could anyone’s life be that bad?

Very easily, apparently.

Except, she doesn’t quite feel tragic. Only immensely sad, and a little put out. She watches Peter’s video once more. Then again. And then three more times. She doesn’t cry. Her face is stiff, frozen. Her eyes sting and she blinks until they sting a little less.

The last time she watches Peter’s video, she resolves for it to be the last. When it cuts off, she untangles from the knot she’s made of herself on the bed. She stands. She walks to the bathroom. She doesn’t flick on the lights. She turns on the shower and waits for the steam to condense. 

When it does, she strips methodically, undressing herself in quick, exacting movements. Cold and clinical. Moving towards a distinct purpose. 

She rips her suit at the collar, but she doesn’t care. She flings it all off until she’s standing nude in the dark. Except for the ring on her finger, Peter’s hung low over her chest, and her gizmo over her wrist. A molted skin of white gathers at her feet.

Stepping into the shower, she whimpers. The water scours. It's so hot. Too hot. It beats redhot over her head, dapples her skin white and melted. But she doesn’t turn it down. Wouldn’t turn it down even if it stripped her down to the bone. 

Back home, water is a luxury. Hot water is a pipe dream, available only to the uber rich and, even then, only on certain days. Water, like power, is scheduled and meted out with rigorous accuracy. No more, no less than what’s allotted. If a rolling blackout hits on an allotted water/power day, there’s no substitution or switching days. 

MJ’s luckier than most. She has Harry, who lets her bathe in hot water at his penthouse if she musters the humility to ask. But everything with Harry comes at a price, even when he tries to give with both hands. 

It was never like that with Peter. Peter never asked for anything, never expected more than she was willing to give. Peter, who grew up just as poor and broken as she did and made something more of himself through sheer force of will. Peter, who loved her enough to grout the cracks in her heart from a childhood of neglect and an adulthood of excess. 

Fuck, she misses him. Every day, every second, she misses him. 

And Mayday. Even brushing up against the memory of her daughter makes her legs weaken. She pitches forward, barely catching herself against the wall. Her hands stick, hard and fast, thanks to her Spider powers. No, not her powers. Peter’s powers. That he should still have.

Too distraught, she can’t unstick her hands. She flops boneless against the side of the shower, sliding down to her knees, held aloft by that unnatural stick of her hands to the shower wall. Immobile and pathetic as a beached shark. 

The steaming water cooks her. Her tough, calloused shell sloughs off, baring the weak, grieving thing inside her chest to the scorching shower. It burns until it doesn’t. 

Eventually, she pulls her hands free and, in utter darkness, she scrubs until her skin is numb. Only when she’s stripped to fresh skin does she reach a wet, dripping hand out of the glass stall to fumble for a towel. Then, she dries off halfheartedly. The towel ends up hunched on the floor over her suit. Still dripping, she doesn’t bother to dress before flopping facedown onto the bed. 

Sleep eludes, no matter how she prays for it. Mind wrung dry, but body twitching and aching too much to be comfortable. She tosses and turns, damp and uneasy. There’s no way she’ll be sleeping anytime soon.

The lights flare on, bright all at once, sensing her intention. How they know, she has no idea. Motion activated by even the tiniest motion, maybe? It’s one of the many, many things she thinks she should ask Lyla, but doesn’t really care about the answer. 

Huddled against the headboard, MJ looks out over the empty, solemn room in a dimension that isn’t hers. She’s on borrowed time here. She knows it. Miguel knows it. Lyla knows it. Everyone knows it. 

They may need someone like her to run through their Unknown, but she can’t hack it. She’s not Peter. She’s just MJ. She—

There’s a package on her desk. It catches her eye and brings her woe is me spiral to a screeching halt. A red, satin ribbon wraps around its width, bunches like bunny ears on top. In her haze, she hadn’t even noticed it. Must’ve walked right by it several times now. 

Peeling from the bed, she approaches cautiously. She expects a trick or a trap. There isn’t one.

She unlaces the bow. Opens the box. There’s a card inside, angry, hen scratch writing that reads: Here it is. Don’t let it get nasty like your last one.

The card flutters from her fingers, forgotten as soon as it’s read. MJ stares at the folded suit—pearly white with dark blue details coalescing to form a dynamic, angular spider in the center of the chest. It isn’t quite like Peter’s design. It’s not even like anything she’s seen at the Society. It’s all hers. 

And she hates it. 

MJ snatches up the discarded lid, flings it haphazardly over top of the suit. She doesn’t bother to close it properly. She can’t stand to look at it—this thing that has been siphoned of Peter. This thing that makes it hers and not his.

***

Keep moving or die. Those have been the stakes of MJ’s life since she was six years old. Grief leadens her body, but she can’t rest. Keeping busy is the only thing that lessens the itch to peel off her face. A sudden mission would do wonders, but she’s not on the docket for the night. Asking Miguel to put her on is out of the question. He’s not a chatty guy, but even he would probably feel obligated to ask how she’s doing. It’s only been two hours since he broke the news. 

So, work isn’t an option. Basic tasks. Outstanding to dos. This is how she’ll keep her mind busy. The problem is she doesn’t have many to dos, either. Her room is easily cleaned and her bed easily made. The bathroom is self cleaning (some kind of super UV light to kill all germs). Her toiletries can only be rearranged so many times. There's a bot to wash and fold her laundry, and the drawers of her wardrobe organize themselves. 

Left with few options, MJ tackles a to do that has been outstanding since she arrived. An introductory biography. 

The first attempt is a disaster. Her hair is offensively bad. The low light emphasizes the yellowing of her suit and the bruises under her eyes. She makes it as far as her name before her tongue dries up and her teeth pang and she loses her words, her thoughts. The red recording light of her gizmo blinks for a long, long time. 

The second and third attempts are better. She makes it past her name, at least, but she deletes them without watching the playback, hating them, hating herself. She curses, tries again. 

Staring down at the camera, she spits out her name and the facts of her being like spoiled milk. Dispassionately, she ends, “I won’t let anyone down again.”

There’s little point in watching the playback. The OK? button is pressed easily enough, confirming it’s ready for publication. There’s a spinning circle and then a pop-up tells her the video is under review. MJ sighs and flops back on the bed. 

Two seconds is all she gets to stew in her thoughts before Lyla makes an appearance. 

“Hi babes, just checking in on you,” Lyla says. She takes form just above MJ’s head. She peers down with her hands on her hips. “Saw you uploaded your bio for approval. It’s a little intense, no?”

MJ scowls. She wonders if Lyla has a Do Not Disturb setting. She’ll have to ask Peter B next time she sees him. For the time being, MJ slings an arm over her eyes and rolls onto her side. It’s a little rude and childish, but Lyla invaded her space. MJ grumbles, “I’ve seen Ben Reilly’s bio.”

“Sure, but brooding edgelord is kinda his thing.”

MJ bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to spot her vision. She drops her arm, glaring at Lyla. The holo woman has the decency to look abashed.  “Are you saying that my family being dead is my thing?”

“No. Nononono.” Lyla waves apologetic jazz hands and shakes her head at rapid-fire speed. “It’s not your thing. Definitely not. If that’s the bio you want to use, that’s the one we’ll use. Totally up to you.”

Flopping back onto her back, MJ stares at Lyla, unimpressed and waiting for more. Lyla doesn’t make her wait long. 

“Buuuuut, I just wanted to double check. Your bio is your big introduction to the Society. It might be your only introduction to some of the Spiders here. And, look, lifeform approximation to woman, you don’t strike me as a brooding, gritty reboot kinda Spider-Woman.” Lyla screws her face up into a seriously dark and brooding expression, waving a split fingered hand in front of it. Good-natured, all over again, she shunts into a smile. “But maybe you are. Or maybe that’s who you want to be. It’s your choice. You get to be whatever kind of Spider you want to be. Just think about it.” 

Then Lyla’s gone, popping away in a little flash of light. 

MJ sits with that advice for a while, dwelling in it, swallowing it whole. She had brooded and grieved everything in Nu York in the months after the collider and had gotten through it. Somehow. 

Spider-Woman, this gift from Peter, got her through the worst of it. Got her here in this impossible place with all the spoils of the multiverse at her fingertips. This world, that could be a proving ground to help her become the Spider-Woman she wants, the Spider-Woman Nu York deserves, the Spider-Woman worthy of Peter’s sacrifices. If only she could bulk up and accept it.

It’s just another performance. For fuck’s sake, she can do this. She has to do this. For Peter. For Mayday. For herself. 

So, MJ braces her posture, breathes deep and full and slow, drains her mind of anxiety and inadequacy, embraces the role of Spider-Woman. Then, she starts again.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, STOP! Like, seriously!! Stop itttttt!! Stoooooop!

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Transcript of MARIJANE Biography for Spider Society Purposes. Auto-generated transcript and visual alt text as follows:

Audio: My name is MariJane Watson-Parker and I’m Nu York’s one and only Spider-Woman. I have been for about four years. Ever since my husband, Peter, Nu York’s Friendly Spider-Man, died saving me.

Visual: MARIJANE speaks directly to the camera. Four photos of her and PETER are shown. The first is a close-up selfie of their smiling faces, side by side with MARIJANE leaning heavily against PETER. They’re fairly young in the photo, 22 and 21 respectively. 

The second shows PETER in his suit sans mask on an outdoor stage being presented the key to Nu York City by MARIJANE. They’re older here—MARIJANE’s adopted her signature bang n’ fringe hairstyle and PETER’s doing a funky, floppy thing with his hair. Not a great look, but very Parker. 

The third shows MARIJANE and PETER on their wedding day as MARIJANE dips PETER for a kiss while they both laugh. At first glance, PETER’s leg is kicked up high like he’s off balance, but the placement of his hands on MARIJANE’s back and hip imply he’s directing the pose, backbending into an iconic photo.

The fourth shows PETER swinging MARIJANE through the Washington Square Arch. It’s a candid photo, slightly blurry, but they both look totally bangin’.

Audio: Before that, I was a three time almost-Emmy winning actress.

Visual: Three clips of MARIJANE split the screen. In each, MARIJANE smiles prim and pristine as an announcer introduces her as an Emmy contender. In each, another winner is called and MARIJANE’s reactions range from demuring disappointment (in her first loss) to her very clearly mouthing f*ck (in her third loss). 

Audio: And a model. 

Visual: A series of MARIJANE in glamorous, highly stylized photo shoots scrolls past. The most prominent is a shot of MARIJANE in a white Spider-suit, sans mask, crouched with her knees spread wide, an elbow laid against one knee while her other arm dangles between. Both the pose and the suit mimic a cover shoot PETER did, which is shown in tandem. 

Audio: And a mom.

Visual: A quick clip of MARIJANE holding gurgling MAYDAY WATSON-PARKER plays. Unawares that she’s being filmed, MARIJANE bounces her baby in her arms, singing an offbeat, blue tune. Realizing they’ve been caught on camera, MARIJANE and MAYDAY turn to the lens with identical sneers. 

Audio: Spent most of my life getting saved by Peter so it’s been a crack-up doing the saving instead. I’m getting pretty lights-out. Even got my own damsel in distress. Don’t tell Harry I called him that.

Visual: A newspaper headline titled “The Only Thing That Can Save Osboy Is Spider-Woman” spins into frame, followed by an artist’s rendition of a fully suited MARIJANE rescuing an unflattering caricature of HARRY OSBORN from a masked villain wearing a costume that boldly reads public opinion across the chest. 

Audio: It’s not a bad gig, all things considered. Nu York can’t save itself.

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Video footage has been completely corrupted and audio file is intelligible static. The auto-transcription and description is all that remains. Of note, the photos utilized in the video, including newspaper rendering, are still accessible, showing MARIJANE prior to becoming a Spider. Footage directed to camera (i.e. MARIJANE in suit and sans mask, speaking into the lens) is subject to DISTORTION. Supports theory that DISTORTION is localized to photos/videos of MARIJANE after her initiation as an Agent. No evidence has been found to dispute this theory. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Stop Crying Your Heart Out" by Oasis

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: cue hype music of choice - it's a training montage

9/9 - updated fic summary because i wasn't digging the old one so much

Chapter 6: life in the age of static

Summary:

the foretold training montage

After a night of feeling sorry for herself, MJ starts the next day with a scant few hours of sleep. She spends a solid 10 minutes at the bathroom sink, but there isn’t enough cold water in the world to freshen up the purple thumbprints under her eyes. When she looks presentable enough for the public, she dresses in her new suit. 

And what a suit it is! Composed of lush, creamy white paneling set through with the Spider-standard webbed patterns in a blue as dark and full as the night sky, it makes her wish she’d chucked her old yellowing suit in the bin years ago. She would’ve been better running around in pajamas than that claptrap of an old suit.  

The sight of herself in the mirror holds her attention for too long, but she can’t stop marveling at the suit. Last night’s thoughts of tearing it apart or setting it on fire are long gone. Those were the thoughts of a lesser MJ. 

Donning the mask is another new wonder. There isn’t a hint of friction. Her features disappear beneath the mask. Her hair sweeps up into it perfectly. No errant strands peak out or lump against the smooth spandex. 

Even the design of the mask has been thoroughly improved. It sits comfortably on her face and the dimensions align with her skull underneath. The eyes of this new mask are more expressive, angled at the end to suggest her femininity. Perfect for a Spider-Woman.

When she tugs the mask off, her hair spills out in perfect coils without a tangle to be found. It’s hard to put the mask back on when her hair glows like molten glass against the stark suit. The suit that actually fits her!

Sculpted in all the right places, it gives her the appearance of a hero and not just a sad imitation of one. Though, the longer she looks, the more evident it is that her body needs some work. It’s too thin, too brittle. Not even the lowest goon on the street would consider her a threat. 

With this thought, along with an image of herself with washboard abs and tube top perfect arms, MJ resolves to head for the gym. Which is Sector 5. Or maybe 4. 

Frankly, the sector system is bullshit. Sector 8 is closer to sector 1 than sector 9. And sector 1 is at the base of the building and sector 13 is at the top of the building, but sector 29 is sandwiched between the two. It must be a hazing for newbies or Miguel’s idea of a joke. 

So, MJ sets out on gut and memory alone. And gets moderately lost. 

One mortified call to Lyla and a thorough set of directions later, MJ walks into the gym. Which is Sector 4. Apparently. 

At six in the morning, it's mostly empty. A few Spider-Women spot each other with barbells just inside the door. A cluster of Spiders make use of the training programs on the second level. The track, situated at the very tip top of the gym, is blessedly empty.  

Though most Spiders move between the levels via web, MJ doesn’t attempt it. Instead, she opts to scurry up the central support beam jutting from the first level up through the third. A few Spiders on the second level peep good morning, all turning to wave at the same time. MJ waves back. 

Up at the top floor, MJ flips off of the beam. Her landing wavers. She has to windmill her arms to keep upright. Thankfully, there’s no one else around to see.

For all the mechanized and holographic innovations of the rest of the gym, the track is simple. Uncomplicated. There’s a functionality to allow for a race against different holograms from Spiders with prize times, but it’s otherwise a plain, split-lane track. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the track, overlooking Nueva York far below. Twinkling lights and flying cars race and teem in the world beyond the windows. 

Facing out at the slumbering metropolis, MJ cycles through stretches. Lunges. Arm circles. High knees. Quick, fast reps to ready herself. Her mirror self, half mired in the thick glass, follows suit.

Then, she crouches down. One leg stretched farther back than the other, she pulses quick. One, two, three--bang! She’s off!

MJ runs. Her feet pound sure and heavy against the spongy pavement. Her thoughts narrow to cordon off anything that isn’t go faster! The city below blurs into a smooth slush of neon color.

All the sound bleeds away. She runs. Her reflection in the glass is her only companion, chasing her around and around the track. She runs and she runs and she runs. 

Runner’s high hits as the three mile mark passes. Gooseflesh rises over her arms, shivers down her back. Her breathing evens out into perfect, metered intakes and outtakes, efficient as a hybrid engine. The sweat misting her body doesn’t stick, doesn’t swamp. It’s cold as ice, but invigorating. She glides around the track, smooth as a gazelle. Faster and faster with each stride. 

Everything slots into place. Her stride, her pulse, her thoughts, everything. She grins. It’s been so long since she’s felt this good. This alive! She could run forever.

Thwip!

Her gizmo vibrates, lights up a bright, annoying orange to signal a new message. She slows, fiddling with her gizmo to find the proper app. Another message thwips. Her feet skitter to a halt. She bends at the waist, steadying herself and fumbling to open the texting app. 

Two messages. Both from Miguel. Her heart shoots into her throat.

SM-928B - You’re on the docket for mission observation today.

SM-928B - LYLA will let you know when something comes in.

Miguel’s direct messages are a bit unorthodox. From what she understands, all alerts and mission assignments are automated through Lyla, but she appreciates the personal touch. More than that, she appreciates having something to do. It’ll be a good distraction. 

thx for the heads up - SW-7782

He doesn’t respond. She doesn’t expect him to. 

MJ runs six more laps before Lyla pings her, but the high is gone. 

***

MJ’s first foray into the multiverse is meant to be substandard. A small, controllable taste of the larger mission. Advised by Lyla to watch and only jump if feeling froggy, she follows Peter B into a portal. 

Portal travel, she’s learned, is not for the weak. It’s a violent experience, going from standing still to sudden hurtling motion between dimensions. Compressed into a handful of seconds, all things natural and holy within her vanish. In their absence: a sensation of falling very far, very fast, but forwards. Through, rather than down. The warbling wail of an air raid siren, rattling her teeth like kettle drums. Despair of the body entire. Despair enough to mash rational thought, emotional intelligence, spatial awareness into a baser animal instinct until all that remains is fear and fear alone.

It’s over as soon and sudden as it begins.

To his credit, Peter catches her upright by the scruff of her elbow rather than letting her face plant into the grass when they touch down on the other side. 

Urk is the noise she makes. An ugly, unfortunate noise, but better than the noise of upchucking bile into her mask or the schlump of her body hitting the ground.

Peter helps her hunch over, rubs soothing circles between the knobs of her shoulders, says, “Yup, head between the knees. Breathe it out. Lots of newbies have a hard time getting their bearings.”

It takes her about a minute to recover, which is a marked improvement from her first trip from Nu York to HQ where she spent about twenty minutes spinning out while Miguel jabbered on and on about God knows what. 

A consummate fuck-up in her early 20s, MJ’s had her fair share of bad trips. None could compare to the sheer terror of being blasted like a bullet between dimensions. If anything had ever come even close, she would have made better life decisions far sooner. 

“You good?” Peter asks, clapping her on the back when she stands upright on her own. “You’re good. Let’s grab a ‘gator.”

And they do grab a gator. 

Well, Peter does. MJ watches from a grassy bluff as Peter swings over the pond at Central Park, webbing an alligator in a truly tattered lab coat up from the depths. 

“Crickey!” Peter says, swinging back to rejoin MJ. He deposits the alligator at her feet. Its mouth is totally webbed up. It claws weakly at the bindings, stubby little legs going thump-thump against the ground with each attempt. “Never seen a bloke this small before. This Lizard’s just a babe!”

The Lizard takes poorly to Peter’s teasing, directing a discerningly human glare at him through slit pupil eyes. The well-chewed name card on its lapel reads, Croc Connors. 

“Are they all this easy?” MJ asks, as Peter sets to tagging the anomaly. He affixes small cuffs over its front legs and thwacks it on the snout when it takes a swipe at him. Before he can activate the tag, Croc Connors glitches.

The creature bursts apart, but doesn’t die. Twitching color and light overtakes much of its body, rapidly changing and shifting faster than her eye can track. It bellows, but the noise distorts into the shout of a man, then a monster, before looping back into a reptilian hiss. All of it backset by the blare of microphone feedback and the scritching of a VHS in reverse. 

MJ shivers. It’s wretched, watching the beast spasm through the horrors of the universe, but captivating. Sublime, even, to witness something so far beyond her scope and understanding.

Bloodline memory twists in her throat, pushes her thoughts towards the divine. The hand of God, breaching the veil to inflict incomprehensible torment upon a blight in His design. 

“If God meant us to understand, we would,” Aunt Anna liked to say when confronted with contradiction or oddity. 

The notion’s come to MJ often in recent years, but it’s been no comfort. To her family’s dismay, she turned from every notion of faith as soon as she realized God could do nothing to save her from her father. While many came to God in the apocalypse, MJ only turned further away. Faith was an anesthetic and not one she could afford. 

But, faced with the glitching, broken entrails of the universe, shown sights she can’t fathom let alone make memory of, she’s left only with Aunt Anna’s old refrain when her own words, attempts at rationalization and explanation, fail. 

Glitch passed, Croc Connors curls up on its side and thumps its tail, halfheartedly, against MJ’s leg.

Three small beeps sound in sync with a blue blinking light on the cuffs. Thank God. MJ wants to watch the poor crocodile glitch again like she wants a hole in the head. 

“That was really heavy,” she says.

“Connors? Nah, he's a pipsqueak compared to—”

“The glitching, Pete.” 

“Oh. Yeah, it can look pretty freaky. Feels that way too.” 

Sense memory flares. A feeling of unraveling, piece by piece, losing her inside to the outside. It hits like a wave, cresting suddenly and furiously to drench her. Falling. Breaking. Vortexing back together. Then gone so fast she scarcely remembers at all. Trippy. Deja vu with a vengeance. 

Peter doesn’t notice. Knelt, he makes soft small-talk at Croc Connors, assuring the crocodilian that things aren’t as strange as they seem. 

Puffing for breath, MJ knocks her head back. Tension releases in a whoof. Steadying. Stable. All memory of the strange, sudden otherness dissipating up into the sky. The sun shines bright above her. The sun! The fucking sun!

Years without it and yet the feeling had been so very familiar, it hadn’t even registered. She notices it now. Warm and glorious and invigorating, it comforts her with memories of summertime walks in Central Park with Mayday’s hand in hers and swinging with Peter over the afternoon gridlock when the asphalt was fragrant as the day it was laid. 

It isn’t enough to feel it bleed through her suit. No, she needs it on her skin, kissing every neglected, pale inch. Her mask is the first, immediate obstacle. Thumbs hook underneath the seam, tugging upwards. 

A web splats against her hip and tugs her, off balance, into Peter. Kind fingers close over hers, stopping her partway through rolling up her mask. 

“Sorry, MJ. Masks are a must in the multiverse,” he says, but makes no move to force her mask back down. Their hands lie flat together. Not quite entwined, his fingers slot just between hers, charged with possibility. 

Pressure and a spark of intent. That’s all it would take for him to cradle her face and kiss her the way she once kissed him. 

“It’s been four years since I’ve been in the sun. Please, Peter, just a few seconds.” 

A stroke of brilliance, she releases her mask and curls her hands around Peter’s instead, squeezing tight so all his fingers ridge together. At the same time, the seam of her mask smushes the tip of her nose with an elastic snap, giving her a vaguely smashed appearance. It's a game time decision. She only looks ridiculous if her desperate plea doesn’t work.

And it does. 

Peter hangs his head with a massive sigh of defeat. “Fine. But don’t tell Miguel.”

There’s a chirrup and Lyla intones, “Tell Miguel, what?”

But MJ’s mask is already off, clutched tight in her fist, as she spins, head tilted back, drinking in every drop of sunshine, fast as she can for as long as she can in pure, gluttonous molten happiness. 

***

After Peter is deemed a total shocking pushover and incapable of properly training her, MJ gets reassigned. Sun-Spider and Spider-Punk are tagged to oversee her training for the next couple days. She likes them both. They seem to like her well enough too. 

Her job is simple: follow and don’t interfere. She has no problem not interfering. Spiders Sun and Punk are professionals, taking out anomalies with quick efficiency, even if Punk’s methods are a touch unorthodox. Following proves an issue.

Because MJ and web swinging? They go together like orange juice and fucking gasoline. 

Miguel’s web shooter loaners don’t shoot when she needs. When they do shoot, she usually swings herself right into a wall. Or launches herself way too high. Or swings so hard and so fast that she loses her grip and torpedoes herself clean into the atmosphere. 

After her third observatory mission, Lyla posts a clip onto the Webb. In it, MJ slingshots off the end of a web and corkscrews through the air, right into an innocent flock of pigeons. The video, blessedly, has no sound, but loops over and over and over again. MJ’s wild-limbed, fumbling feathery screw up is made public for everyone to see. The final blow to her pride is Lyla’s caption: Just MJ is really getting into the swing of things! 

A quick scroll reveals the post isn’t mean-spirited. Lyla’s Webb page, Spider-Goofs, is dedicated to sharing ridiculous Spider blunders. No Spider is safe. Especially not Miguel, who seems to have more videos posted than any other Spider. 

There’s one in particular of him getting absolutely punted off the side of a building that brings tears to her eyes from holding in a laugh. He just bowls over. Big and strong and intimidating until one sweep of a cyborg-Lizard’s tail knocks him over like a bowling pin.

Still, MJ doesn’t love that every mistake is fair game for public ridicule. 

To their credit, Sun and Punk both make attempts to show her how to swing. They have a few decent tips—don’t clench; keep your eyes where you want to go—but their respective styles are far too complicated to mimic. 

Spider-Punk’s is especially impossible to follow. His entire body is in constant flux: solid and sturdy one minute, paper thin the next. The nonstop shifting between bright, riotous color to stark monochrome doesn’t help her eye either. Nor does his penchant for bringing a pinch of chaos to each and every mission. 

During a chase of an anomalous Shocker, a premature twitch of her wrist snaps her web mid-swing and sends MJ plummeting. Luckily, Spider-Punk is quicker than a roadrunner and doubles back to catch her before she can even blink. 

“Swinging’s like jazz, innit?” he says, helping her to fire off a new web. “Gotta feel it in your heart, not your head.”

MJ grips her new web so tight it bites into her palm. Nursing her bruised ego, she grumbles, “Wouldn’t expect you to be a jazz fanatic.”

“I don’t believe in expectations,” Spider-Punk shouts, swinging away with a laugh and leaving her to fend for herself again and scratch her head. 

***

After four missions tailing Sun and Punk, Lyla announces MJ’s cleared to tackle a mission of her own.

“You’re gonna do great, babes,” Lyla says as coordinates pollute MJ’s gizmo screen. “We’re teaming you up with a real pro for this one too, so even if you completely bungle it, he’ll save your butt.”

Then MJ’s off through a portal, off into a new adventure. 

It starts badly. The NYC on the other side of the portal is flat. 2D flat. The colors are stark, but uncomplicated. The world around her looks like a Saturday morning rerun of Looney Tunes—Mayday’s favorite, behind Scooby-Doo, of course. 

MJ looks down at her hands, but sees only the same cartoon renderings. Eyes balloon out of her skull in shock. It doesn’t hurt, but the sensation is far from natural. She squawks a curse, but the word comes out funny and lopsided like the horn on a clown car. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You keep going on like that and the network will cancel us for sure!”

A cartoon pig dressed like Spider-Man stands in front of her. He wags a bulbous finger. Slung over his shoulder is an oversized mallet. 

MJ’s first, panicked thought is that she’s died in interdimensional transit and must finally face the consequences for years of bacon cravings. Her next, less panicked thought is to run headfirst into the nearest wall so she could wake up back in HQ and give Lyla a piece of her mind for not warning her. 

Thoughts of revenge on an artificial woman sloshing in her mind, MJ manages, “I… you’re…”

“Peter Porker, Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Ham, at your service,” the pig says, extending a four fingered hand out to her. She takes it, gingerly, and finds his grip stronger and far stickier than she expects.

“I’ve heard about you.” She wipes her damp hand against her thigh, leaving a burgundy smear that resembles jam. At least, she hopes it’s jam. “You like pies?”

Spider-Ham drops his head back and throws his arms out in exaggerated despair. The mallet thunks to the ground beside him. “You float towards one freshly baked, delicious pie and suddenly you’re the pie guy! I’ll have you know I’m multi-talented! I’m no one trick pig!’

“Of course not! No, no. I’m sure you have a lot going for you.”

“A lot of people say I have a face for drama.”

The world around her spins. She shrieks, flapping her arms, scrambling for stability as the world swirls into a whirlpool. It swallows her whole. Pinwheeling posters flash by. Brightly colored, bombastic imagery, they all prominently feature Spider-Ham in a variety of costumes at the center of an ensemble cast. 

Mission Impossipig with Tomcat Cruise. King Steer with Anthony Hogkins and Florence Ewe. Tusk. The Oskar Meyer winning Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse and its lesser, far inferior and lacking sequel, Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse. 

Puns and puns galore. The movement is so sharp and sudden. It’s a little nauseating, but a little fun too. The next spinning poster emerges from the black. She takes a creative leap, exerts some will and BAM! 

MariJane and Spider-Ham in The Princess Swine and Silence of the Hams and Mouseferatu and then she loses her grip. The words and colors smear, out of control, spinning faster and faster. 

The gag ends with her flopped onto her butt, head bobbing and circling like a Tilt-a-Whirl and the sound of someone babbling into their finger—doiy doiy doiy doiy!

Spider-Ham lays a comforting hoof? Hand? Whatever it is, he lays it on her shoulder. “First time, huh?”

She nods weakly. It’s all she can manage. 

“I remember my first gag. I was just a little spider then. Didn’t even know pigs could bite! Time, it goes by too fast.” 

Before MJ can agree, there’s a horrific ear-bleeding shriek, chopped into bits, punctuating the shrill eeeeeeeeee!

A Scorpion anomaly, far more rounded and robust than the cartoon environment around him, blitzes into frame. His eyes are unfocused, cartwheeling around and around in the socket. Byproduct of a sudden, heinous glitching, no doubt.

Scorpion looks at MJ. MJ looks at Scorpion. Scorpion looks at Spider-Ham. Spider-Ham looks at Scorpion. Spider-Ham looks at MJ. MJ looks at Spider-Ham. They both look at Scorpion. And then Scorpion takes off with a yelp of alarm. 

Spider-Ham launches into action, leaping up and away with exaggerated gusto. 

MJ fires off a web to give chase. And swings directly into a stop sign. Arms and leg splayed, she slides slowly down the sign and hits the ground in the exact same position. Shrill, chirping birds circle her head as she swoons in place. 

“Hey, hey!” Spider-Ham shouts, swinging at the birds with both hands. “Get outta here you schlubs!” 

The birds stop circling. They adjust their postures to stand upright and cross their wings over their puffed chests. One of them puts on a bowler hat and, with a thick Bronx accent, says, “Let’s beat it boys. We’re not appreciated here.” 

A hand to her mouth, MJ watches them take flight and vanish out of frame. 

“Good riddance!” Spider-Ham cries, shaking a clenched fist after them. 

No sooner have the birds high-tailed it out of frame, Scorpion doubles back, skittering to a sudden halt in front of MJ and Spider-Ham. His tail lashes just beside MJ’s reeling head. A drop of sinister hallucinogenic drips from the barbed point. 

“The”—Loud gasping from an unseen audience echoes in place of Scorpion’s intended curse—“is this place?”

Spider-Ham cuts in front of MJ, rolling up his sleeves to reveal pudgy little muscles and an anchor tattoo over his right bicep. He says, “Hold tight, toots. Daddy’s gotta go to work.”

With a mighty hiyah, Spider-Ham lunges at Scorpion. A dust cloud envelops them both. Exclamation points and explosive splashes of POW! and OUCHIE! rise in and out. Scorpion’s tail whips high above the fray, arcs back down with blinding speed. Brakes screech. Cars honk. Someone takes a large, gulping bite. 

When the dust clears, Spider-Ham stands with a foot on Scorpion’s neck. The villain’s teeth flare like smashed piano keys and two solid x’s mark his eyes. Stars circle around his head and a massive shipping label on his forehead reads: To Timbuktu. 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re bad with the webs?” Spider-Ham asks, grabbing at MJ’s outstretched arms. With a sharp snap of his wrists, he wrings MJ out like a bedsheet, returning her to usual posture. The sensation, like every sensation has been since she stepped foot in this nonsense world, is unnerving. If she didn’t think it would turn into glitter or a censor bar, she would be tempted to vomit. 

“I’ve heard it once or twice,” MJ says. “It’s new to me. This is all new to me. You make it look so easy.”

“Aw, shucks. You sure know how to flatter a pig,” Spider-Ham says with a blush that roses the cheeks of his mask. One of his hooves twists into the dirt behind him as he glances away. “Not much to it. Just don’t overthink it. That’s how they get you.”

“How who gets me?”

“The animators.” 

The world cuts to a pair of hyper-realistic, very fleshy people in the middle of sketching the exact image of her and Spider-Ham. Their hands are covered in ink stains. Their faces are weary and beleaguered. Behind them, the wall is covered with an intricately detailed storyboard. MJ is featured prominently in all of them, but the scenes are too many to single any out. 

Hesitantly, MJ, little more than ink on the page, raises a hand and waves. The animators both shriek and grab each other in exaggerated horror.

On the page, Spider-Ham turns to her, mouth falling open and eyes blown wide. The expression is a little off. It’s a rough sketch. “Wow, you’ve got a real knack for wacky. Were you a cartoon in another life?” 

“Maybe,” MJ says, dazed, but falling back on her three improv classes of experience. The entire mission has felt like one long yes, and. “Always thought Daffy Duck was cute.”

“Daffy Duck? Do I know a Daffy Duck?” Spider-Ham makes a show of tapping his snout. A puffy thought bubble coils above his head. Then, it bursts. “Oh my god! Cabo! ‘79! That bum owes me money!”

MJ doesn’t respond. Behind closed eyelids, her thoughts lurch like a ship at sea. Two quick breaths in, three breaths out (an old trick for stage fright) does little to stabilize her churning interiority.

With a screech, a portal rips through the fabric of reality. A little forked hoof presses flat against the top of her chest, just at the start of her ribcage. Eyelids flicker open, but slam shut before she can process the sight before her. There’s just flat lines and saturated colors in a vague porcine shape. 

“Ya did good, sweetheart,” Spider-Ham says. “Most newbies touchdown and touch out, but you play ball. Come back soon. We’ll have fun, us two.”

Then, he pushes her so that she tumbles backwards into the portal and out of her first foray in a toonverse. 

***

From what MJ can understand of the mechanics of the multiverse, time distills at different rates across the dimensions. Two days on one Earth is two weeks on another is two years on another still. The math is so far over her head it might as well be in another galaxy. 

How Time Works is opened on her gizmo and soon shut. For something that’s meant to be accessible by the Spider Society at large, there’s way too many numbers and parentheses in the first paragraph.

She isn’t stupid, far from it, but math, especially math with letters, has never been her strong suit. When paired with physics and quantum theory, it’s practically a death sentence for her hopes of making herself useful to a society of super Spider scientists. 

All the other Spiders seem to just get it when she makes casual reference to the multiverse. Even those like Peter B, who openly admit to not quite getting it, talk about time dilation and relativity and drop other Smart Science Words with casual cadence. 

All she can do is nod and make the appropriate listening noises until she stops bothering to ask. 

In the end, she pings Lyla for help, couching her inability to understand in the suggestion that she could understand, but who has the time to dig into the theory?

Lyla, to her credit, just gives her the straight answer. It’s a 1:1 ratio in the end, every hour spent on Earth-928B is an hour missed on Earth-7782. MJ can stay at HQ however long she wants without major time slippage back home. The only caveat is that her jumps back and forth have to be manually calibrated to avoid another two day vs four year situation.

“Was that so hard?” MJ says, gesturing to an invisible audience in exasperation. “Just say that in the manual!” 

Lyla blips when she laughs, holding her sides one second and then leaning back with a grin the next. “I’ll add it to the comment box, babes.”

***

Through the ups and downs of training and her first few missions, MJ latches onto Peter B, even as it breaks her heart. More than any of the other Peters, he is so like her Peter. Same look and voice. Same dry, self effacing humor. Same raw, tenderness in his eye when she catches him staring at her. 

In most ways, he is her Peter, but he isn’t. The conundrum makes her head and heart ache.

The embargo from Miguel keeps him from accompanying her on any further missions, but he’s always quick to find her after. Offering ham-fisted encouragement or well-intentioned parables, he relates her failures to his own, bigger blunders.  

“My first toonverse adventure,” he says after her Spider-Ham team up. “I swung headfirst into a brick wall with a very realistic tunnel painted on it. Honest mistake. I wasn’t even embarrassed. I was too busy figuring out how to de-accordion myself!” 

After she hits the wrong gizmo button and accidentally portals out of a mission, he tells her, “The first gizmo prototypes? Murder on those of us who struggle with motion sickness. My first big outing with Miguel, I upchucked all over myself. I’m lucky the Peter B puns caught on or else I might’ve ended up Petey Queasy.”

When she asks him for his advice on web swinging, he’s eager to help, but she has to practically drag him to the gym to see her in action. He goes peaceably, laughing, saying, “You’re the only person that could ever get me into a gym.”

There’s too much she could read into that. So much that she wants to read into it. It would be easy to. But she shouldn’t. Can’t. So she doesn’t. 

“I just can’t get the hang of it,” MJ says. Clusters of webbing gum up the training room walls, ceiling, floor, an unfortunate Spider, everywhere but the target. A new attempt fails when she struggles to fire and then, when she manages, she overshoots by an embarrassingly huge margin. 

“It’s a flick and release,” Peter says. “There’s a rhythm to it.” 

Again, she tries and, again, she fails. 

“Here,” he says, stepping forward. “I’ll show you.”

Body overshadowing hers, he leans over to take hold of her wrist. His front presses against her back, directing her how and where she needs to be for the proper technique.

It’s an innocent motion. One he probably doesn’t mean anything by. He probably doesn’t even notice their closeness. Not the way she does. She notices everything. The overwhelming scent of his aftershave. The firm press of his chest on her back. The arm wrapped against her side, held long along her own, that makes her feel secure, held, wanted. Everything. 

Stomach clenched like a fist, all senses roar into focus. The rasp of her breath is a jet engine as it gathers in her lungs. The soft pulse of his is cool as it pushes free of his mask to caress the slip of her neck. Shivers fork down her spine. When she pushes a little closer to him, involuntary and incremental, he doesn't react. 

“Now you try,” he says, voice low, commanding for only her to hear. He releases her wrist, but doesn’t distance himself, watching over her shoulder as she makes the movement as he’d demonstrated. The shooter fires immediately, hitting the target dead-on. “Amazing! Atta girl!”

His face is inches from hers. Just a small twist up. It would be so easy to push through the headfuck of him. Her husband but not, and her, his wife but not. So easy to reach out and shove up his mask. Too easy to kiss him, touch him, rough and desperate as she feels. Far too easy to desecrate the now empty room. It’s not like she hasn’t before in another world, another life. 

The outline of his mouth is enticing beneath the mask. She’s kissed that mouth hundreds of times. Would it be different with this Peter? Would it make any difference? 

Tension strings them closer. They press together—her back against his chest—closer and closer. She’s taller now, she wouldn’t even need to stretch to kiss him. Just a flick of her wrists to get his mask out of the way. That’s all it would take. Just one, quick motion. 

It’s too tempting. Too twisted. Unconscious, she bites down on her bottom lip. 

Momentum quick as rain rolling down a windowpane, Peter’s gaze drops to her lips. Lingers. 

“Peter?”

He flinches hard. Hard as an electric shock. Makes a low, strangled hum of acknowledgement. Eyes jump back to meet hers. Inhuman mesh stretches wide. Ashamed. 

The desire to kiss him vanishes, even as the tension permeates. 

“I think I need a new teacher.”

***

After another disastrous mission that doesn’t do nearly enough to clear the disastrous memory of Peter B from her mind, MJ enters her room to find two new web shooters on her bed. Unsure what to make of them, she just stares. 

Lyla doesn’t leave her to ponder long. 

“Brand spankin’ new web shooters, whipped up by yours truly,” Lyla says. She pips up over MJ’s gizmo and then lays flat on her belly against the screen. Kicking her feet, she points to the shooters. “Auto-navigation technology is built-in so you shouldn’t be swinging into any more trees. Or buildings. Or lampposts. Or—”

“Thank you, Lyla.”

In a flash, Lyla lies face up with her hands laced behind her head. One foot crosses over her knee. With a wink, she says, “Don’t thank me. Thank Miguel. But also don’t tell him I told you. He’s shy about being nice. Doesn’t want anyone to think he’s picking favorites.”

The statement simmers. Is she a favorite of Miguel’s? Why would she be? If she’s not, how can she be? It seems like the kind of attention that would get her a long way towards what she wants. 

Lyla pops over to stand on the desk. On tiptoes, she walks around the shooters, tipping from side to side like a tightrope walker. She wavers left and right, putting on a little show until MJ picks up the shooters. 

Shucking off her gloves, MJ plucks the old pair free. They plink to the floor. One hits the top of her foot and then bounces away under the bed. The other lies where it fell. Delicately, she slots the new shooters into place. She fidgets with the nozzles, rotating them to rest just over the fulcrum of her wrists. Then, she twists her hands this way and that. They don’t feel any different. 

A quick flick of her wrist and a plume of web hits the far corner of the room. Exactly where she intended. She repeats the motion with the other shooter and has the same success. She grins. 

Lyla whistles. “Look at that! You’re a natural! And, phew, thank goodness. I was starting to get nervous about sending you off into the Unknown.”

“Is that going to be soon?”

“Depends on how many more stop signs you swing into.” 

Lyla blips away before MJ has the chance to be offended. So, she just rolls her eyes. No point in getting her feelings hurt. Not when she can play with her new toys instead. 

Giddy with newfound power, she turns and fires off a few more webs, targeting the four corners of the room, the headboard of her bed, the archway into the bathroom. Confidence rising, she tries trick shots, firing as she spins in place, leaps, pings off the walls. Every shot is a dead ringer. She only stops when she realizes she’ll have to clean it all up. 

With a sigh, she flops back onto her bed, crossing her arms over her eyes. Her gizmo rests cold and flat against her forehead. Before she can think better of it, she texts Miguel. 

ty 4 new shooters im gonna b a real dynamo just u wait n c  - SW-7782

Miguel’s response doesn’t come for a while. Not until after she’s scrubbed the webs from the walls (thank you complementary Web-B-Gone in the medicine cabinet), taken her nightly shower, and readied herself for bed, does the text thwip on her gizmo. 

SM-928B - You can’t do anything worse than that faceplant on 521. Lyla almost broke her code laughing. 

MJ smiles, biting the edge of her lip to keep from growing into a full-blown grin. 

always glad 2 b of service - SW-7782

No response comes, but she doesn't need one. She’s got her new web shooters and a much more promising mission docket to keep her busy.  

The future is coming up MJ. 

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Remember to Tip LYLA and Maybe She Won't Have You Completely Obliterated. It Probably Won't Work, but Worth a Shot, Right?

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: SM-928B “MIGUEL” EOD Report #1461, discussion excerpt pertaining to MARIJANE as follows:

[…]

MIGUEL: The new MJ, these stats from her run. Possible speedster?

LYLA: Don’t bet on it. She’s only a bit above baseline and cellular study had no mitochondrial abnormality. 

MIGUEL: Shock, we could really use a few more.

LYLA: We can put her in targeted training, might boost her speed stats a bit. She’ll be thrilled. She really loves the track. Can’t get enough of it. About 34.2% of her downtime so far has been on the track.

MIGUEL: No, let’s get her airborne. She still expected to swing solo soon?

LYLA: About that…

MIGUEL: LYLA.

LYLA: Well, you know how I said two days?

MIGUEL: And how I’ve been banking on that timeline to start Aggressive Expansion? Yeah. Yeah, that sounds familiar. 

LYLA: Okay, so, it’s more like eight days now—

MIGUEL: ¡No mames! 

LYLA: —to two weeks. Anywhere between there.

MIGUEL: The shock happened?

LYLA: She’s still really bad at web swinging. Like, really bad. Not getting any better. It’s tanking her development in other areas.

MIGUEL: What’s the problem? She’s Sense positive. 

LYLA: Yup, but it doesn’t seem to help her swing. Except into walls. Or other Spiders. Actually, peep her stats. Doesn’t look like her Sense is helping much at all. In fact, her reaction time is only a few clicks faster than yours. Real bottom of the barrel.

MIGUEL: Thanks, LYLA. 

LYLA: Anytime, big guy. She could be rejecting her Sense, but psych eval’s clean. Well, clean where that’s concerned. 

MIGUEL: Probably an aftereffect of the power transference. Speaking of, we need to make sure the Web isn’t gumming up anywhere else. It always makes a shocking mess. 

LYLA: No reports so far. What do you want to do about MariJane?

MIGUEL: Get her shooters fitted with Navi-tech.

LYLA: I know you know, but I’m scripted to say: that goes against LNT protocol. 

MIGUEL: Risk of interference is minimal enough to justify. Override LNT. 

LYLA: You’re the boss.

MIGUEL: We need her functional as soon as possible. And we don’t have time to morale boost if she gets discouraged.

LYLA: No need to spell it out. Your secret’s safe with me.

MIGUEL: Secret? What are you—

LYLA: She’s your favorite. Is it because you feel bad about her whole ‘sitch? Or is it because she’s pretty? And single?

MIGUEL: I don’t have favorites.

LYLA: But if you did.

MIGUEL: She just got here.

LYLA: So? She’s a smoke show. That’s the word on the Webb at least. 

MIGUEL: Already? 

LYLA: Well, I put the word out there, but it’s circulating. The Spiders have eyes, Miggy. Most of them. 

MIGUEL: You’re getting antsy again. When’s your next checkup? The 18th? It’ll have to be sooner. Schedule it as soon as possible.

LYLA: You sure you don’t want to reach out to him? You know, since he’s been trying to get you on the holo for the last two weeks. 

MIGUEL: No. You schedule it. MariJane—anything else I need to know there?

LYLA: Her social situation isn’t ideal. She’s self isolating outside of missions. Spends most of her time alone. 

MIGUEL: And 34.2% of it on the track. 

LYLA: Wow, gold star for you! What a good little active listener you are!

MIGUEL: LYLA.

LYLA: Right. She was spending a decent amount of time with Peter B, but that went south fast. 

MIGUEL: Should’ve seen that coming from the beginning. 

LYLA: Ah, live and learn, amiright? 

MIGUEL: She doesn’t interact with any other Spiders? 

LYLA: No one beyond missions. 

MIGUEL: Drop a bug in Jess’s ear. She’s been complaining all the new Spiders are annoying. She’ll like this one. 

LYLA: Got it. Sneaky bug? 

MIGUEL: Yeah. If it’s an order, she’ll just tell me to shove it. 

LYLA: Aw, Jess is the best. I’ll… ooh, message from MJ. What’s it say? What’s it say?

MIGUEL: You know what it says. 

LYLA: You’re not responding? 

MIGUEL: I will. Later. Run me through the talking points for the board meeting tomorrow. 

[…]

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Referential

Notes:

chapter title from "NIGHT SHIFT" by GLU

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: things get edgy

Chapter 7: kiss your fist and touch the sky

Summary:

Ben Reilly swings in!

Notes:

do I think ATSV's interpretation of Ben Reilly is good or accurate? no, absolutely not.
do I think he's funny and fun to write? yes, absolutely.
he's basically andy samberg doing his in the cage with nic cage voice and acting like the chosen, which is something that can be so special to me, specifically.

By MJ’s fifth day, she gains her first, official Spider-Buddy. Unfortunately, she’s Ben Reilly’s ninth Spider-Buddy. It doesn’t take long to learn the secret behind his high turnover rate. 

“I’m a lone wolf,” Ben says, immediately, when they first meet. His voice is husky, but put-upon. More sulky and unsustainable femme fatale than gritty, tough-as-shit manly man. As someone with a naturally husky voice, MJ takes a little offense. Still, she offers her hand and smiles through the overly strong, pinching shake he returns. 

“Strong grip. I’m impressed.” Masked eyes slant into disapproval. “Not.”

It doesn’t get any better from there. 

Their first paired mission goes fine. Anomaly nabbed without complication, Ben still makes a show of brooding and loudly announcing he works better alone when she comes through on an assist. 

Their second mission is a disaster. 

On an otherwise normal Earth, a Symbiote anomaly (one of the red ones, not the Venom she’s used to) breaks from its projected behavior and targets MJ with a frenzied zeal. Laying Ben out with a sweep of a lamppost used like a baseball bat, it chases her down 6th, all the way from Greenwich to Central Park, in a mad dash.

Shrieking and ravenous, it’s sloppy. It surges back and forth between the buildings on either side of the bustling avenue, slashing and spitting at her as she swings and flips and dodges. With each lunge, its hulking body eclipses the sun. Its flesh glops and slops, ever wet and changing. 

Supposedly, there’s an Anti-Symbiote mechanism built into her gizmo. But she never followed up on how to use it once she heard an off-hand mention it was there. And shouting LYLA HELP!!! does nothing. Apparently, her deus ex machina is limited on-world in 928B. Helpful to learn now, of all times. 

“Tear! Rip! Eat!” the Symbiote screams, shrill and inhuman. There’s a human host buried somewhere beneath the gloopy flesh. It’s more madness than man now. 

With a sweep of one massive appendage, the Symbiote takes hold of a car below and flings it at her. MJ fires off a new line, arcing out of the way so quick her body doubles over. Her torso shoots one way. Inertia takes her legs the other. 

Something twinges. Pain scorches through her right hip, bubbling down into her toes. There isn’t time to triage. There’s a Symbiote to stop and civilians to save.  

The car careens past her. The passengers inside wail and tumble—people socks in a dryer. Webs fire like bullets. Her wrists ache from the grating back and forth motion, but it works. Her webs encircle the car, keep it from going boom into a building or splat onto the shrieking pedestrians below.

The sun blots black. With a shriek to wake the devil, the Symbiote bears down on her. She throws her hands up in pitiful defense, bracing for the touch of horrid flesh. 

“Special delivery!” Ben slingshots over MJ. Anti-Venom from his gizmo makes the Symbiote scream like a teapot and split apart to reveal the crazed host inside. The cuffed edge of Ben’s boot catches the slimeball in the neck. Instant KO. “My foot of vengeance. Your face!” 

As the man slumps to the ground, Ben clenches his fist, striking a pose. 

It is, objectively, pretty badass. 

“Whoa, Ben…” MJ says, overcome with bearing witness. 

Ben hangs his head. “I know. Not my best quip-work.”

In the end, nobody gets hurt, but there’s spillage. The event escalated too fast, got too big before they got it under control. Too many civilians were involved. Too much damage was done. Not enough to require containment and reset protocol, but more than enough to draw Miguel’s ire. 

“The shock was that, Reilly? Rushing a Symbiote like that is a chump move. Stop showing off and start taking this seriously before you get yourself maimed!”

Ben makes no attempt to defend himself. He just sulks and skulks in the corner. Apparently when scolded, Mr. Dark and Brooding is reduced to nothing more than an overgrown toddler in time out. 

“And you”—Miguel rounds on MJ, leveraging a wagging finger at her—"you’re new. You get one screw up. This was it.” His voice is anything but forgiving. His belittling finger, even less so. “You know how to use the Anti-Venom?”

“I sure do now,” MJ says, flicking her wrist to remove the panel from her gizmo’s face and toggling to the Anti-Venom. She hovers her finger over the button, tempted to push it, just to be an ass. 

Miguel’s chewing out comes after a long ordeal of needless tests and assurances in Medbay. She’s all healed up—a pulled muscle has nothing on her healing factor—but she’s sore of spirit. Exhausted beyond measure. 

“Good.” Miguel nods. “Use it next time. Barely got enough bandwidth without cleaning up your mess.”

They’re dismissed with that caustic non-dismissal of Miguel’s, the one where he just turns his back and pretends like they no longer exist. Ben slinks away, tail between his legs, but MJ’s never been one to slink away from anything. 

“Miguel,” she says and his back tenses up, micro-muscular movements telegraphed by the garish, bright accents of his suit. “There’s no mention of the Anti-Venom in any of the trainings. Seems like a huge oversight. Might want to have Lyla fix that.”

Miguel doesn’t turn, but his voice tells all she can’t see. He’s irritated. Clenching his jaw, knotting his brow more than likely. He says, “It’s new. It’s being implemented.” 

MJ knows that. She knows, because she checked, hurriedly, on the way to his lab for the presumed lecture. Because she’d thought it was all her fault too. 

“Huh, interesting.”

There’s more she could say to really drive the point home, but she’s always preferred subtlety. And Miguel gets her point clear enough. 

“Anything else?” Miguel grounds out, head stooped low. 

“Nope, just wanted to make sure you were aware.”

Soon as she’s out of his lab, an update toodles on her gizmo. 

Anti-Venom’s All the Rage, Lyla writes. A detailed walkthrough advises how to access and deploy the mechanism on a gizmo. It’s very helpful. Would’ve been extremely helpful on the last mission. Which she makes sure to relay to Lyla, asking Lyla in turn to relay it back to Miguel with caustic thanks. 

Out in the hall, MJ calls out to Ben, “You really saved my skin back there.”

“You owe me nothing,” Ben says. “My life is dedicated to protecting the innocent.” 

But he does let her treat him to an amiable enough lunch where she asks after his life back home and he tells her in broad, brooding strokes of a life in the shadows. Figuratively and literally. It’s a sad, lonely story, no matter how intensely he tells it. There’s certainly unplumbed depth to Ben Reilly. She’ll get it out of him someday. 

After that, missions three and four go off without a hitch. Lyla even pops along to congratulate them on a job very well done. 

So, of course, their fifth mission goes horribly wrong. 

It starts easily enough. Rhino-92, a heavily mechanized behemoth variant of the armored enforcer MJ’s encountered, has been canonballed into a skyscraper on Earth-34234 and is not happy about it.

It’s a standard bag n’ tag. Nothing they can’t handle. Except, MJ and Ben arrive just in time for Rhino to blaze a path of carnage through the heart of the highrise. 

MJ whirls on the supports, firing off a quick succession of webs to seal the cracks that yawn and spread. It’s pointless. The ribs of the building groan. Dust and particulate shake from the ceiling overhead. The whole thing is primed to come down on top of their heads. 

Ben squawks as he raises the SOS, catching Rhino’s attention in the process. 

After three quick ruts of his massive foot, Rhino rushes Ben. Ben dodges effortlessly across the room, readying himself for another attack but Rhino glitches, pixelating through time and space to reorient just beside Ben after the blip. Ben looks at Rhino. Rhino looks at Ben. Ben looks at MJ. 

“Zoinks,” Ben squeaks. 

With a roar, Rhino snags Ben in one adamantium-crusted paw. He squeezes and Ben’s face goes purple. Then, Rhino charges the glazed wall behind them, bursts through, plunging out of sight. Ben’s effeminate screams fade as they fall.

Overhead, the ceiling creaks and pops like crackling sticks in a fire. It’s the only warning MJ gets before it buckles. Ceiling tiles meteor to the floor. They explode in chalky bursts, dousing her in plaster and dust (and asbestos, probably. It’s an old building), or they punch straight through the floor as it begins to fracture and split. 

She needs to get out. Now!

Sprinting as fast as she can through the fast collapsing structure, MJ flings herself at the hole left by Rhino’s impromptu plummet. With only a second to spare, she’s airborne. Soon as she’s clear, the building collapses, throwing up its final death throes.

In the square below, a wave of Spiders run for the calamity. They hold long metal poles in hand, staking them into the ground around the collapse. They dodge chunks of falling brick and glass, weaving in and out of the disaster to set a perimeter. MJ’s never seen the clean-up crew in action, but it’s obvious they don’t need her help. 

Swinging out, she webs the nearest building, careening up the boulevard to where Rhino emerges from a crater. Ben is on his hands and knees, just beyond the lip of the crater, but he’s alive. For the time being. 

Unscathed, Rhino rushes Ben on all fours as Ben shrieks (again). He scrambles, but too slow. MJ’s too far away. She can do nothing but cry out as Rhino raises a massive fist, brings it down over Ben with a force to kill.

Time rips. Reality bleeds incandescent. Rhino’s rage comes to bear over Ben in slow motion and then all at once. 

Miguel, portal fresh and not a moment too soon, catches Rhino’s fist with both hands, pushes back. Rhino’s bulbous, fleshy mouth flattens. Laser-red eyes flash. Servos whine and steam jettisons as Rhino bares down on Miguel. The pavement cracks beneath Miguel’s feet, but he doesn’t let up. Beneath the battle of wills, Ben skitters away, taking a second to reorient himself. 

As MJ loses altitude, she adjusts, shooting a web to swing closer to the action, just as Ben launches himself at Rhino’s side. Miguel barks an order, something along the lines of stay back! but Ben’s already in range. He strafes against Rhino's armor. He can’t catch hold, succeeding only in enraging the mechanical monster. 

Another roar. Billowing smoke. Rhino bats at Miguel with his free hand. The contact ruptures with a sonic boom and Miguel is sent through the nearby storefront in a jetstream. MJ winces, stumbling into a landing and finally joining the action.

“Prepare to know pain,” Ben says, circling Rhino as Rhino circles him. The mechanical monster strikes his foot against the ground again like a rutting bull, waiting for the moment to attack. Ben moves slowly, hands raised to placate a wild beast. His wide, masked eyes cant sideways, catch hers, and then he gives the slightest of nods. 

MJ fires off a web. It catches, yanking her across the square to deliver her foot directly upside Rhino’s horn. The big behemoth stumbles, but doesn’t fall. He screams in frustration, not pain. 

“Quip!” Ben shouts. “Quip!”

But MJ doesn’t have one locked and ready. She’s still building up proper quipping muscle. Rhino doesn’t give her a chance to think up one. Like an unbroken stallion, he begins to buck and shake. MJ scuttles onto the top of his massive head, latching onto his horn for dear life. 

Hands bigger than both her legs put together swat and beat at her, but she wiggles out of the way, using his horn as an anchor point to flip and twist around. Her senses are in overdrive. Constant grip and release threatens to disjoint her fingers. Evasive maneuvers are murder on her underdeveloped body. Each collision of Rhino’s fist against his armor beats a vicious, concussive rhythm. One hit and she’ll be paste: a reddish stain formerly known as MariJane Watson-Parker. 

The air is molten around her head. Sweat drenches her back, cold as a polar plunge. Rhino’s hits slow as they slam and crack against his adamantium plated skull. Sun-deprived skin and recessed hair follicles begin to show through the fractures. Blood wells, fissuring through newly exposed flesh. A few more hits. A few more dodges. A few more—

Webbing splats against MJ’s low back. It pulls taut. Yanks her clean off Rhino’s head as she gives a frantic yelp. Rhino’s deadly fist slams into his head hard enough to dent the armor. Right where she just crouched. A split second longer and she would've been pulverized. 

Air whistling around her, she soars, hooked helplessly on the web. At the other end, Miguel catches her, sets her down quick as a hot potato. She’s too incensed to say thanks, too taken with a vision of a Rhino’s armored husk stuffed and mounted. Soon as she touches down, she lurches back into the fight. 

Unlucky for her, Ben has coaxed Rhino into a quick chase that ends with a mouthful of steel girder and unconsciousness for the villain. By the time she clears the distance, Rhino's snoozing and webbed up as neatly as a gift on Christmas morning. 

MJ doesn’t kick the snoring bastard, though she has to wrestle the impulse. It would hurt her foot, probably break a couple of the more delicate bones, but it would feel beautiful.  

In the distance, a beam of cosmic brilliance flares brighter than the stars. Closing her eyes isn’t enough to blot out the burn, she has to sling an elbow over them. Even then, the flare stings in the corners. Tears leach free.

When the light passes, the building stands upright once more, not a chip or crack out of place. 

A week ago, the trick would’ve made her swoon. Now, it just makes her a little fluttery. This time next week? Doubtful she’ll even spare a backwards glance. 

“This prize is too big for me alone,” Ben says, gesturing to Rhino’s comatose body beside them. 

MJ grimaces, tentatively poking at the juncture of her arm and shoulder. Without adrenaline to slick the muscle, her arm pangs. Needles of vibrant pain dance along the nerve, flaring out from her shoulder down into numbing fingers. Pulled, at the least. Dislocated, more than likely. She’ll have to report to Medbay. Again. More insult to injury. 

She says, “Oh, I think you can manage it, slugger.”

Ben huffs, but doesn’t protest. Her arm must look as bad as it feels. She stands lame as Ben weaves a rope of webs, attaches it to Rhino’s bent horn, and then sets the rope over his shoulder. Through the terrain of cracked asphalt and rubble, he tugs Rhino back towards the repaired building. 

As the reinforcement Spiders scuttle through the final motions of containment, MJ rubs at her temple, but her tension headache goes nowhere fast. A pick-me-up-and-treat-me-good is sorely needed. All she gets is Miguel, sauntering over in that big man in charge way of his. 

Before he can tear into her, she waves him away. “Don’t start. I already know. I was reckless. Stupid. Could’ve gotten everyone killed.”

He snorts. “I was just going to say good job.”

MJ squints at him. Did he get hit harder than she thought? For being blasted through a solid brick wall, he looks no worse for wear. It’s a little infuriating. MJ looks like she’s gone through a blender. 

“Good job?” she repeats. A ragged hand—her good one—shakes out over the chewed up boulevard. To an outside eye, an earthquake could’ve shaken through the street. “Rhino destroyed West 45th. A goddamn building fell on me.”

Miguel’s mask drops. She doesn’t expect his quirked smile. Doesn’t trust it either. He raises a knowing finger and emphasizes with it. “But the goddamn building didn’t kill you. And it was quick thinking, getting Rhino to beat himself.” His finger drops. He shrugs. “So, good job.”

MJ’s fire sputters. “Oh. I… Thank you.” 

Uncomfortable with being uncomfortable, she rubs at her shoulder and rallies her spirits, dipping into familiar territory. She casts a slow, discerning eye over him. “I didn’t know you did praise. I like it. Guess I’ll just have to get more buildings on me.”

Miguel laughs and his lip hitches high enough to reveal deadly sharp, pearly white, heaven forbid fangs jutting from his gum lines. Big and deadly on the top. Little, stiletto sharp on the bottom. Fangs. Actual, real fangs. 

A chill cleaves through her chest, makes her heart stutter, makes her breath catch. The jolt of fear dissipates quickly, replaced by a sudden bolt of molten heat that makes her stomach drop because, fuck, the fangs are kind of hot. Not good. How has she never noticed before? 

“Whoa,” she says because that's the best she can do. Just whoa. 

The fangs vanish when Miguel’s mouth hinges shut, screwing up into a pout. He turns his head, heat flaring over his face. Then, he just swings away, off to go boss around the remaining Spiders. 

Rubbing her eyes, MJ groans. The mission was terrible enough without the reveal that her temperamental sorta-boss apparently has distractingly sharp, alarmingly hot chompers. Even worse, her temperamental sorta-boss apparently has distractingly sharp, alarmingly hot chompers that he’s self conscious about. 

Later, she makes the mistake of asking Ben about it. His wide-eyed, gravelly response: “The dark whispers are true. A creature of the night stalks among us.”

It's the first and the last time she asks Ben Reilly anything important.  

***

After a morning spent running laps and waiting for marching orders that never come, MJ finds herself passing the lunch hour with the second most important person at Spider HQ. Jess Drew sits herself across from MJ without pretense or fluster and launches right into a complaint about Miguel that starts with, “You’ll never believe what that idiot Miguel did,” and immediately has MJ hooked. 

Jess is right. MJ would never have believed it.

“So this poor Spider is weeping,” Jess says, massaging her forehead with both hands. “Full on boohoohoo weeping. And he’s just standing there, flustered, staring down at this girl like he’s stumbled into a crime scene. Then, then!” Jess throws both hands out in front of her. “Gwennie tells him she just broke up with her partner so she’s extra sensitive and she’s really embarrassed for being so weepy and you know what he said?”

MJ shakes her head. She doesn’t smile, but it would be easy to. Talking with Jess is as fun as chatting with any friend. Of course, it’s been a long time since MJ actually had friends to talk to. Most of them are beyond the Nu York quarantine. The rest are dead. Only Harry remains. She can’t remember the last time they talked about anything fun. Or even what they talked about last. 

Their last time together was spent in bitter argument. It’s been at least a month since she's seen him. Guilt tinges her vision. It was her fault they fought. She hopes he’s okay. She knows he’s probably not. 

Jess continues her story. “He said, sorry, but at least you don’t have to juggle work and a relationship anymore. ”

MJ’s hand makes a distinctive pop when she slaps it over her slack jawed mouth. She would never consider Miguel a sympathetic personality, but this tale of careless callousness twists her perception. Is he so self absorbed that he can’t see beyond his own burdens or is he just a moron? 

“I know! I know!” Jess nods exaggeratedly. “He’s gonna have to send her flowers and give her time off or something. Just terrible. Total idiot.”

“At the least,” MJ says. 

“Oh god,” Jess snorts, “don’t even get me started. It’s everyday. That man sticks his foot in his mouth and chews all the way up to the knee. He really thought sorry, but think of how much time you’ll have for work, was a good response. We’re lucky anyone sticks around.”

From there, they make pleasant enough small talk. Chit chat flows through everything from work to the perpetual grimdark wannabe that is Ben Reilly to life back home. 

As they talk, MJ picks at her grain bowl and Jess makes faces at the soup she’s chosen for herself. Thick like chowder, the gruel boasts concerningly large chunks of meat among blobs of carrot and peas. MJ steered well clear of the option, labeled only as soup, but Jess apparently lives more dangerously. This risk doesn’t seem to be one well taken. 

As MJ’s plate dwindles and Jess makes ever more frequent eyes at a fresh offering of sandwiches on the counter, MJ has a good enough read of Jess to say, “Don’t get me wrong, I could gossip for days, but you strike me as a woman who’s juggling a lot of plates.” 

Jess raises an eyebrow. “And why am I wasting time getting lunch with you?”

“In fewer words, yeah.” 

Jess sighs. She leans over her arms, inching closer like she’s sharing state secrets. “I’ll shoot straight with you. For a new Spider, you’re good. Good and getting better every mission.”

MJ opens her mouth to offer thanks, but Jess steamrolls on to her point. 

“It’s only a few more missions before Miguel clears you for the Unknown. And that’s a hard job. Even harder if you don’t feel like you have anything or anyone to come back to at HQ.”

Knocking her tray aside, MJ leans forward, mimicking Jess’s conspiratorial posture. “Jess, are you saying you want to be my friend?”

“Sure, if you wanna be awkward about it,” Jess says with a laugh. Then, her eyes cut back and forth and she leans even closer, eyebrows raising. “Just figured you needed a friendly face that wasn’t a Parker.”

It’s been at least four days since the kiss that wasn’t. MJ hasn’t seen nor heard from Peter B, but she assumed that meant he was licking his wounds like she was licking hers, not blabbing about it to the entire Society. The last thing she needs is to garner the wrong reputation! Doesn’t Peter have any sense in his head? 

As war rages in MJ's psyche, Jess offers, “Don’t worry. Pretty sure only me and Miguel know anything about it. Poor guy acted like he was confessing to murder. Had to stop Miguel from hucking him out the window when he wouldn’t stop moaning.”

Jess knowing is bad enough, but Miguel? MJ would rather he not know anything about her personal life, particularly when it comes to Spiders she may or may not have almost kissed in a fit of terrible decision making. Embarrassment rumbles in her stomach, unsettling the lunch she’s just finished. 

“They’re such dorks,” Jess continues. “Miguel acts like he can’t stand Peter, but he’s full of it. Peter’s, like, his hero.”

MJ snorts, but gulps down the noise, mortified by the ugly sound. Blustering through, MJ says, “I bet you’ve got all kinds of stories you could tell about those two.”

With a toothy grin, Jess asks, “Oh, plenty. You got lunch plans tomorrow?” 

***

Throughout the duration of her stay at HQ, MJ makes a habit of asking every Spider she meets the same question: Why are you here?

Most Spiders give the same answers. A sense of duty. Desire for community. Strong belief in the mission. 

After a blunder on an early mission that left her tangled in her own web, MJ posed to question to Spider-Punk as he help disentangle her. Constant skeptic, he said, “Gotta keep an eye on you lot, yeah? Make sure everything’s on the up and up.”

Which prompted her to follow up: “You don’t trust Miguel?”

“Do you?”

“Not at first, but I think I could twirl to his tune soon enough.”

“Trust your gut. Don’t let no man tell you how to dance.”

It sticks with her, more than Peter B’s answer, given shortly before their almost-maybe-could’ve been kiss: “The anomaly problem, it’s sorta my fault. Gotta do my part to clean it up. Plus, it’s a great group of Spiders. Who wouldn’t want to be here?”

When MJ poses the question to Lyla, the little Lyrate just laughs and then explains, “Oh. I have no choice. I’m bolted into the walls. Coded to comply, babes.”

And Jess, over one of what will become many lunches, answers, ever practical: “Somebody’s gotta keep Miguel’s head on straight. I just pulled the short straw.”

Ben Reilly is the first to return the question, refusing to answer until she gives hers. 

“I’ve spent a long time running from being Spider-Woman,” MJ says, after a moment of deliberation, “but I’m through running. I want to be better. This place can help me.”

“That’s a good answer,” Ben says. His shoulders stiffen, self conscious. He looks away from her, squints into the corner of the room. After a moment of quiet discomfort, he adds, “Ditto."

They stand on the cusp of their last mission together. MJ’s been deemed a fully fledged Spider. After a few days of much needed shore leave, she’ll run into the Unknown once she returns to HQ. 

It’s bittersweet. Ben’s her first, well, friend might not be the apt description, but he’s the first Spider she’s  gotten to know. They work well together and his grimdark persona makes her laugh. But, she’s ready for more. Ready to prove herself. Ready to start her real mission: Convince Miguel to Find a Universe Where Peter Stopped the Collider But She Died So That She Can See Her Family Again, and Also Make Her World Better and Less Shitty.  

The mission title is a work in progress. Clarity of vision isn’t one of her strengths, but she knows what she wants. Peter. Mayday. One big happy family. A world set right so she doesn’t feel guilty leaving it behind. 

Eagerness for the future doesn’t make the current moment any less bittersweet. Especially when Ben looks mopier than she’s ever seen him. Very concerning. 

“Hey, buck up, killer,” she says, nudging Ben as they wait for the portal to finish writing itself open. “Lone wolf hunts better by himself, right?” 

Ben shakes his head with a tsk. “The kill is nothing without a pack to share it with.”

“But you'll get to relive the kill each time you tell me about your hunts.”

“You’ve lost me in this metaphor.”

MJ fixes him with a deadpan stare. 

“But, yes. Point taken.”

MJ offers him a final fist bump before hopping through the portal into another adventure.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Then You're Making a Huge Mistake. Major. 

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref: MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Compatibility Score Report for MARIJANE and various Agents to determine ideal candidates to slot as her Spider Buddy(s). Incidental notes by LYLA. Content as follows:

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7782 & CHARLOTTE WEBBER-20023

Compatibility: 58%

Comment: Too punny for Just MJ as a long term Spider Buddy. 

 

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7782 & HOBART BROWN-138

Compatibility: 74%

Comment: Good team-up to drive Miguel completely insane. Not ruling it out. 

 

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7782 X BEN REILLY-35

Compatibility: 77%

Chemistry: 14%

Comment: New high for Ben overall, but, dang, that chemistry score is pathetically low. Poor guy needs to bulk up his chat.

 

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7782 X JESSICA DREW-332

Compatibility: 89%

Chemistry: 30%

Comment: ¡Aguas! Miguel, Just MJ’s coming for your work wife!

 

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7782 X PETER PORKER-8311

Compatibility: 71.5%

Chemistry: 69.69%

Comment: I’ve run the numbers like five times and that chemistry readout is always the same. In all my years as a Life Approximation, I’ve never seen that number. Gotta be a joke in the mainframe, somewhere. There’s no way.

 

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7782 X PETER B. PARKER-616B

Compatibility: 94%

Chemistry: 99.1%

Comment: Ouchie mama! That chemistry score! No wonder these two crazy kids hit it off in every dimension! Bridgerton rules apply for these two—all alone time must be chaperoned!
(This is what we call a joke, Miguel. They have chemistry, but none of the projections support them acting on it. Take a chill pill and stop glitching over it. Sheesh.)

 

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7782 X PYOTR PARKOV-2319

Compatibility: 91%

Chemistry: 42%

Comment: High compatibility, low chemistry—you can’t ask for a better Spider Buddy!

 

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7782 & MAE PARKER-4200C

Compatibility: 90.7%

Comment: OMG! I guess you can’t ask for a better Spider Buddy, but you can get another one that’s pretty darn close! 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Scores compiled by LYLA per standard measures. “Chemistry” scores compiled from biological, historical, and personality factors. Not standard practice at the time MARIJANE’s results were pulled, but rolled out in full after later testing and proven value.

None of those listed here remember MARIJANE in any great detail. MAE PARKER-4200C “MAE” vaguely remembers a third partner, but only when prompted. She cannot describe MARIJANE or recall specifics. 

Not included in the official report, but pulled by LYLA for her own amusement:

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7782 X MIGUEL O’HARA-928B

Compatibility: 93% 

Chemistry: 98.6% 

Comment: HA HA HA! I am literally never wrong, but sometimes it’s really, really great to be proven so very right. Can’t wait to be best LYLA at the wedding  :3

Notes:

chapter title from "Kiss Your Fist" by Shawn Lee's Ping Pong Orchestra

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: author's favorite failson enters the chat

Chapter 8: the space of a thousand truths

Summary:

Harry Osborn makes his debut

A week and a half after she first set foot in HQ, MJ is overdue to return to Nu York. If only to make sure the place hasn’t burned down in her absence. 

Of course, there are monitoring programs in place to alert if anything dire develops while she’s at HQ, but she doesn’t want to push her luck. Even if the superpowered freaks and regular creeps have laid low for a bit, one of them is sure to notice she’s AWOL before too long. 

“You’re coming back, right?” Miguel asks. “I don’t need to have Lyla set aside an hour for retrieval?”

He punches in equations or coordinates or whatever it is he has to do to make sure she doesn’t skip decades in the journey back with an exacting efficiency. He doesn’t look at her as he does it, singularly focused on sending her home.

The portal whines into life in front of her, but before she steps through, she looks back over her shoulder with a grin and a flip of her hair. She says, “Don’t worry, hotshot. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Then, she tugs on her mask and hops through the portal. Only to be unceremoniously spat out about five feet too high above her home. 

With a shriek, she falls and hits the rooftop with enough force to topple her balance. Too startled to recover, MJ careens forward, knees cracking against the concrete and hands catching her momentum just before she dashes her brains out.  

Cursing and dusting herself off, MJ pushes herself to her feet as the portal winks shut overhead. 

She gets no time to nurse her ego. Across from her, the rooftop door creeps open. Soft light spills out into the dusk, split down the center by a figure cast in shadow. Friend or foe? MJ raises a hand over her eyes, blocking the worst of the brightness, squinting to make shape of her visitor.

Unruly copper waves. Aquiline nose. Acid cut bone structure. A perpetual air of arrogance. 

The buzzing inside her quiets, sinks low. It’s just Harry. 

Standing just inside the doorway, Harry wears a dress shirt with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled to his elbows along with a pair of sharp pressed chinos, inlaid with a braided leather belt. He looks expensive, sorely out of place within the desiccated world they both inhabit.

Harry looks her up and down with a quick eye and arched brow. Then, he crosses his arms and leans against the doorjamb, playing at indifference. 

“That was quite the entrance, MJ.” He gives a thumbs up. “You nearly stuck the landing.”

Slipping off her mask, MJ gives him a proper scowl as she crosses the short distance between them. 

In a glancing motion, she raises up onto her toes to kiss him in greeting. She aims for his cheek, for the jut of cheekbone caddy cornered beneath his eye, but he shifts at the last second, bringing their mouths together in quick, chaste communion. 

He chases her kiss like an afterthought, following after her with a small inclination forward, but she turns and continues past. A frustrated huff dies his zipped-tight mouth. So close, in the cavern of the stairway, she can’t help but hear every note of bitterness on his breath. She bites the inside of her cheek, swallows the nuisance of his presence, and bounds down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Harry recovers just as quick. He shoots down the stairs after her, hitting the landing at the same time and then edging out in front of her. An arm slings over the doorway, blocking her way forward. 

“So, you aiming to tell me what all that was?” he drawls, jutting his chin up towards the roof. 

The soft skin between her teeth pinches, broaches discomfort on its way to pain. Their relationship is titanium studded, but doused in gasoline; one errant spark, one push too far, and they both go up in flames.

Another screaming match is the last thing she wants. Especially when the last one ended in a fist smashed down into a full glass of scotch, a full set of stitches sewn with a shaky, inexperienced hand, and weeks of no contact.

“Spider-Woman stuff,” MJ says, ducking under his arm with ease and entering the brownstone proper. She makes a beeline for the master bath, combing her fingers through her hair as she goes. Her fingers catch as she crosses onto the tiled bathroom floor. She pulls, but they’re sufficiently stymied by a chunk of knotted hair. 

Harry follows like a shadow, taking up roost against the bathroom. Hooded eyes track her one-handed rummaging through the medicine cabinet for her hairbrush.

“I would offer to help,” Harry says with a shug. He leaves it at that. 

MJ purses her lips. It’s a softer expression than rolling her eyes. “How’d you get in?”

“You gave me a key.” He peels from the wall to crowd beside her. “Gee, you sure you don’t have undiagnosed head trauma? Here, follow my finger.”

A long finger waggles in front of her eyes, strafing against the tip of her nose. With a touch of oomph, she swats his hand away. When he hisses and flexes his fingers in discomfort, she chews through her smile. 

“You sure you didn’t take a blow to the dome?” she asks. “You lost your key, Harry. Along with the key to your place. And your wallet. And your ring. Remember? About a month ago—”

“I remember.” He cuts her off effectively with his voice, but raises his hand too. It’s a definitively self-important gesture. One that says, please stop, you’re just embarrassing yourself. It comes natural to him by virtue of his bloodline. “What I don’t remember is this ability of yours to pop out of nowhere after disappearing from the face of the earth. Do I need to be worried?”

Fed up by a fruitless search, MJ uses another burst of oomph to rip her caught fingers through the knotted hair. It brings tears to her eyes and leaves her with a clot of torn hair, but it’s over. Done. Whipping her hand back and forth, the hair slips from her fingers in a fluff. She’ll clean it later. 

“No,” she says, “like I said, Spider-Woman stuff. Need to know basis. Cool kids only.”

MJ ducks into her bedroom and Harry follows too close. If she made a sudden stop, he would slam into her. She almost considers it, but then she’d have to apologize for it. 

Instead, she flings open her closest and steps inside, dragging the door nearly closed behind her before Harry can enter. The mattress crushes, letting her know he’s opted to flop on her bed. With a sigh of relief, she begins digging through clothes for something suitable to slip over her suit. After a week at temperature controlled HQ, her little brownstone seems exceptionally cold. 

“Why do you care anyway?” she calls out to Harry. “You haven’t been sniffing around for awhile.”

Not since the mess with Black Cat, which she's careful not to evoke by name.

“Okay, fine. Crucify me for caring. I like the new suit by the way. New mask too, right?”

MJ stutters in her dutiful digging, but presses onward, refusing to give Harry the satisfaction. It’s obviously a totally new ensemble. He doesn’t need her to confirm. 

“Right, right. Spider-Woman stuff. I’m sure you’ve got it handled. You’re the second best Spider this city has ever seen, after all.” 

“Keep practicing, Harry. One day, it’ll sound like you actually mean it like a complement.”

“Oh c’mon, grouch. Lighten up. I missed you, you know.”

Pinching her eyes shut, MJ drops her head back and smothers a huff of frustration. At herself, this time. Not Harry.  She’s being unfair. She knows she’s being unfair. As much as she and Harry fight, he’s family. The only family she has left. She would do anything for him, even though he's an insufferable brat most of the time.

MJ exits the closet tugging an old ESU sweatshirt of Peter’s over her head and resolving to be less of a bitch. 

Arms flung wide over the duvet, Harry lounges back on her bed like he owns it. He perks up when she moves in front of him. Eyebrows quirked, a bemused smile settles over his mouth. He leans towards her. 

A gimme motion of her hands asks for his. He gives them, flat in hers. Smooth and rich boy soft to the touch, even through the sleek fabric of her gloves. She squeezes his hands, runs her thumb over the ridge of his knuckles.

“Here I am,” she says. She looks him in the eye, knowing he’ll struggle to look back, but will appreciate it all the same. “Giving you my complete and undivided attention. Now, can you please tell me why you’re here so we can skip to you hitting the lonesome road? I need to patrol.”

Harry snorts, barely able to hold her gaze. “Of course, would never dream of getting in the way of Spider-Woman stuff.” 

He gives one firm squeeze of her hands, lingering before he lets go. 

Tension lessend, they walk down together to the kitchen. 

Mid-century modern with a gas range stove, massive fridge, and enough counter space to raise a family on, the kitchen used to be MJ’s favorite room in the house. Now that she’s only got herself to keep fed, the honor of favorite room has passed to the living room just across the way with its plush conversation pit and free-standing fireplace. Not that she uses that room much either. Though, it gets far more action than the three rooms turned tombs—the first floor den and playroom (Peter and Mayday’s favorite rooms, respectively) and Mayday’s bedroom, upstairs, across from the master bedroom. 

Harry points to a bounty spread over her counter. “That’s all for you.”

Beside her carton of allotted rations, Harry’s brought an assortment of luxuries heaped so tall they tempt gravity. Lotions and lip balms, a couple new shirts, a necklace heavy set with emeralds, packets of sugar-spiced almonds. Harry’s attempt at an apology. 

Really, all he needed was a handful of those almonds and she’d forgive him most anything. They’re her favorite. Impossible to get for those withering in impoverished anonymity. Easy as sin for Harry to get. 

Once a few more downturns in the market from going belly up, Oscorp has thrived in the post-apocalypse. The electromagnetic quarantine around the city is only thanks to Oscorp's buy-in. All the generators bear the honeycomb logo. Nothing gets in or out of the city without the company’s signoff. Trade lives and dies by Oscorp’s hand. 

With controlling stake in the company, Harry is one of the richest men in the country like his father before him. What, if anything, Harry does with the horde of his money is unknown to her. Small luxuries are the only proof of its existence, gifted to her as apologies or thanks. His mayoral campaign is predominantly donor backed, which is insane, but pure Harry. He wants to do it on his own merits in spite of his ancestral wealth, not because of it. 

Of course, the majority of his donors are fellow Oscorp fat cats and his nepobaby friends from outside the quarantine.

On the counter, beside Harry’s apology basket, lies a copy of The Bugle. The front page features a sensational headline, accompanied by an impressively accurate depiction of MJ as Spider-Woman clutching onto Peter B as Spider-Man while he swings through Brooklyn.

Harry flats his hand over the cover with a thump. He says, “Chewed Betty out real good for that one. Marched right into her office as soon as I saw the headline. I said"—He jabs his finger repeatedly into Peter B’s inked mask for emphasis—"might as well start calling yourself The Bugle Rag if all you peddle is trash.” 

Alarms flare in her head. This is exactly the kind of thing Miguel preached against with his Leave No Trace policy. God, he’s going to chew her in two. 

But, then again, isn’t it his fault? (Or Peter’s, but considering anything to do with Peter runs the risk of brushing against the memory of their Near Enough Kiss so she doesn’t.) She was just along for the ride when Miguel made a house call to Nu York. And it’s not like he made any efforts to—

“It is, right?” Harry presses, sending her train of thought on a detour. He thumps his fist over Peter’s inked visage now. “Trash?”

“Yeah, of course.” MJ waves his concern away with a dismissive hand. “Total bullshit.”

“Because you would tell me. If Pete was back somehow.”

“Of course, Harry. I would never keep that from you.”

“That, sure. But what about this, MJ?” He gestures to her new suit. “You were gone for two weeks”—Only a week and a half, but she doesn’t correct him—“right after The Bugle runs this headline.”

MJ’s a good liar, but she’s even better at pretending to be a bad liar. Just one of many traits that translated into a solid screen presence. 

“It’s not Peter,” she says, quickly. Then, she chews her words, faux stumbling, “It was… this thing, things with Strange. Mysteries of the universe, you know?”

“That quack gives me a goddamn headache.” Harry rubs roughly at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Rough enough that it makes a small schmick of loose eyelids rubbing over dry eyeballs. 

MJ stares at the newspaper a moment longer. Why is The Bugle sending reporters out into the Brooklyn Badlands? How the hell hadn’t she noticed them? But, she doesn’t want to pique Harry’s alarm further. 

So, she turns to the rations, sorts through them with metered ease. Canned beans, slips of cured ham, a loaf of bread already stale: everything is as bland and basic as last week’s rations. And the week before that. And every week before that for the last four years. 

“Is this going to be a regular thing?” Harry asks. He’s leaned up against her defunct fridge—always leaning, always afraid of his own height, the attention it brings—watching her unpack. His face is lax and his mouth bored, but his eyes trace each of her movements with glitters of interest. 

“Is what going to be a regular thing?” 

“You and Strange.”

MJ nods. She opens her cabinets, lines up the cans in front of the cans from last week. She’s growing a steady collection. Maybe she should bump up her donations, especially since she’ll be getting hot meals at HQ three days out of the week. But how to do it without raising alarm?

Anonymous gifts. Donations from a mysterious benefactor. That’s the only way she’ll get away with it. MariJane Watson-Parker or Spider-Woman can’t be accused of stealing extra rations. Or have Harry thinking she’s not eating and crowding her with concern. Again. 

“And what if another animal-themed kook gets ahold of me?” Harry asks. “With the election coming up, I’m fielding more and more threats.”

In setting up the monitoring system on her gizmo, Lyla requested a laundry list of priorities from MJ. Villains ranked from most to least dangerous. Loved ones at risk from revenge plots. Hotspots for criminal or kooky activity.  

Emphasized above all else—the safety and security of Harry Osborn.

Of course, MJ can’t tell Harry this. Duplicity comes easy as sneezing, but it’s a bear to keep straight. How had Peter kept it all from her? She never suspected anything. Or, at least, she never expected the truth. 

Hopefully, she can keep Harry just as in the dark. Thank God for Dr. Steven Strange and easy excuses. 

The cabinet door clips closed. MJ turns, leans against the counter, knocks her head back flush with the cabinet. 

“You have a crack security team now to keep you safe,” she says. “And if they don’t, you know I’d never let anything happen to you.”

“Easy enough to promise until you’re neck deep in the”—Hooking his elbow beneath his nose, Harry gives his best attempt at a smolder and throws some gravel in his voice—“mysteries of the universe!”

Mimicking his pose and gruff voice, MJ says, “I’ve got my methods.”

Her delivery is better, but his impression dogwalks hers. Voices and accents have never been her strong suit. 

They share a laugh. Both rolling their eyes at the other’s antics. 

“By the way,” she says, “I poked by your Remembrance Day speech—”

“Yeah, I saw you. Hard to miss when you’ve got a maggia Cybertron on your tail. Thanks for wrecking my setup, by the way.”

MJ waves her hand. “Yeah, yeah. But I took care of it, didn’t I?”

Expression split, Harry keeps quiet instead of disagreeing. MJ gives him a hot second to reconsider his silent stance, tearing into the pack of spiced almonds. A shake of the bag spills a couple almonds into her palm to knock back like pills. The sweetness is electric on her tongue. She chews, swallows. 

Sugar still on her teeth, she says, “It was a good speech. Strong delivery.” She apes flexing her biceps in front of her. “You looked good in your suit. Everyone seemed really into it.”

“They were. Until the freak show scared them away.”

“Did you or not you not milk that attack to dust for your platform? Speaking of, didn't appreciate being called flagrantly disrespectful of public order and decency. Disrespectful, sure, but flagrant?"

“C’mon, Em.” Harry sighs. “How many times you gonna bring this up?”

“I’m not.” Another clutch of almonds grit to paste between her teeth. Gone too quick. Maybe she will make more use of rations than she thought. Little by little, her appetite is creeping back. “Just saying. The Fisk campaign’s horny for an official Spidey endorsement.”

“Really?” Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s… you couldn’t have mentioned this sooner?”

“When was I supposed to mention it?”

Harry begins to pace. A nervous habit, he’ll wear grooves into the marble if she doesn’t stop him. “Will you do it?”

“Of course not. I’m an Osgirl through and through. Well, MJ is. Spider-Woman, she has some thoughts on the slant of your spiel. You know that. And Fisk, she pretends like she appreciates Spider-Woman.”

“I appreciate you,” he says, stopping pacing abruptly to fix her with a hard, heavy gaze. 

MJ flattens her brow and chews the last of the almonds to keep from pulling a sour face. 

“My campaign might not appreciate you,” Harry continues, picking up his pacing again, “but it’s politics. Besides, once I’m elected, I don’t have to cater to the Anti-Super crowd.”

“Spoken like a true politician.”

“Hey, the flip flop is an integral part of our democracy. Who am I to begrudge it?”

“Just so long as you know what you’re doing.”

They talk a little more. Mostly about his campaign and a couple of planned events upcoming. MJ promises to attend, as MariJane not Spider-Woman, and Harry grins. It stretches his too-wide mouth even wider, but it’s not an ugly expression. She wishes he’d smile like that for anything other than the tedious matters of his mayoral campaign. Still, better than nothing. 

Better him grinning and schmoozing her over political maneuvering than scowling and raging in a strung out stupor. 

He’s doing so much better. Has been for months now. Even her impromptu disappearance hadn’t impacted him. Thank god. Because if she’d come back, only to find him worse off… 

Best not to think of it.  And she doesn’t. But the guilt of futures not come to pass festers. 

When he goes to leave, she initiates the hug, snaring tight around him and resting her chin on his shoulder. Fingers glide through her hair, rest over the crown of her skull, hold her still as he presses a long kiss to her scalp. 

For a moment, they stand entwined. Safe and secure. 

“Be careful,” he says. “For my sake.”

“Of course,” she says, giving one final squeeze and a dash of sarcasm, “but only for your sake.”

***

On that first day back, long after Harry leaves and she finishes a loop around the city to remind everyone that, yes, Spider-Woman is alive and well, MJ sits upright in bed. Knees to her chest, chewing on her lip, she combs her fingers through her hair in nervous tics that refuses to settle. She’s alone. Totally and completely alone.

And she can’t get herself to sleep and to stop fucking thinking.

The more she thinks of Mayday, the less she understands. With Peter, there was nothing to question. At the epicenter of an explosion emanating from the very fabric of the universe, it's not hard to understand how someone might be atomized. She didn’t struggle to conceptualize his fate, even as it brought up questions of her own survival. 

Mayday, though. Mayday had been miles away. Why had she been affected in the same way?

Questions swirling into sickness, MJ sets out in her first official foray into interdimensional communication. A text sent via gizmo, a desperate cry in the dark couched in truncated grammar. She shoots off a message. 

hey r u busy? - SW-7782

Response comes far faster than she expects, barely giving her any time to second guess her late night decisions. 

SM-928B - I’m always busy. 

Biting her lip, she flops back onto her pillow. Three words, but she reads them thirty times. Miguel seems irritated, but he’s always irritated. Maybe it’s not directed at her. If it is, why would he respond so quickly, or at all?

God, she forgot how much she hated the vague, imperfect format of texting. One of the very few upsides of the apocalypse—texting, out; letters, in. Spider-Woman gets dust, but MariJane still gets the odd fanmail now and again.

can u unbusy urself? have ??? bout my fam - SW-7782

Another quick response. Practically instantaneous, this time. 

SM-928B - I’ll call in 5. 

Apparently, Miguel’s in 5 is closer to five seconds, not five minutes. 

The video call comes midway through her relieved stretch, lighting up her gizmo in soft pulses and ringing out an unpleasant, blaring musical sting. His ringtone, apparently. Every Spider has one. His sounds like electronica from hell. 

Panicking, she takes frenzied stock of herself. Threadbare, too big shirt of Peter’s. No bra. Unkempt, snaggled braid. Hardly the ideal getup for a late night call with her pseudo-boss. 

Scrambling out of bed, MJ snags Peter’s ESU sweatshirt, shoving into it as she frantically musses and tussles her hair into something semi-presentable. Just before she answers, she scrubs a finger over her teeth for good measure and rubs some life into her eyes. 

No, sooner does she tap Answer does Miguel’s hologram take shape over her gizmo.

In his Spider-suit but no mask, Miguel shows all the telltale signs of a long day. Shoulders stooped. Eyes bleary. Face drawn long and quartered. Exhaustion weighs heavy on him. 

It’s midday in Nu York. MJ has no idea what that translates to in Nueva York. Probably doesn’t make much of a difference. From passing conversations and her own solidifying impression of him, she suspects Miguel doesn’t sleep much. If at all. 

They have that in common. 

Flashing her best smile, she says, “Thanks for this.”

“Sure,” he says, crossing his arms, shifting slightly. She can’t tell if he’s exasperated or just restless. 

No point beating the bush. She rips right into it. “What happened to my daughter? Can you explain it to me? In detail and dumb enough for me to understand, please?”

And he does. 

MJ doesn’t understand most of it, even though he really does make an effort to cut the dense, technically heavy explanation into bite-sized pieces, but she gets the important parts. 

It’s all theoretical, of course. He emphasizes that. Theory and Guesstimations. But, he also emphasizes that Lyla’s rarely wrong. The best lyrate life approximation by a mile. By a thousand miles. By a thousand universes, Lyla clarifies. So, it’s as close to fact as theory can get. 

The theoretical facts: Peter was too close to the implosion—not explosion, implosion. Matter and time and space all collapsing in on itself. The snake swallowing its tail, over and over and over. 

So, Peter was too close to the implosion. Got himself annihilated. Ka-poof. Raptured, according to the Doomsayers on the streets. 

Miguel cracks a weary smile when she mentions the Doomsayers. He says, “Yeah, we’ve got some like that here.”

But, Peter. Too close to the implosion. Here one second, gone the next. Mayday, bearing a too-similar genetic signature to Peter, suffered the same fate. Instantaneous. Painless. Absolute. 

If Peter’s parents were still around, they would’ve gone poof too. 

“Then, how about the Spider powers? How do you explain that?” MJ asks. 

“I don’t,” Miguel says. He stretches his arms, drawing the elbows together behind his back, broadening his already broad chest. It’s a restless movement. Has she asked an uncomfortable question? He continues, “Not yet. Power transference isn’t totally unprecedented, but we usually see smashed structures, recursive code. You though—there’s nothing out of the ordinary that we wouldn’t see in any other Spider's genes. I checked myself.”

MJ doesn’t know what to say. How does she follow up on an answer that’s science geek speak for IDK, it’s weird as hell? Where ingenuity fails, instinct settles in. “Gee, most guys take me out to dinner before they get into my genes.”

Miguel does not laugh. Serious as ever, he explains, “It’s standard procedure. You signed a waiver.”

“No, genes and jeans. It’s…”

Eyes crinkled, just a little, Miguel's stern expression falters. He tries to hide it by rubbing at his chin. 

“You’re fucking with me.”

“A little,” he admits with a smile so small and quicksilver, she doubts it’s there at all.

Stifling a yawn, MJ stretches long as a cat, radiating sleepiness. “I’m usually much better than this. But it’s late. And it’s been a long day. What time is it there?”

“4am.”

“Oh, early riser?”

“Something like that.” Miguel shifts his weight again. Definitely restless. “You should try to get some rest. The first few days back, they can be rough.”

“Mmm, I’ll try. Thank you. For this.”

“You’re welcome, MariJane.”

Then, he ends the call and her room falls into the grayish haze of curtained daylight and furious thought. 

It makes some sense, what he said. Some. Not a lot. But some. 

It’s a start. It’s more than she’s had in a long, long time.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, LYLA Will Be Sending You a Very Threatening Satellite Photo of Your House. 

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Form 29c: PoI and Monitoring Form filled out and submitted by MARIJANE for HAROLD THEOPOLIS OSBORN “HARRY” as follows:

SECTION A: PERSON OF INTEREST

Person of Interest: A person known to you who is aware of your SECRET IDENTITY and/or will be impacted by any absence for SOCIETY BUSINESS. This can be a SPOUSE, PARTNER, EX-PARTNER, CHILD, SIBLING, FRIEND, ALLY, MAN IN THE CHAIR, etc. If you think someone might fit this description, LIST THEM.

1. Full Name: 
   • Harold Theopolis Osborn FLAGGED - OSBORN
     • Relation to GREEN GOBLIN: Son FLAGGED - SON OF GREEN GOBLIN
       • Please describe the extent of PoI’s knowledge regarding GREEN GOBLIN’s activities: Harry doesn’t know his father was the Green Goblin. Norman died when the collider exploded and I haven’t told Harry. I will never tell Harry. 

2. Gender Identity:   
   • Male

3. Age and Star Sign:   
   • 37, SAGITTARIUS

4. Relation to SPIDER FILLING OUT THIS FORM (Select all that apply):
   • FRIEND, EX-PARTNER, GODFATHER TO DAUGHTER

5. Occupation (Select all that apply):
   • PUBLIC FIGURE, POLITICAL CANDIDATE, HUMANITARIAN, LAWYER - CORPORATE COUNSEL (FORMER), OSCORP EMPLOYEE (FORMER), LAWYER - ENVIRONMENTAL LAW (FORMER), MISC - SOCIAL MEDIA PERSONALITY (FORMER)

6. Brief Narrative History (i.e. PoI’s backstory):
   • Born and raised in NYC. Went to bougie private schools and didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. Mom died when he was young. Dad was a total jagoff. Harry and Peter met in high school. I met Harry around the same time, but couldn’t pick him out of a lineup if he killed someone right in front of me until we started dating in ‘07. Broke up after a few months so I could go with Peter.
   • He was legal counsel for Oscorp for a while, but he quit that gig a few years before the company went busto. Don’t ask me what he did after—something with trees and coverups and too big words for one little redhead to understand. After the world blew up, he was in a bad way, but we got through it together. Last spring, he cleaned himself up and decided to run for mayor. He’s got a pretty good shot, all things considered.    

SECTION B: REQUEST TO MONITOR

Only complete this section if the following apply:

• PoI has been victimized, targeted and/or abducted by YOUR ENEMIES in the past; OR
• PoI is aware of your SECRET IDENTITY. 

1. Describe PoI’s Daily Schedule (to the best of your ability):
   • Spends most of his time nowadays at campaign events and public ops. He doesn’t tell me his schedule much, only when he wants me to steer clear as Spider-Woman or pop up as MariJane for the PR. He stays cooped up in his penthouse otherwise. Not much of a people person. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Unclear if MARIJANE was willfully vague here. Investigation into her motives deemed pointless, in light of everything. Of note, photos and surveillance of HARRY taken over course of monitoring unaffected by DISTORTION and appear in full. DISTORTION appears localized to MARIJANE.

Notes:

chapter title from "Never Ending Moment" by Des Rocs

i'll be brief because i've promised myself not to ramble in the notes but oh my god i looooooove harry osborn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! characterization for harry can be all over the place in s-man media, but i've taken this one more in the direction of the current Ultimate run with a splash of raimiverse's physicality (i am james franco's #1 hater, but i will admit he did a decent job embodying the awkward charm of the character). fun fact - i started writing this waaaaaay before Ultimate Spider-Man dropped earlier this year so please imagine how totally bonkers i felt to start reading that run and was like oh my god??? thats my guy??? the one from my dreams and my silly little fic??????

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: into the unknownnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
UPDATE 9/30 - you may (or may not depending on when you read this lol) realize that I updated the formatting for the end of chapter "supplementals." i realized that i'm working off the full breadth & knowledge of this fic and plot, and that the supplementals may have been a little too vague? there's a lot of foreshadowing intended within these so i've clarified what they "are" - supplementals to Spider-Woman 7782's AKA MJ's agent file made by a third party (NOT MJ). This beast is fully written, but it's just sat with me for so long that it's difficult to take a step back and see what is and isn't working. Feel free to get in the comments if you have questions, comments, theories, etc.

Comments and kudos are never expected, but ALWAYS appreciated!

Chapter 9: for all of us who've seen the light

Summary:

Enter the Unknown (and Author's Personal Blorbos, Stage Left)

After an unproductive week around Nu York, the early morning summons back to HQ isn’t unwelcome. MJ has no plans to drink the Hi-C with everyone else, but the prospect of a bagel with a sinful schmear of cream cheese followed by a long, steamy shower makes her toes curl. 

“Hey bestie,” Lyla says when MJ pokes her head out from the decontamination chamber in Arrivals (which is Sector 7a—she’s been studying the floorplan in her free time). “Hope you had a restful shore leave. Got a full slate for you.”

“Whatever you got. I’m up for it.”

Within twenty minutes, MJ finds herself seated at a long, imposing conference table. She thrums her fingers against the shiny-smooth surface and watches the reflection dance. Around her, the walls are a barren, gunmetal gray. The room's lighting emanates from the baseboards in a flickering faux fire glow. It gives evil mastermind gathering their underlings to plot world domination. She wouldn’t be surprised if Miguel strolled in with a fluffy Persian cat and a freshly waxed head.

It'd probably be a great look on him too. The audacity of some people. 

But the worst part of it all? MJ didn’t even get to enjoy her bagel, just scarfed it down on the way in like a ravenous dog. Now, her stomach wants to her murder for it. Go figure. 

MJ lazes nonchalant, observing the other two Spiders sitting around the table without drawing attention to herself. Unfortunately, the roil of her stomach has other plans. It echoes in the silence, bouncing off the walls. 

The other Spiders shoot her sympathetic glances. Neither acknowledges it. MJ takes this to mean they are what Aunt Anna always referred to as, good peoples.

The first Spider, Mae Parker, punctuates her sentences with peace signs and speaks with the soothing cadence of a seasoned pothead. Her suit is a riot of colors without shape, a still life of an acid trip. She hugged MJ instead of shaking her outstretched hand, saying, “Handshakes are for squares and Feds.”

The other, Pyotr Parkov, is a Parker variant who squints at everything through charcoal rimmed eyes. If his bio—a brisk rundown of his life from Symkarian orphan to Soviet blacksite assassin to deprogrammed free agent in a post nuclear fallout—is to be believed, he’s a dour and seriously dangerous Spider. The kind of Spider Ben Reilly thinks he is. 

Except, within the first three minutes of MJ knowing him, Pyotr takes a sip of too-hot coffee, spits it out on Mae with a yelp so high it hurts the super-sensitive ears of every Spider in the room, and then spends the next three minutes alternating between profusely apologizing and fanning at his mouth. MJ already likes him a lot. 

Against Mae and Pyotr, MJ seems only slightly interesting.

“So, we all know why we’re here. The Unknown,” Lyla says, popping over the center of the table without ceremony. “Before you get started, there’s a lot to know. But, it's simple stuff.”

Simple must mean something else in 928B because there's nothing simple about the Unknown as Lyla describes it. 

To start, there’s a whole gamut of new terminology. Fluxes and confluences. Graphics and gutters. Quantum radiation. The Anomalous Appearance and Presentation Continuum. It all sounds very made up, but Lyla assures it’s all very real.

Standard anomaly containment work is complicated by all the weirdness of the Unknown. Special measures have to be undertaken. Not to mention the anomalies shot out into the Unknown are more likely to be uncooperative and prickly (AKA major baddies and assholes) because of the power differential required to suckerpunch through the time membrane.

Whatever that means. It's a small comfort that Pyotr and Mae return the concerned side-eyes she shoots their ways. At least she's not the only one totally swamped by the info. 

On top of the new vocab, there's also this Aggressive Expansion project. A two pronged initiative, AE is meant to set up and solidify the Society's presence out in the Unknown. How is that done? Officially, through a systematic approach to reconnaissance and recruitment via highly specialized Agents working the sector.

Unofficially? Through extra missions and legwork by the saps unlucky enough to get the Unknown detail. Saps named MariJane, Pyotr and Mae. 

In addition to the anomaly work, they're expected to undertake active recon missions and recruit new Spiders into the fold. Of course, there’s super strict rules for everything. More than apply for standard Society work. More oversight of their work, too. It all goes straight to Miguel, who Lyla assures likes to take a very hands on approach in spite of his absence at their intro session. 

In short, it’s a lot and it’s far from simple. 

“To put a pretty little signature on this…” Lyla unveils a graphic. Pop-art stylized and brightly saturated, a comic rendition of Miguel with his beefy arms crossed stares with firm, assessing eyes and a scowl. The text beneath in bold, block letters: MAKE DADDY PROUD. Lyla nods at the pic. “Unsanctioned, still going through focus group, but you get the gist, yeah?”

MJ erupts with laughter and is soon joined by Pyotr and Mae. Lyla grins, giving little bows to each of them with a flourish before she vanishes the graphic with a smack of her hands. MJ dismays. She wanted a pic for posterity and blackmail. She’s still adjusting, but she’s got a pretty solid idea of how Lyla operates at least. Miguel definitely isn’t aware of the graphic. 

With a wink, Lyla reads MJ’s mind and drops a copy in her messages. Then, she announces, “You three are on call for the Unknown at noon. Low level anomalies to start. Do well and we’ll bump you to bigger bads. AE officially rolls out tomorrow so those specific assignments will populate then. You guys are gonna be great.”

With an exuberance of heart eyes and flashing kissy marks, Lyla blinks away, leaving MJ and her new Spider-Buddies alone. They look awkwardly at each other, absorbing everything. 

Mae, with her lilting, Cali-style vocal fry, is the first to speak. “Buddies, this is so un-groovy of me, but I zonked out all the way back at the beginning. I was doodlin’.”

Mae flips up her gizmo screen. Lopsided penguins, lumpy paisley patterns and bunnies with mustaches fill the screen. Sheepishly, Pyotr reveals his gizmo screen. A poor rendition of Lyla takes up the bulk of the screen with a few notes jotted in Symkarian scattered throughout. 

MJ’s isn’t much better. Little fanged smiley faces and blotchy spiders intersperse her pitiful attempts at note-taking. 

“Well, at least we’re all on the same page,” Mae says.

A simple statement, but it goes a long way. MJ doesn’t know what magic goes into assigning Spider-Buddies, but her, Pyotr, and Mae work together like a dream.

Their first mission out is a slam dunk, beyond a few missteps in protocol. The second goes even better. By mission three, they’re catching anomalies like they’ve been together for years. 

While Pyotr looks like Peter and Mae looks like photos of Aunt May as a young woman, they have their own styles, which helps. 

Pyotr wears his hair long and brutish. His suit is midnight gray with black accents, studded around the chest and torso with body armor most Spider-suits forgo. His fashion choices say Don't Fuck with Me, but his easy, honking laughter gives a peek of a marshmallow interior. 

Mae keeps her hair short, spiky and shaved to the scalp on one side. A definitive gap between her teeth widens her smile and could make even the grumpiest Spider smile back. She talks like a Scooby-Doo character, but with great, oozing sincerity. 

By the second mission, it doesn’t even register to MJ that they’re variants of people she once knew. It helps, especially when they start encountering weirder and weirder variants and places.

Because the thing about the Unknown? It’s really, truly unknown. 

As MJ and her team venture farther and farther into the realms beyond Lyla’s watchful network, the more unpredictable the worlds become. Stable for life doesn’t translate exactly into stable for mental health. 

They touchdown in NYCs without light. With too much light. With two suns or three moons or asteroid rings in the atmosphere and halogen lights above the city smog.

They don diving suits and rebreathers. Hazmat suits and gas masks. Bioluminescent suits and infrared lens. Stealth suits and mufflers. All to survive NYCs without breathable air. Or air like jelly. Or air so radiation rich it wavers over the pavement like heat in the dead of summer. 

They encounter people with pincer hands and stalk-eyes. People with translucent skin and a penchant for telepathy. People with more robot parts or animal parts or alien parts than people parts. People who aren’t people at all. 

They face anomalies that don't make sense. They face anomalies that make too much sense. 

A lesson impressed early on: not all anomalies are bad guys. Some are waylaid Spiders. Others are Spider-adjacent heroes. There’s no way to know exactly what might be on the other side of a ping to touchdown and a portal into the Unknown. When it comes to Unknown anomalies, a Goblin is a Gwen is a Jameson.

A ping for a Shocker ends up being a friendly and super-powered Johnny Storm, who is apparently a staple of most universes. A ping for a Lizard ends up being a displaced Spider-Dino, who is immediately recruited via some ingenious non-verbal communication on Mae’s part. A ping for a Mysterio turns out to be a hyperreal, moon enthusiast with the saddest, wettest baby seal eyes MJ’s ever seen and a worse British accent than her own, who actually ends up being at least two, maybe three moon enthusiasts in one human suit who all sound exactly like their fearless leader, just in different flavors (which is how MJ learns of the Miguels of the Multiverse sub-thread on the Webb that is essentially like bird watching, but for Miguel’s variants (and vocal doppelgangers) across the multiverse).  

The recruits, at least, always end up as they’re described in the specs. For each recon mission, there’s a Spider to be recruited at the end. She recruits herself a dozen times over in different suits, going by different names. Recruits Harry as a Spider too, which is just weird. Recruits hundreds of different variations of Peter and May and Ben and Jess. One or two versions of Miguel, too, but his variants prove standoffish and largely uninterested in the gig.

The hardest recruits are always Maydays and Baby Bens. Variants of the daughter MJ lost and the son she never had. Miguel and Lyla both told her she could sit those recruitment calls out, but she told them both the same thing: It hurts now, but someday it won’t. 

Everything gets easier, over time.  

***

For all the crazy, inhospitable landscapes and people throughout the Unknown, nihilism is nowhere to be seen. Instead, hope, a sense of redemption just another day away, is the thread strung between each universe. It’s the webbing holding the entire thing together. The same webbing connects her, Pyotr and Mae together too. Hope, high radiation thresholds, familiarity with hard living, and the thing no one will say that sours it all. 

Lyla doesn’t say it. But, during her initial lecture, she says, “The Unknown is unpredictable. We’ve never lost an operative, but the turnover is high. It’ll chew you up and spit you out if you aren’t careful.”

And Miguel doesn’t say it. But, he sees them off  in Departures (Sector 7b) on their first mission into the Unknown, and says, “Mind the fluxes. We’re not looking to retire anyone’s suit.”

And Pyotr doesn't say it. But, his contribution to her and Mae’s well intentioned conversation about their respective home lives is: “My home is gone. All I have is here. Would be better to ask Miguel how is home."

And Mae doesn’t say it. But, after they have double digit missions under their belts and Miguel personally expresses his appreciation, she hugs him—much to his slack jawed displeasure—and muses, “A girl could get used to being treated like a hero. It’s groovy.”

And MJ doesn’t say it. But she knows. 

Much as they may hope for redemption and salvation, they’re all expendable.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Do You Even Really Want to Be? Be Honest. It Won’t Affect Your Grade (Much)

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Sections of “LYLA’s Guide to the Unknown: All the Crucial Knowledge Necessary to Complete Successful Missions in the Sector (Miguel Got Final Say on the Title)” flagged by MARIJANE:

FLUXES: The most major characteristic of the Unknown is the prevalence of FLUXES. What are FLUXES, LYLA? Aw, gold star, thank you for asking. In geek speak, FLUXES are prolonged moments of increased cosmic radiation and interference. In non-geek speak, FLUXES are trippy. 

FLUXES are hard on the body. Spiders with low radiation thresholds are prone to headache, nausea, dizziness. In very rare cases, they can induce psychosis if a Spider is particularly susceptible. If you’re reading this, you’ve been deemed Strong and Healthy enough to endure FLUXES with minor side effects. Go you! 

But don’t go planning your shore leave for the Unknown just yet! FLUXES still pose a danger to you! 

For one, FLUXES seriously mess with our tech. Your gizmo’s been fitted to kick back on once the FLUX passes, but it will go dark for the duration. Not good if you need a bout of Anti-Venom or to place a call for backup! 

Another danger: absolutely, under no circumstances, can you travel during a FLUX. Without your gizmo (see above), jumps can’t be properly coordinated and set to avoid SPLICING or going splat across the Sector 13 overlook. When a FLUX happens, stay cool and hang tight!

 

CONFLUENCES: Ever hop through a portal, take a big, deep breath of that rich, Unknown air and say to yourself, I love the smell of pre-apocalypse in the morning? If you do, yikes. Schedule yourself in with Spider-Shrink ASAP. 

If you, like a good, well-adjusted hero, do NOT love the smell of impending disaster then you need to be sure to mind your CONFLUENCES! 

What are CONFLUENCES? Without getting into quantum mumbo jumbo, CONFLUENCES are the temporally dense, cosmically aligned points between neighboring universes. Out in the stable Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse, CONFLUENCES are quiet and pretty little points that don’t do much of anything beyond exist and let Society Agents and sensors slip in and out without issue. 

Out in the Unknown though? Hoo boy. 

I won’t bore you with the nitty gritty. Basically, out in the Unknown, the CONFLUENCES between universes are all kinds of screwy and when the CONFLUENCES are screwy, the universe is a few bad days away from total annihilation. But no pressure, right?  

Part of working the Unknown gig is ensuring that the CONFLUENCES are re-aligned (see “PROS & CONFLUENCES: Everything a Spider Needs to Know for Correcting CONFLUENCES” for description of that process) [...]

 

SPACE MADNESS: First off, there are absolutely NO recorded cases of SPACE MADNESS. Nada. Zilch. This entire section is THEORETICAL, but legal is all in a tizzy that we discuss. 

Travel through the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse can be hard on the body, but it can be even harder on the mind. Very, very early projections posited that slingshotting between dimensions could totally liquify consciousness and put even the most well adjusted Spider in the looney bin. Thanks to state-of-the-art safety precautions and some truly fearless experiments undertaken by everyone's favorite Spider-Man from 928B (consider this encouragement to give him a hug and tell him how much you love him—I swear he doesn’t bite (hard)), these early projections never became reality. 

But, the mind is a weird thing! It’s impossible to empirically measure the psychological effects of trolling the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse, especially when you add in all the weirdness inherent in the Unknown. Spiders assigned to the Unknown should be on high alert for symptoms of SPACE MADNESS. 

But LYLA (you’re asking this, obviously), if there’s been ABSOLUTELY NO CASES WHATSOEVER of SPACE MADNESS, how do you know the symptoms? Good question, y/n! We don’t! We gotta rely on spunky Spiders to flag ANY AND ALL sights, smells, sensations, thoughts, behaviors, dreams, so on and so forth, that feel WEIRD. 

So, if you feel yourself starting to get a touch of SPACE MADNESS or see one of your buddies talking to the walls, make sure you report it! 

 

NO-FLY ZONES: An observant Spider traversing the Unknown may notice certain coordinates are blacked out in your gizmo. An unobservant Spider won’t notice, which is why I’m mentioning it here. 

Those blacked out coordinates? Those are NO-FLY ZONES. No Spider, under any circumstances, is permitted to enter the NO-FLY ZONES. 

Nasty little epicenters of cosmic wackiness, the NO-FLY ZONES are extra spicy and not in the good way. Up is down and left is blue and one bad jump into a NO-FLY ZONE could turn a Spider into a fly—or worse. The threat of annihilation in the NFZs is nonzero. Theoretically, even if you do come out physically okay, the quantum mania will shred your brain like confetti and the radiation will cook most Spiders that come within ten feet of you. 

Seriously, don’t try it! 

Any attempts to enter a NO-FLY ZONE will result in immediate suspension and internal review with possible expulsion from the Society. Don’t endanger your fellow Spiders just because you’ve got a case of wanderlust! 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Referential. “LYLA’s Guide to the Unknown…” is in Version 3.2 now, but MARIJANE made frequent use of Version 1.1.2. Reason unclear, but handwritten notes found among her possessions quoting “LYLA’s Guide to the Unknown” as follows: 

can induce psychosis if a Spider is particularly susceptible; smell of impending disaster; the mind is a weird thing;  threat of annihilation; and shred your brain.

Additional handwritten note from MARIJANE continues with: 

Something there but not here. But getting closer. Closer and closer and fucking closer. Tastes wrong. Feels wrong. Nobody knows. Nobody will say. Are they lying too?

Unclear why these selections were pulled, but consistent with themes of madness and uncertainty in other writings by MARIJANE. No concerns were ever raised with psych or medical. Analysis by SM-2398 “EZEKIAL” posits the selection and act of copying down these phrases is indicative of paranoia and hysteria, in addition to general psychosis and delusion. Alarming, but not unsurprising. 

Language pulled by MARIJANE was removed from later iterations of “LYLA’s Guide to the Unknown”.

Further review underway.

Notes:

chapter title from "Save Yourself, I'll Hold Them Back" by My Chemical Romance

pyotr and mae, my own personal blorbos. i've been pretty tame in deploying them in throughout this fic but i do love them immensely and have full, detailed backstories that don't fully come into play in the body of this fic. i just needed someone to know lol

one more chapter in this kinda "training & adjustment arc" and then three more to finish out part one.

kind of can't believe it's almost been two months since i started posting this thing for real?? its a pretty niche long fic written for a rarepair (i think there's a tag/ship name, but also i hesitate to use it because its not really 616B MJ?) but i hope anyone out there reading is enjoying. its definitely quite the ride and i swear the slow burn REALLY starts to actually burn soon along with the greater plot.

tldr - genuine thank you to anyone reading

next chapter: growing pains and legitimate complaints about bureaucracy

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3 comments and kudos are never expected, but ALWAYS appreciated! <3

11/30 edit -
Miguel POV: in your dreams, in your song: chap 1 - Late Night Smoke Break

Chapter 10: stepping lightly, hang each night

Summary:

Paperwork and "constructive" workplace conversations

For all the fighting and breaking the laws of science and nature and God, MJ quickly learns the hardest part of the Spider-Society gig is the paperwork. After each mission, there’s a required debrief. With each debrief, there’s statistics and biometrics pulled and cataloged. There’s at least four extra addendums just for categorizing phenomenon in the Unknown. There’s a narrative section. There’s an objective section. There’s a collaborative report that has to be completed in tandem by her, Mae, and Pyotr. If there’s an injury, even one as small as a hangnail, there’s a form. If there’s not an injury, there’s a form. And if there’s a form, there’s three more forms. 

On the odd nights where her dreams are more than far off figures in fog and nonsense questions, her slumbering mind conjures forms that delete themselves if she doesn’t type fast enough or implode the second she hits complete.

When MJ complains during one of their now-routine lunch dates, Jess offers her sympathies. 

“Yeah, you Unknownies have it rough. I’ve seen Addendum B. It’s just"—Jess shudders—"brutal.”

So, MJ starts to slack on the backend. Just a little. Quick enough, she learns slacking just a little is tantamount to the dissolution of the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse as we shocking know it in Miguel’s eyes. Coupled with the minor violations and offenses she keeps racking up, she hears that line a lot. 

The first chewing out is light, bracing. An almost-friendly reminder to complete her debriefs in a timely manner. The second chewing out is decidedly less so. Each one after that is untenable. Very, very quickly, she learns why most of the Society fears their leader. He can be a real bear when irritated. 

“Do you even want to be here?” Miguel demands when she lets a debrief sit for over a week. “Because I’ve got a limitless number of universes I could search for your replacement.”

They’re in his lab. He’s standing cross-armed in front of his monitor bank, sneering down at her. She’s standing, fists on her hip, glaring back up at him. “So do it then. Replace me. If it’s so easy.”

Jaw tightening and lips thinning, Miguel chews over his response. Bluff called. They both know it.   

“Just finish the damn debrief,” he says at last, turning away from her to glare intently into one of his screens and smack angry commands into it. Conversation over.

Leaving now would be a small victory, but a small victory isn’t much of a victory at all. Especially not when it means she still has to do the paperwork. So, she cocks her hip, leaning her weight back over it. “Oh, c’mon. I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to find a nice, obedient little MJ to take my place. Maybe from one of the ‘verses where Peter stopped the collider? It’ll be like Wife Swap."

With a swipe of his palm, the monitors sway out on either side of Miguel, forming a tight circle of tech with him as the center. It’s a clear message—get the fuck out—but it’s rude. He’s rude. 

As Aunt Anna liked to say, Give me ‘tude and you’re gonna get it right back with a side of sauce. Unhealthily cheesy, but all too applicable in times like these. 

MJ ducks under the monitors and pops up beside him. It’s a tight fit, barely enough room for him to stand comfortably with his massive bulk. Both of them squeezed together? Claustrophobic. Uncomfortable.

Miguel whirls on her with a disbelieving huff, but she takes interest in the monitor just beside her. Photos of a little girl crowd the surface. “This your daughter?”

Predictable as ever, Miguel could disembowel with his glare. It fizzles against the back of her head. Her Sense could ping and she wouldn’t even be surprised that he took a swipe at her with those huge mitts of his. 

“She’s precious. And aw, look at you!” She smudges her finger against one of the photos. In it, Miguel smiles—no teeth, but a genuine uptick of lips—with his daughter draped around his shoulders for a piggyback ride. It’s positively domestic. And fleeting. The photo and all the others around it, blink away. 

MJ smiles at him over her shoulder, lulling her head back. “You know, you’d be quite the looker if you smiled more. Some chicks and chicos dig the whole I hate you, go chew on an ant trap machismo, but that’s exhausting. Really cramps the soul too.” Thumping her finger against the dead monitor, she conjures the memory of his smile. An unfamiliar sight, but an alluring one. “You give a smile like that and mean it? You’ll have the whole Society licking the palm of your hand.”

If Miguel keeps scowling like he is, his face is gonna get stuck. 

“Just some friendly advice,” she says, turning and flat palming her hands so show no offense. 

The ends of his scowl etch deeper, wrinkling his face. “How do I get rid of you?” 

MJ shrugs. She tries to edge past him in their cozy cubicle to examine another monitor, but he stands firm. Craning around his bicep, she gets only a glimpse of another photo—Gabriella glaring down the lens much like her father glares at MJ now—before all the monitors wash clean. Uncomplicated orange light surrounds on all angles, dimmed only by Miguel’s eclipsing stance. It makes her face tingle. Light therapy without the therapy. 

“How old’s Gabi?” MJ asks.

“Eight.”

“Eight’s a good age I hear. Mayday’ll be ten come October.” Clarity cracks like a whip across her face, melancholy splintering into a jagged wince. Collaring her throat, she rubs to smother the sudden sorrow.

Though her mind knows Mayday’s gone, her body often rejects it. Lips and tongue are keen to say is and will be. Maternal instinct spike at random. Sleep addled skin sometimes registers the weight and warmth of Mayday sneaking into bed, fleeing a nightmare. Unconscious ticks rouse her into adrenaline thoughts of where’s Mayday? What’s Mayday doing? Is Mayday OK?

It’s never been a problem with Peter. Mind and body agree that Peter’s gone. Even in her grief, she never doubted, just knew. 

But Mayday was a part of her before she was anything else. Neither of them had any sense surviving the pregnancy, but they did. For six grueling months of migraines and broken bones and transfusions and hysteria, MJ kept Mayday alive and Mayday gave MJ the strength to keep going. 

A connection like that, even death isn’t strong enough to fray. 

“Am I a bad mom?” MJ asks. It’s not clear even to her where she’s going, only that it will stick and shred in her throat if she doesn’t get it out. “I mean, would another Mayday really be my Mayday?”

Miguel doesn’t answer, not that she expected him to. He looks pained by the question. Behind him, the orange light smears, stinging in the corners of her eyes. Jesus, she needs to catch a grip. 

Clearing her throat, MJ says, “Didn’t mean to get so woo woo there.” She gives sarcastic jazz hands. “So the melodrama. It just cracks me in the chest sometimes, you know? It’s hard.”

“I’m sorry.” Miguel says. Then, “It doesn’t get you out of doing your debriefs.”

Ouch. It’s not even one step forward, two steps back with Miguel. It’s one step forward and a backwards shove off a cliff with him. MJ snorts and rolls her wrist, gesturing at him with faux deference. If she had more room, she’d give a little bow too. “Miguel O'Hara: couldn't clock sincerity if it almost burst into tears right in front of him.”

“You're an actress,” he says, matter-of-fact, as if the observation absolves him from being a total blockhead.

“And you're emotionally bankrupt.”

“Pretty much,” he says, crossing his arms, looking down his nose at her. “If you're upset, you should see the Spider-Shrink. I'm not the guy to help you there.”

“Right, you're the guy who decides whether I get a shot at having my family again.”

“They wouldn’t be your family.” 

“Would it kill you to have some empathy, even a smidge?” Scrubbing at her forehead, MJ buys herself some time to combat the rising magma in her throat. He’s pushing all her buttons, slamming them all at once like an unsupervised kid in an elevator. Given the profound pain of their current subject, she’s doing a pretty stellar job minding her tongue. 

“Emotionally bankrupt, remember?”

Okay, maybe not a stellar job at minding her tongue. Still, pretty civil. She’s said worse things to Harry during arguments about dinner plans. Not that they talk much about where to go for dinner anymore. 

“What does it hurt for me to try?” MJ demands. “Other than your ego?” 

“Your presence could unravel the fabric of the universe.”

“But who says—”

“I do, okay? I say.” Miguel doesn’t yell, though it’s clearly a strain. His mouth presses into a thin, bloodless line that makes the cut of his jawline all the more firm. “Not you. Me.” He gestures between the two of them, in case the message wasn’t clear. 

“If something happened to Gabi, wouldn’t you do anything to get her back?”

“You’re talking in circles, MariJane. You don’t even know what you want.” 

It would be easier if he shouted. A man shouting, MJ knows full well how to handle that. Men have shouted at her since she was a baby. This cold, simmering anger, she doesn’t trust it. Doesn’t like it. Hates it, actually. Especially when her own voice raises to compensate, scratching brash and loud and ugly. 

“I know exactly what I want. You to stop being such a total, insufferable killjoy, for one.”

The argument completely devolves from there. MJ tosses out her favorite insults—wise guy, total pill, miserable goddamn fucker (shocker). Miguel hits her with a real doozy, “This is real work. Not one of your vids where you only pretend to be an idiot.” 

Lyla has to call in the cavalry. Jess is none too happy to be involved, though she breaks up the shouting quick enough. After she’s dragged MJ by the metaphorical ear out of Miguel’s lab and given a rousing don’t stoop to his level pep talk, Jess confesses, “Truth time, when I walked in and saw you two in that tight little space, thought I had a very different problem on my hands.”

“Please,” MJ says, scoffing, blood at a low simmer. “I’m a ride he couldn’t survive.”

Though, it’s not the worst idea. Definitely wouldn’t be the worst way sex got her what she wanted (that would always and forever go to the handy of ‘08 for a half pack of Marlboro reds and a Smirnoff Ice. The late ‘00s were a dark time). It could be interesting though. Miguel’s so stressed and pent-up, he’s definitely a total freak in bed. She knows his type well from her time breaking in NYC. And LA. And then NYC again.

Overall, though, it’s unappealing and way too demeaning. Wielding her body like a cure-all got her short term rewards, but long term punishments. It nearly killed her and her career. It isn’t worth the risk now. 

If months from now she’s still spinning her tires, well, then she’ll climb Miguel like the Empire State Building. Whatever it takes to see her family again. 

No sooner does MJ part ways with Jess does a reminder thwip on her gizmo: Debrief Overdue. 

It’s not like MJ is the only slacker when it comes to paper work. Far from it. The problem is she leaves a lasting impression. Most Spiders take their dressing downs in silence or comedy, too afraid to protest. Few really push back against Miguel and no one else needles like she does. No one else chews his bandwidth and sets him buffering, according to Lyla.

Mae thinks it’s hysterical. Pyotr begs her to stop. 

“He gives us shit detail,” Pyotr grumbles later that day, as they swing into an exposed subway tunnel. There’s a flux incoming, though it’s a small inconvenience. Beyond the tunnel, the world shakes with a constant, droning rain. According to the pre-specs, the rain is nonstop. Pre-specs also laid out potential reasons why this NYC wasn’t subaqueous, but why would MJ bother to read that?

“Shit. Detail,” Pyotr continues, “because MJ must poke the bear!”

For a Symkarian-Soviet sleeper agent, Pyotr is fond of an American turn of phrase, employing them often with thick accent. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Mae says, ever the sunshine to Pyotr’s Eeyore impression. “This isn’t so bad. It’s just water and we're just three little ducks in the steam.”

All three are drenched, head to toe. Thanks to an unlucky splatter from a passing truck, MJ is soaked down to her cells. Pulling her suit off later will be a true test of strength and courage. Even reinforced Spandex can’t keep her from going pruny. 

Pyotr’s theory isn’t too far off. It doesn’t take a Spider Scientist to put the two and two together of her argument with Miguel leading to a switch from a lazy afternoon On Call (and plans to make use of the Spider-ball courts. Mae talks a massively huge game about her free throw abilities) to a series of active recon missions in the ass end of the Unknown.

Miguel O’Hara might be the least subtle man alive. 

“Maybe the b-b-bear shouldn’t be so po-pokable.” 

Teeth chittering, MJ stutters and stumbles through her words. Always cold, she’s practically freezing in the drafty subway tunnel. Rubbing her hands fast enough to warp the rubber lining of her gloves is pointless. It doesn’t help. Not even Mae’s sloppy bearhug imbues any warmth, though MJ appreciates the effort. She pats Mae on the back and her patting makes little glop glop noises. 

“Maybe the poker should be less quick to poke!” Pyotr argues.

“No fun in that,” MJ says without stuttering. Maybe Mae is helping thaw her out. 

“C’mon, grumpy,” Mae says. “Help me thaw out this MJ-sicle.”

Pyotr grumbles and delivers a petty little kick against the subway wall, but he does crouch beside them, wrapping MJ and Mae up in a tight hug. When he’s settled, Mae commands everyone to flash their chompers and then snaps a pic.

Later, when MJ’s typing up her debrief, she attaches the photo as a Supplemental in the file. For the required description she writes: unexpected perk of poking the bear. 

It gets her debrief flagged and grants her yet another opportunity to poke the bear so, hey, totally worth it. 

***

Beyond the backbreaking amounts of paperwork, life at the Spider Society looks good on MJ. Agility, mobility, dexterity, ingenuity, and all the other ‘ilities that make for a well rounded Spider—she’s shown marked improvement across the board. She can swing for miles without getting winded. Can go toe to toe with nastier anomalies (though she leaves the nastiest anomalies for Pyotr). Can bench 9 tons easily, steadily working towards benching that golden 10. 

With her vitals evened and her caloric intake balanced with a proper Spider-diet, she starts holding weight, building a nice flashing of muscle instead of hemorrhaging body mass down to her skeleton. Even her color starts to come back. Redder by the day, her hair gains vibrancy, bounce, and gloss beyond her wildest, cover-photo dreams. The expanse of her skin is no longer cracked and faded, but smooth and delicious. 

She feels good. She looks even better. Little by little, she’s leaving sad, washed out MJ behind and becoming someone new. MJ 2.0.

Harry notices, comments on it once or twice.

Used to be, he’d greet her with a peck on the forehead and something like you look like hell or are you having trouble sleeping again? Since her upswing, when he greets her, he kisses her on the temple and says, “Whatever you’re doing with Strange, it looks good on you.”

Or, when she finally agrees to make a public appearance at one of his events, he grins a too-big grin for his too-long face and says, “You’re a knock-out, Em.”

Behind closed doors, he looks at her overlong. Peering like he used to when he strayed from studying case law to studying her instead. And just like all those years ago, she directs his attention elsewhere. It’s easier to do now. Years of practice make it second nature. 

Like now, she splats her hand over the latest Bugle issue and declares, “If this isn’t libel, it should be.”

The headline reads: Spider-Man Sighting in SoHo: Back from the Dead or Haunting Nu Yorkers’ Minds?

Ever since Peter B’s brief swing through Brooklyn, Peter Parker sightings have become a frontpage chattering point for The Bugle. There’s been at least five similar stories published. For each one, Harry makes sure she gets a copy. No matter how many times she tells him it’s bullshit, he comes back with a fresh headline and the same questions. 

Hope is a powerful thing and she hates to burst his, but the sightings are bullshit. She ran the rumors down herself (difficult to do since The Bugle always cites “a Nu Yorker” as their source) and had Lyla confirm for good measure. There’s no Spider-Man sneaking around Nu York. Not a real one, at least. 

“It’s not even close to libel,” Harry says, shaking his head with a dry laugh. “But if Betty starts writing that MariJane’s noodle’s gone funny and she’s swinging around the city dressed like her late husband, we’ll wring her for everything she’s worth.” 

“Good thing I keep you on retainer.”

“Imagine: Spider-Woman v The Bugle Rag.” Harry strikes his foot back, clearing the air for his vision with a broad sweep of his hands. “Back in the good days, we’d get a limited series out of it.”

“Sure with MariJane as Harry Osborn.” She ribs him, gets a chuckle when she adds, “I always love a complicated redhead.”

Their conversation devolves into snorting laughter and pitches for the best actor for Spider-Woman. Harry says Catherine Zeta-Jones. MJ pitches Pacino.   

Now that she’s eating and sleeping instead of brooding and spinning out, her relationship with Harry is better than ever. Visits with Harry are the best part of her shoreleave, especially since the random street criminals and odd supervillain dust-ups just don’t pose the same threat or thrill as her missions into the Unknown.

It’s increasingly difficult to lie about her weekly disappearing act because there’s so much she wants to tell him, but the act of lying is easy enough. With his campaign ramping up, all his attention is focused there while hers is set on the Society. 

Even without the Unknown detail, Nu York just doesn’t hold a candle to Society life. Off mission, there’s a thousand things at HQ to keep her busy. The gym is her favorite haunt, but she can often be found in the rec hall with Pyotr and Mae or in the cafeteria side-eyeing all the Printed Meat disclaimers during lunches with Jess or any of her other Spider friends. It’s a steadily growing roster. Somedays, she has first and second lunches and dinners, just to accommodate so many wanting to grab a meal and gab with her. 

It’s been an adjustment, but it’s a full life. Every day, MJ inches closer and closer to happiness. It’s hard to reconcile. Harder to justify with the weight of the dead world on her back, but it’s happening. It’s almost here. She’s almost happy. 

Which is probably why, when Miguel summons her out of hand for an urgent meeting, she nearly combusts. No explanation comes with his summons. Just the request popping up on her schedule like a jumpscare.

Immediately, she assumes the worst. Urgent meetings don’t get randomly dropped onto good Spiders’ calendars. She texts Pyotr and Mae, but neither have had anything of the sort happen to them. Jess, though, helps calm her nerves.

SW-332 - cool the WTAF jets. It's a good thing. Trust me.

So, MJ does, even when Jess fails to elaborate on exactly what kind of good thing it is, and heads to Conference Room D doing her best to shake the feeling that she’s the first victim in a horror movie. Viewers throw popcorn at the screen and scream don’t go down there! Don’t do it! but MJ goes anyway to the chagrin of the audience in her gut. How bad could it be? 

Not bad at all, apparently. 

“You want me to join your inner circle?” MJ asks. Frankly, she’s gobsmacked. Of all the things she expected, this wasn’t even a notion considered and dismissed. It completely, utterly blindsides her. 

Jess and Ben Reilly sit at a small conference table. Peter B’s hologram hovers beside Ben. Petra Parker (the cyborg Spider-Woman and total badass from 202) is absent, but there’s a marker for where she would sit, across from Jess. Miguel stands at the far end of the table, directly across from MJ, and shoots a wry smile that doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Lyla got a pick,” he says.

Lyla materializes, making a heart with her fingers and blowing a kiss. She wears a garish pink shirt under her puffer coat that reads #1 MARIJANE STAN. Miguel waves her away like a bad smell, but she just darts out of his reach to take refuge beside MJ. Stan shirt concealed by her re-buttoned jacket, Lyla seeks a fist bump, which MJ gives. The entire display does nothing to explain the situation. 

“Actually,” Jess says, barely resisting an eye roll, “We need someone to report directly on the progress of Aggressive Expansion. And your name came up. And didn’t stop coming up.”

It’s not completely insane. Though she runs missions exclusively with Pyotr and Mae through the Unknown, she’s befriended a lot of other Spiders on the same detail, not to mention all the Spiders she’s recruited. Still, her gaze has been summarily focused on her team, her missions.  

“The whole project?” 

Miguel’s terse smile cuts. “If you can’t handle the responsibility—”

“No. Didn’t say that,” MJ interrupts. Her smile doesn’t meet her eyes either. “I just don’t have eyes on the project in full.”

Miguel fixes Jess with a deadpan stare, saying I told you so without saying I told you so. Jess’s expression twists, telegraphing disappointment. MJ frowns. Obviously, she fucked up something, but what? 

“Hey, pssst. Babes,” Lyla says, suddenly tiny beside MJ’s ear. She leans in with a hand covering her mouth from the view of the others. “You can see everyone’s reports. They’re available with all your submitted debriefs. It’s kinda expected that you review them regularly when you’re on a project.”

Ah. Fuck. 

“Okay, that’s on me.” MJ sets her jaw, holds her head high. “But I can do this. I want to do this.”

Her gaze meets Miguel’s. Steel on steel. A clashing of wills. She can do this. She will do this. He gives, cowing his gaze with a huffed, “Fine.”

And so MJ joins the Inner Circle of the Spider Society as the liaison for the Unknown Agents. It’s a big responsibility. A huge responsibility, compared to her insular, individual responsibilities as just a simple Agent. Each meeting, she’s expected to summarize the overall status of the Agents on her detail, as well as give detailed progress updates on project AE.

Beyond her little spiels, it’s mostly just Miguel and Jess yapping back and forth about other initiatives and findings. The words they use don’t even sound real half the time. Like muzak, but for conversation.

Peter B, Ben and Petra (who attends meetings only during lulls in the great Spider War) rarely speak. MJ isn’t quite sure of their purpose in the Inner Circle. They aren’t expected to give reports and they certainly don’t contribute much to Miguel and Jess’s dense, geeky discussions. When asked, they each give completely different answers. 

Peter, who still won’t meet her eye, shrugs and says, “I dunno. Moral support, I think.”

Ben, who lays both of his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the mask with bleeding heart sincerity, says, “If I told you, I would not be able to let you live.”

And Petra, who nearly blows out her eardrums when she blares, “In the year 2086, before the Spider War, I was an executive assistant.” 

“No kidding?” MJ asks, after she’s taken a sizable step back and rubbed sound back into her ears.

Petra doesn’t have a functioning neck so she nods by tilting back and forth like a drinky bird. 

Whatever the real reasons may be, Peter, Ben and Petra are members of the Inner Circle and they understand as little as she does. More than that, none of them seem too particularly concerned with their non-participation in the meetings. They congratulate her on jobs well done delivering her material, but never present anything of their own nor can they answer any of her questions about the conversations between Jess and Miguel that go over her head. 

It comes down to this: the three of them are part of the woodwork of this place. All the Spiders know them just about as well as they know Miguel and Jess. They don’t have to prove their worth. They don’t have to earn their keep. 

But MJ does. The Unknown is the final frontier for the Society. Once it’s fully mapped, her worth halves and anxiety skyrockets. Unlike the other three, her place at HQ isn’t guaranteed. If she doesn’t prove herself, again and again, then her security vanishes.

It’s the story of her life. To survive, MJ has to make herself invaluable. Personality and looks won’t cut it. No, she has to take a very different approach than the ones she’s used in the past. 

So, she starts speaking up in meetings beyond her required reports on the Unknown and Project AE. Well, she tries to speak up. Miguel steamrolls her, totally ignoring her polite attempts to cut in. He forces her hand. Figuratively. Literally. He forces her hand so she raises it, pointedly swaying it side to side like she’s vibing to a power ballad. All eyes turn to her, including the holographic eyes of Lyla. 

In a rare occurrence, every member of the Inner Circle is in person. All seated around the table with Miguel standing at the head, their heads snap back and forth between MJ's raised hand and Miguel’s ocular death wish.

“Yes, MariJane?” Miguel grounds out, setting his jaw. It’s a careful line between asserting herself and pissing off Miguel. He doesn’t have to like her, but it’s easier if he does. 

“Hi, thanks.” She lowers her hand, speaks with both. “So, I don’t think more mandatory trainings is the right move. In fact—”

“This part isn’t really meant for you.”

She gives an innocent smile. “But I’m here, aren’t I?”

“I, for one, would love to hear what MJ has to say,” Jess says. 

The other Spiders nod their agreement. Miguel harrumphs, but waves for her to continue with one hand and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. 

“Right so this rise in broken protocol—”

Miguel interrupts to add, “Which you directly contribute to.”

“Sure, but that’s intentional.” She beams a smile that he answers with a snarl of upper lip. If it weren’t so easy to get under his skin, she wouldn’t want to do it all the time. “The problem’s the manual. A lot of Spiders don’t even read it. It’s too intimidating. Too science-y.”

“That’s true,” Lyla says. “Readership is critically low.” 

“I’ve never even cracked that thing open,” Peter says. He leans back in his chair like this is a great feat as assents go up around the table. 

“You’re not supposed to read it cover to cover,” Miguel says. “It’s referential.”

“But it’s not easy,” MJ argues. “I know I’m the only one in the room without a super IQ, but I’m not the only one in the Society. If the super geniuses don’t have the gumption to read through the huge sections then what hope do us simple folks have?”

“My time is valuable,” Ben agrees, nodding sagely. 

MJ touches a finger to her nose and then points it at Ben with a wink. He blushes, but overcompensates to hide it by stretching the elastic collar of his suit up to his eyes. It is a move that is neither cool nor casual. “Exactly, slugger.”

“That’s why all gizmos come with the direct link to Lyla.” Miguel juts a thumb at Lyla, who laces her fingers under her chin and bats her eyelashes like she’s posing for a 60s pinup. 

“Lyla’s great,” MJ says, deftly catching and accepting the kiss Lyla blows her way, “but new Spiders aren’t asking Lyla anything when they’re still trying to get their feet under them and—”

“You working towards a solution or just trying to waste everyone’s time?” 

Hackles raised, MJ squares her shoulders. A sarcastic twist of her lips hides grit teeth. “It’s only a waste of time if you keep interrupting me, Miguel.” 

With a dramatic huff, Miguel drops down into his chair, gesturing his arms wide to give her the floor. Peter coughs into his fist to cut the tension. Ever helpful but fundamentally confused about the nuances of fleshies, Petra thumps a huge hand over Peter’s back like he’s a baby to be burped. The force of Petra’s pat squishes Peter flat down into the table. She keeps thumping Peter on the back until he manages a squeaking thanks. 

It’s a ridiculous enough distraction to temper the rampant animosity between MJ and Miguel for the rest of the meeting. MJ gives her suggestions: significant edits to the manual; a FAQ section; expanding the Buddy system to designate mentors for the newer and more impressionable Spiders; regular AMA sessions with Lyla. Miguel only takes umbrage with most of them, instead of all of them. Jess and the others think they’re all worth a shot. Lyla kickstarts the process for implementation. 

From there, MJ’s confidence only grows. Though she does her best to avoid arguments with Miguel during meetings, they both run so hot, confrontation is inevitable. He’s quick to nix and nitpick everything she says. She’s quick to take it personally. All her best intentions go straight into the disposal the second he sets his hands against his waist and uses his infuriating, trademark I’m Better Than You tone. 

Jess is a godsend, mediating their fights with the aplomb of a debate moderator. She isn’t afraid to tone check either of them and puts MJ in time-out just as much as Miguel, which MJ can’t help but appreciate. During meetings, Jess is all business and absolutely no-nonsense, but during their lunches, she quietly raves about the newfound excitement in the Inner Circle. 

“We used to go an hour just listening to Miguel ramble about things that definitely could’ve been a text,” Jess tells her over steaming empanadas, “at least now it’s interesting.”

Ben, Peter and Petra seem to get a kick out of it too. With each verbal volley, their heads (or holograms) ping-pong back and forth fast as Wimbledon spectators. 

An entertainer at heart, MJ’s happy to deliver, but each argument with Miguel leaves her unmoored. Especially the ones she wins. The hierarchy of the Spider Society is convoluted and (mostly) nonexistent, save for one constant. Miguel’s at the tippy-top. His word is law made manifest by Jess at his right hand and Lyla at his left. 

Both of his hands adore her, best she can tell, but the man himself isn’t jazzed. At a moment’s notice, he could revoke her invitation and cast her back into multiversal anonymity. 

It’s a fine line she walks between asserting herself and making an ass of herself. Sometimes, the line blurs. Sometimes, she makes it blur. As much as she gets under his skin, Miguel gets under hers too. 

Of all Spiders, Peter is the one to put it all in perspective for her.

“If you were a problem or Miguel didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here, MJ,” he says, taking excruciating interest in a smudge on the wall. “Look at Lyla. She’s his closest friend in the world, which is sad. The guy really needs to get out more. I keep inviting him over, but he’s always busy. But anyway, Lyla gives him way more flack than you do. He loves it.”

Though it’s crazy to suggest Miguel loves their little bickerments, MJ does take Peter’s point. Miguel could revoke her access at a moment’s notice, but he hasn’t yet. So, he doesn’t hate her.

Sometimes, even, she flirts with the notion that there might be a bug of begrudging respect between them. Much as she has to scrabble and claw to be heard, Miguel does implement a lot of her suggestions. The notion never sticks, but MJ starts to believe it could. She just has to bluff her cards right.

With each passing day on duty, MJ etches out her niche in the Society. Slowly, but ever more surely. 

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Go Stand in the Corner and Think About What You’ve Done

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Collected Form 86s raised against (or related to) MARIJANE during the course of her service as follows:

FORM 86

1. Named Spider:
   • SW-7782, MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER
2. Relevant Mission No:
   • 432-MK199999
3. Objective Description of Incident:
   • Named Spider posted content (photos and audio recording) of an anomaly to the controversial Boss Spotting Bingo subthread to announce a winning “bingo” thanks to an encounter with an alleged three-for-one vocal doppelganger. Named Spider was also found to have maintained and prolonged communication with said anomaly after anomaly was returned home.
4. Offense(s):
   • Inappropriate behavior; deviation from protocol; harassment; MISC—WASTED interdimensional minutes on unsanctioned communications
5. Sanction(s):
   • Mandatory Trainings:
     • Oh No, They’re Hot: The Dangers of Forming Bonds with Anomalies
     • Not All Jokes Are Funny
     • God’s Favorite Voice Actors: Vocal Proliferation and Commonalities Across the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse
6. Appeal:
   • Alleged violations arose from necessary reconnaissance to determine the origins and further implications of a Unique Anomaly
7. Appeal Status:
   • DENIED
     • Commentary: Engaging with that stupid subthread doesn’t constitute “reconnaissance.” Especially not with the caption “M*guel if he wasn’t a total snooze 3x makes BINGO B*TCHES!” Neither does extended conversation with un-vetted anomaly and swapping of phone numbers because “babes gotta look out for babes” constitute “reconnaissance.” We only have a limited number of interdimensional minutes and they’re NOT TO BE USED RECREATIONALLY!!!

FORM 86

1. Named Spider: 
   • SW-7782, MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER
2. Relevant Mission No: 
   • 200-LZ6864
3. Objective Description of Incident:
   • Named Spider was enticed by the locals to participate in celebratory rites after a successful mission, staying beyond the set return-time. Named Spider also removed mask, revealing secret identity and leaving a lasting impression. 
4. Offense(s): 
   • Inappropriate behavior; deviation from protocol; violation of LNT
5. Sanction(s): 
   • Mandatory Trainings: 
     • Oops, You Left a Trace
     • Proper Conduct for Proper Spiders
6. Appeal: 
   • To avoid blowing cover, it was necessary to ingratiate myself to the local population of Earth-200. Alleged violations were not undertaken lightly or without forethought. It was a matter of survival.
7. Appeal Status: 
   • DENIED
     • Commentary: In what universe is DANCING AROUND WITH A BUNCH OF DRUNK LOCALS a matter of survival? Pyotr stayed out of it. He’s not dead. And you TOOK OFF YOUR MASK! The local Spider’s working overtime to make sure there’s no bleedout from all the stories and paintings and sculptures. You’re lucky I didn’t suspend you for this. 

FORM 86

1. Named Spider: 
   • SW-7782, MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER
2. Relevant Mission No:  
   • 43-GG1999; 123-DO61; 77333-SM04
3. Objective Description of Incident:
   • Named Spider was found to be conversing extensively with anomalies in the Rogues Gallery awaiting the Go Home Machine. Named Spider broached topics that are considered confidential by Society standards.
4. Offense(s): 
   • Inappropriate behavior; deviation from protocol; insubordination
5. Sanction(s): 
   • Mandatory Training: 
     • Loose Lips Sink Super Secret Societies
   • MISC: 
     • Banned from Rogues Gallery and Go Home Machine 
6. Appeal: 
   • In an attempt to better understand the experience of anomalies and thereby develop a better response to handling the same, I took it upon myself to follow up with them. No proprietary information was shared and conversation was limited to their experiences in interdimensional travel and containment by the Society. 
7. Appeal Status: 
   • DENIED
     • Commentary: Nice try. Every containment field is miked. I have full record of everything said. Presence of failed quantum or multidimensional collider attempts have no impact on prevalence or impact of anomaly selection. Not a half bad idea to do exit interviews, though. Lyla’s looking into implementing a feedback system. She’ll give you credit if it pans out. 

FORM 86

1. Named Spider: 
   • SW-332, JESSICA DREW
2. Relevant Mission No:  
   • 928B-SW7782
3. Objective Description of Incident:
   • Named Spider is suspected of assisting another Spider in drafting their appeal responses to various offenses.
4. Offense(s): 
   • MISC: 
     • STOP WRITING MARIJANE’S APPEALS 
5. Sanction(s): 
   • MISC: 
     • SERIOUSLY, YOU’RE PISSING ME OFF
6. Appeal: 
   • No, it’s funny. 
7. Appeal Status: 
   • GRANTED

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Referential. Early in her tenure, MARIJANE exhibited a rebellious streak and penchant for violation of LNT and no-contact protocols. As she acclimated, incidence of violation declined. Unlikely that she was acting out of turn with ulterior motives beyond being a brat. Only exception is the violation given for extensive discussion with Anomalies pending Go Home procedure. MARIJANE was fishing for information pertaining to failed collider attempts. Very likely she was looking for a universe compatible with her ultimate goal of reuniting with some version of her family. Extremely doubtful she had any indication of [REDACTED] at this time. 

Further analysis underway. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Rapture" by Blondie

i have waaay too much fun scheming up the inner workings of the spider society. miguels corporate background/trauma is something that's soOoo fascinating to me. the spider society being a little corporation because its all miguel knows... miguel being forced into the very authority role he's always resented for the greater good, because no one else can handle it, no else can understand it, because he's good at it and his ego needs it even if he hates himself for it... miguel having to put aside his humanity to be The Boss and make the hard, logical, cruel calls because someone has to (even as it drives the stake in deeper and deeper because he still has dana's blood on his hands, hasn't spoken to xina in years)... miguel cracking but not crumbling under the pressure... miguel not sure if he deserves to be happy because of all the sacrifices hes made for the society or DESPITE the sacrifices (or if he deserves to be happy at all)...

anyway. lots of thoughts. lots of feelings. may or not be a miguel centric character study-y companion piece that runs alongside this one but TBD for a later date. and a random spin-off AU thing. my little hobby is accumulating FAST ( ⚆ _ ⚆ )

next chapter: Miguel O'Hara says "do as I say, not as I do" and MJ takes that personally (aka if everyone's lying, who's telling the truth?)

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

11/30 edit -
Miguel POV: in your dreams, in your song: chap 2 - Argumentative Augmentations

Chapter 11: so brittle, so little left to give

Summary:

A truth comes to light and things go wrong

The call comes through midday. Touchdown in 5. No extensive brief on the situation. Just the pre-specs. Location: Earth-10001. Anomaly: Suspected Green Goblin. Threat Level: High. Not abnormal for the Unknown. Kind of why it’s called the Unknown to begin with. 

Though, MJ maintains, there’s a better, cooler name out there. Dark Zone. Deep Space. Something cool and edgy and interesting without trying too hard. Mae suggests, “Unreal reality?”

“Oh, I like that,” MJ says. “Lyla, get that back to Miguel, yeah?” 

Lyla salutes. Beneath her sneakered feet, the edges of a portal polish and sharpen off. She says, “Be safe, you crazy kids. Gobbys, even suspected Gobbys, give me the ick.”

MJ and Mae both promise to be good. Pyotr shoves through without a word, only a glare. Nobody liked his suggested substitute for the Unknown—Spooky Space. 

“Lighten up, slim,” Mae calls after him. Her words slicken and slide along the avenue of the portal, chasing them out into the other side. MJ takes her prescribed five seconds to reorient while Mae leaps onto Pyotr’s back, hugging him from his momentary grump while he squawks and tries to peel her off. 

10001 itself is fairly tame for the Unknown. Gravity is normal. The air is breathable. The inhabitants are human. The only discernible difference is the world cast in monochrome from a black sun. Shadows are deeper, darker. Bright spots can blind.

It makes NYC no less beautiful. The interplay of dark and light, twinkling snowflares for street lamps and headlights and advertisements, pitch and soot for brick and steel, it makes for a city in negative. NYC seen through the membrane of a dream—liminal and smoky. 

The Spiders Three fan out on the other side of the portal. Pyotr in point, MJ and Mae flanking him. They make their way down East 35th, black monolith of the Empire State Building peeking up overhead. Shut down for construction, the street is unoccupied, save for a group of workers nursing lunch pail hoagies. 

Gizmos activate and ping, tracking and tracing cosmic disturbances in frequencies and spectrums beyond their perception. For all their tech and training, nothing can compare to a solid pair of eyes and ears and extrasensory Spider-Sense when the anomaly drops right down on top of them. 

“Goblin!” MJ shouts as they burst apart beneath the fast descending shadow. 

Like a streak of light, the Goblin splits the sky as it descends. Black sunlight catches in its gleaming, grotesque visor, throwing off reflections like sunbursts. It slows inches above the pavement in a roar of heat and wind. The bleating, hummingbird whine of its glider cuts through the brusque soundscape of a city at work. Buoying this way and that, rotating in spot, Goblin slowly takes in the competition. 

“Three Spiders. Do I get the fourth free?”

This isn’t MJ’s first go-round with a Goblin. Seven times now she’s stared down the business end of a glider and come up aces on the other side with only a few bruises and red around the eyes to show.  It is her first time facing a female Goblin. The voice is modulated, but distinctly effeminate. The suit, too, is more fitted than she’s seen in others—padded with armor, but with enough shape to give the impression of a bust and a waist. A Norma or Normette, probably. 

The ever blurring lines of gender, appearance, and presentation hardly register for MJ anymore. She’s encountered just as many Pennys and Petunias as Peters. Even a couple Martin Jakes. These aren’t even as strange as the parade of interchanging villains—Osborn Doc Ocks and Black Cat Kravens and Hammerhead Tombstones. It’s all weird, but if she expends too much brain power really thinking about it, her mind will pulp itself.

Bad luck for Gobby, in any case. MJ really hates Goblins. Hates any Norman Osborn adjacent anomaly, really. 

“Counteroffer,” Pyotr says from atop a newspaper bin across the street. He squats over it like a frog. “You give up and we get early lunch. Well, not you, but maybe you get two, three fry out of the deal? Sound like plan?”

“The fries are real groovy,” Mae adds, perched on top of a bus shelter. “Total saltbomb! I bet I can get’cha at least five!” 

They’ve triangulated out from the Goblin, loosely caging her in. Only MJ stands at ground level, crouched and ready for Goblin to strike.

“What about you? Got a deal for me?” Goblin wheels her way, cocking a heavy, masked head to the side. The glider wavers and she shifts, a smooth movement of weight moved to the balls of her feet. Behind her on either side, Pyotr and Mae draw closer, creeping to keep quiet. 

“No deal,” MJ says. “You wouldn’t take one anyway. You Goblins never make it easy.” 

“Goblins? Interesting.” 

Pyotr smacks his forehead loud enough to echo. Even Mae’s shoulders sag a little. MJ just earned them all extra paperwork, at best. At worst, another lecture, if Miguel’s in the mood to crush spirits. Which, fuck, he always is. 

No point delaying the inevitable. MJ winds her arm like a pitcher’s. “Let’s just get into it, shall we? We all know this conversation is on a sleeper car straight to hell.”

“Let’s,” Goblin agrees, but MJ’s already launching at her, springing forward and slinging webs to ground the glider. 

The glider screeches, whirring out of her way and right into Mae’s. Mae throws a punch, but Goblin catches it before it can connect. 

“Tricksy, tricksy,” Goblin sing-songs, tossing Mae aside like a sack of grain. Bravado blinds her to Pyotr, who springboards off the side of a building to drop on her.

They trade blows, but Goblin takes the fight aerial. With two stamps of her foot, the glider careens up into the sky on a nitrous boost. Quick as ever, Pyotr manages to snag the board as it blitzes past. He and Goblin vanish in a blip of smoke. 

“Bad,” MJ says, exchanging a nervous, gulping look with Mae.

“Very bad,” Mae agrees. 

Together, they leap into rescue mode. In tandem, they web along and up the avenue, chasing the shadow of the bucking glider. Pyotr clings, but Goblin does her damnedest to shake him loose. Twisting and turning, she even jumps up and down on the glider. All her attempts fail to dislodge him. 

Over the comms, Pyotr curses up a storm dark enough to blackout the entire eastern seaboard. His long frame bobs up and down, jerks left to right, whipping back and forth like a flag in a windstorm. 

If the Society ever decides to have a bull riding contest, Pyotr would win. Hands down. 

Arms working as mirrored opposites, MJ and Mae crest beside Goblin, who whips around sharp enough to finally fling Pyotr free. He goes flying fast as a fly flicked from a windshield wiper, sprawled arms and legs kicking into a flurry.  

“Mother of fuck!” he screams, cartwheeling away, as Goblin spins. Bombs spit out in a whirlwind. MJ redirects the few she can up into the clouds. The others, she can only dodge out of the blast radius. Storefronts and windows shatter. Plaster and mortar crumble. Pedestrians and passersby scream. 

MJ cuts mid-swing, intent on doubling back, but Pyotr streaks out of a Pyotr shaped hole in the building below, beating her to the intercept. He scoops up the civilians as the street explodes around them.

MJ doesn’t wait to see them ushered to safety. She chases Goblin, doing her best not to look down at the ant-sized people below. MJ’s never been afraid of heights, but there’s something about being hundreds of feet up in the air with only some web fluid and a prayer that will always make her stomach cramp. 

“Persistent pests, aren’t you?” Goblin huffs, limboing underneath a webbed tripwire slung by Mae. An afterburner burst shakes MJ from her tail, but drives her straight into Mae’s eager right hook. Goblin and glider go spinning faster than a pinwheel in a tornado. 

It makes MJ nauseous to watch, but Goblin recovers quick, cleanly breaking the death spiral with a roar of frustration. Too bad for her, MJ and Mae are counting on her stop. Crisscrossing, MJ cracks her knuckles against Goblin’s mask while Mae kicks out her legs. All three go flying. MJ and Mae arc around the glider. Goblin ends up strung out over top of it, catching it in the chest. 

It’s at that precise moment, hundreds of feet in the air with the Empire State Building keeping dreadful watch, that Goblin glitches. 

With a screech, she bursts into a horror show of polygons and pixels and viscera. Green and purple of every shade and combination take corporeal form, shattering her body and soul into unholy form. A glissando of pain by a choir of Goblins across the multiverse gives dramatic rise as Goblin jerks viciously. Her glider tilts. Jagged streak of cosmic blight, Goblin plummets. 

And MJ leaps into freefall after her. 

Com static crackles in her ear, but MJ can’t focus on the sound. If Goblin doesn’t stabilize soon, there’s no way MJ can catch her without snapping her neck or squishing on the pavement beside her. Buildings and balconies rush past. Gravity teethes as she rips through the air, hastened by Goblin’s slipstream. All her instincts and Mae scream at her to pull up, but she’s got time. She’s got time. She’s—

Goblin codifies into a solid being with a groan. Impossible shots fire and stick. MJ swings them to safety, pendulating up onto a rooftop patio. Goblin hits the floor with a thunk, rolling out like a log. MJ flubs her landing, stumbling out of it, nearly toppling over herself. 

“Too freakin’ close!” Mae shouts over the com. MJ shields her eyes, cranes back, but she can't pin Mae’s location. There’s sirens drawing closer and smoke billowing all around, but no sign of her other Spider-Buddy either. Pyotr’s a blackhole. 

“Pyotr, report in,” MJ says. Silence. Panic ripples and burbles out of her stomach, through her chest, up into her throat, scorching. Frenzied civilians scurry below, shouting and pointing at the scars of violence. “Pyotr, I swear to God—”

Smothered Symkarian filters through the com. MJ bends in half with a sigh of relief, catching herself on her knees. Thank God. Mae reports that she’s on an intercept for Pytor, having disabled the glider. 

All in all, not a terrible mission. Not their best, but not their worst. 

Extrasensory warning rattles her spine. MJ drops into a sideways lunge, kissing the ground. A sizzling bolt of red boils where her head had been.

Across from her, Goblin pops upright, firing a fresh blast of light from her pointer finger. MJ flips out of the way, but the bolt chews a line through the edge of her silhouette. Nerves explode from her bicep up into her sinuses. The smell of burnt flesh nauseates.  

Lasers. The creep has lasers and not a lick of gratitude. 

Webbing splats over Goblin’s visor and MJ hurdles the distance between them in the time it takes Goblin to claw it free. Knuckles rain and bloody over the mask, rocking Goblin’s noggin back and forth with each blow. A jagged fissure splits Goblin’s ugly mug, flaking wider and wider until the entire thing falls away in chunks. The face that lies beneath is shock enough to stagger. 

Spidey-Sense blares, but MJ’s too slow to respond. Goblin knees her in the gut swift and hard enough to spot her vision and fold her like a flip phone. Laser tipped fingers claw into her mask, smashing MJ’s nose and hooking her lip. High, incessant whining sounds as heat gathers, hotter and hotter, where each finger digs into her face. 

Wrenching wild and inarticulate spares MJ from a laser lobotomy but she loses strips of her mask to Goblin's grip. She has no choice. She tears free of her mask. 

A Spider stares at a Goblin. MJ stares at MJ.

Goblin-MJ blinks once. Twice. A slow grin spreads across her face, twisting familiar features into the grotesque. “Well hello, beautiful.” 

Wham! 

Mae drops from the sky like an avenging angel. Her sucker punch sends Goblin-MJ reeling. Blood sprays from her nose. Arms windmill. Eyes roll all-white. She slumps backwards, collapsing in a pile of awkward angles. 

“Yuck,” Mae says, wiping her bloodied fist on her thigh. To MJ, she advises, “Green’s so not your color.”

Staring down at the unconscious flop of interdimensional evil twin, MJ can only offer a stiff nod of agreement. 

***

Agents aren’t supposed to engage the anomalies in conversation. MJ knows this. She’s gotten in trouble for it before. But the specs on 131077 are maddeningly sparse. Suspected Parker variant. Metrics within standard, but cosmic interference high. One notable encounter listed: in progress Extraction & Return of anomaly (GG-131077) . It’s slotted for Phase 6 of Aggressive Expansion. 

Not soon enough. 

Margo, uncharacteristically quiet, stands guard over the terminal at MJ’s back. She knows as well as MJ that one-on-one chats are forbidden, but she put up no fight when MJ interrupted the pre-check Go-Home procedure, demanding to speak to her double. She just shrugged and said, “Knock yourself out, but do it quick. I really don’t want one of Miguel’s I’m angry and I’m disappointed and also if you were an adult I’d call you an idiot lectures.”

It was a no-brainer to agree to the young Spider’s terms. 

Now, medically cleared and sporting a newly repaired suit, MJ approaches the Go Home platform, webbing across the distance to stand against the static cage, face to face with another MJ. 

Goblin and Spider unmask. Two MJs stand bared. Reflecting and dissecting. Like recognizing like. Between them, there’s no charm. No placating smiles or softened eyes. There’s no need. They’re the same. 

Same squared jaw. Same bladed nose. Eyes like luxury, winged in black. Fringed, scruffy bangs, waved in just the same direction. An identical smooch of freckles spilled over noses and cheekbones. All the history of a face that could be the other’s in another world, another tragedy. 

“You look lonely,” MJ says.

Other MJ says, “Look closer.”

Differences disseminate. Eyes of a brown more black. Brows plucked pristine. The tight pull of telltale Botox around lips and eyes and forehead. The haughty hitch of superiority in too full lips. 

“It was a riot playing with you and your friends earlier,” Other MJ says. “The Russian was a total stud.” 

The whir of the cage is loud, but the rest of the platform and the behemoth machine above is still. Somewhere behind, Margo quietly clicks away at her console. Muffled music bumps from earbuds. At least the kid’s making a good effort to hide her eavesdropping. 

MJ leans back, crossing her arms. Weighted on the opposite leg, Other MJ takes up a similar stance. 

“Symkarian, actually,” MJ corrects. “And yeah, he is pretty cute. You don’t have any dynamite guys back home?”

“You wanna come visit?” A grin splits Other MJ’s face. It’s a 24 karat smile that highlights the heavenly perfection of her face and masks the hell in her eyes. “We’ve got a spare bedroom. I’m sure the Mister would love to help you break it in. Save me the trouble, at least.”

With a cavalier roll of her eyes, MJ waves away the suggestion. “No thanks. Already took a test drive on Harry. Not my speed.”

“Those newer models aren’t worth the effort. It’s pricey, but you gotta spring for the classic.”

MJ’s stomach clenches, curdles. She confronted the idea, once. When she was young and desperate. When her relationship with Harry was rotting and Peter wouldn’t give her the time of day. When Harry’s father corners her in the back of the gallery. The few onlookers around flit out, cowed by stiff-browed suggestion alone. When he speaks, there’s no one else to hear but her. 

“What do you want out of life, Miss Watson?”

Norman doesn’t touch her, but he could, if he wanted. The distinction between touch and not is his desire alone. Shivers ice down her neck, creep along her shoulder blades. From skull to sacrum, the expanse of her back is bared. A twisted up-do of curls. A slinky dress. Both flattering, but too open. Too revealing. Supple soft skin, all on display.

Tonight’s look was Harry’s choice. Not hers. Never hers. 

“Harry says you’re an aspiring actress. A dying art, but a classic pursuit.”

The stench of money and authority. The threat of pain, shame, it looms large. Animal fear meets animal rage. She could splash wine in his face, if she hadn’t drunk it all. Could mash the spike of her heel down into his toes, if she hadn’t slipped out of them three exhibits back. Could sink her teeth into his jugular, if she didn’t fear the taste. 

“Fame. Fortune. Immortality. Is that it?  Or maybe, something far simpler.”

A triptych hangs on the wall in front of them. Violent swaths of paint blistered and bubbled over the canvases, guttered by the immaculate white of the gallery wall. Visceral and textured. The colors of arterial spatter and gristle. Primum vulnus christo. It reminds of meat. 

No one’s coming to save her. 

“Escape. Freedom.”

Norman leans closer. Skirts a palm over the curve of her shoulder, slipping down the slope of her back. Night falls. Shadows close. All she can do is stand still and look pretty. Cold and bloodless. Total antithesis, total mockery of the hot churning blood in her face, storming in her ears. In her gut is the desperate, frenzied need to gnaw the hand that feeds. 

“What are you willing to do to get it?”

And some version of MJ had shown him. Had taken the easy way out. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Other MJ snaps. Her eyes have gone full black, the iris swallowed whole. “I have everything I want in life. Everything I deserve.”

“I made my own way.” And she did. MJ fought and spit and clawed for recognition. All on her own. For six years before Mayday and before she accepted Peter’s love, MJ did it without a soul to rely on. But she did it. She suffered for it. Bled for it. Drowned for it. But she did it. 

“You needed someone,” Other MJ insists. “You always need someone.”

“I’m not you. I made different choices. The right choices.”

“Different choices, maybe. Never the right ones. Morality is a waste of time. It doesn’t matter to us. All that matters is what we’re owed. Everything we went through, someone has to pay for that.”

Responses crowd and die on MJ's tongue. It’s not true, but the words to disapprove don’t come easily. No stranger to self doubt, MJ despairs to hear the darkest parts of her soul spoken aloud. 

“We’re the same,” Other MJ says. “Down to the scar tissue.”

A split on the back of her elbow from a high school cheer stunt gone wrong. A thin furrow in the back of her thigh from a Spider-Man rescue gone right, but almost wrong. A purple strip of scar sliced down from her belly button where Mayday was pulled bloodied and harrowed. A litany of scars all across her body, spilling the secrets of her life. 

There’s hundreds of other MJs in the Spider Society, but they’re all a little different. A little wrong. Their scars don’t align with hers. The maps of their lives lead in opposing directions. 

MJ’s hand flinches to her abdomen, rests lightly over it. “I’m nothing like you.”

Cruel delight makes Other MJ’s black eyes shimmer like crackling coals. Across the barrier, her hand holds the same position. “Not all the way, no. My son’s still alive.”

The barb is misshapen, but it strikes true, slipping right into the chink of near-perfect armor. MJ snarls, slamming her hands against the containment field, uncaring that thousands of tiny quills erode the fabric of her gloves, gnawing through to the soft touch of her palms beneath until blood wells and smears. 

A hand falls over her shoulder, rips her away. MJ shrugs it off on instinct, uncaring who it belongs to. Peter B, as it turns out. 

“Margo,” he calls. “Send ‘er through.”

Goblin MJ yells, slamming up against the edge of the barrier, striking at MJ’s bloody handprints, but the words are lost to the scritch scratch of the machine’s Go Home protocol. Bright light flashes and when it’s past, Goblin MJ’s gone. The Go Home machine powers down, scuttling back into the rafters above. 

In the silence, Peter says, “She was playing you.”

“You think I don’t know that?” 

It doesn’t make a difference if she did or didn’t know. She got played all the same. There’s no telling how long he stood behind her. How much he heard. 

“Goblins can be slimy, especially the ones with the charisma to back up their mind games. That’s why I prefer good ole Stormin’ Norman, especially if he’s the cartwheels and sonnets type. ” 

Peter smiles, but it's weak, uncertain. His eyes dip and dart around her face, never settling in any one place. “I won’t tell Miguel I ran into you. Though he’s maybe the one who told me to come looking for you here.” 

MJ chews the inside of her cheek. With the other MJ gone, her blood pressure’s dropped, but pain teems at the edges of her vision. She was stupid to think a Goblin, MJ or otherwise, would leave her with anything more than a migraine. “Strange he didn’t want to bust me himself.”

“He probably would’ve, but he’s on dad duty. Actually, I’m supposed to bust you, if I saw you, which we both know I didn’t.” Peter turns to call over his shoulder. “Right, Margo?”

From the platform, Margo peeks over the terminals and shouts, “Wha? Just MJ? Haven’t seen her.”

“Kid’s a natural,” Peter says, laughing and thumbing up towards Margo, who rolls her eyes and darts away.  “But, yeah, after trying and failing to bust you because you’re not here, I have to tap him out for babysitting. Big man’s got a big meeting with Alchemax.”

MJ really, truly doesn’t care. It’s callous, but she doesn’t. Today has been exhausting. All she wants is to turn the shower to scalding and stand underneath it until the stiffness unlocks from her chest. 

But, MJ isn’t callous. She’s bubbly and personable, even when it doesn’t come naturally. She is nothing like that other, monstrous MJ. 

Feigning interest, MJ asks, “Why doesn’t he just bring her here?”

Peter’s face twists, quick and sharp—there and gone. It’s a small, intimate detail. One she would never have noticed in anyone else. “I dunno, but he’s super strict about it though. He’s strict about everything. No sugar after 5. No joyrides through the multiverse. No good cartoons.” 

“What’re the good cartoons?”

“Honestly? Anything but that stupid Spongebob rip-off they have in ni-ueva York.”

The slip is tiny. Barely anything. A nigh sound morphed into Nueva. MJ would’ve noticed it, maybe would’ve teased the flub if things weren’t so awkward between them, but Peter’s face twists around it, telegraphing to anyone with eyes that he nearly gave up the ghost. Something silly turns sinister with a single wince. 

What isn’t he telling her?

“Oh, wow,” she says, wide eyed instead of squinting. “Is it a spin-off or something? ”

“No, it’s just a total ripoff. Same characters, but different names. Same episodes even, just a different title.”

“What’s it called?”

Rocking back and forth on his toes, Peter falters. “What?”

“The rip-off. What’s it called?”

Peter does a pretty good job at playing dumb, but of all the Peters in the Society, he’s the most like her husband. Same face, same mannerisms. All differences are minimal, a trick of the light more than real differences. Even before he responds, she knows he’ll lie to her. 

She just doesn’t know why. 

***

An hour after Peter peels out to report for babysitting finds MJ hunched on her bed. On her gizmo, she scrolls through all the media available from 928B on a hunch. It’s not a hard hunch. It’s based on nothing more than a tugging in her gut. But Peter’s behavior was too weird. Too secretive. 

Something’s up. Something bad. 

So, she’s looking for the rip-off cartoon Peter mentioned. Should be an easy thing to rule out. Except, there’s nothing. No cartoons whatsoever, actually, which is weird because Lyla makes a habit of cataloging all media. It’s some sort of tertiary, background project. Media analysis to see if it has any implications on the kind and skills of Spiders from certain earths. 

So it’s weird that 928B doesn’t have any cartoons cataloged. Weird enough that she calls Peter. Who ignores her call. And her second one. And her third one. 

In fact, when she tries to get his location, she gets an emoticon Lyla with her tongue sticking out and her eyes winking with the error message, Dangit! Swallowed some bad code!

It’s still nothing, but it’s a little closer to something. 

Even when Spiders are off in their respective universes, their locations populate. Their coordinates don’t ping, but the universe code is given. MJ checks a few other Spiders, just to be sure. 

MAE PARKER-4200C [off-duty]. Location: Earth-928B

MIGUEL O’HARA-928B. Location: Earth-928B

MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER-7822 [off-duty]. Location: Earth-928B

BEN REILLY-35. Location: Earth-614

PYOTR PARKOV-2319 [on medical leave]. Location: Earth-928B

PETER B. PARKER-616B [off-duty]. Location: Error[403]: Oh, she’s broke broke. Check again later. 

PETER B. PARKER-616B [off-duty]. Location: Error[403]: Miguel would want you to know the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over (and over) and expecting a different result. Not LYLA though! LYLA would never say that. 

Classified missions. That’s the only time MJ’s ever seen the location fail to load. Even then, the location just reads classified. But Peter’s location keeps kicking back an error. 

It could just be an error. Peter’s gotten ketchup into the inner workings of his gizmo on more than one occasion. She’s seen the havoc it caused. Butt dials and minor glitches and sudden, blaring music at inopportune times. Maybe this is something goofy like that. Mustard in his gizmo, instead of ketchup. Something innocuous and quintessentially Peter B Parker. 

Except the whole situation sits bumpy and uneasy in her gut. Peter’s face, guilty and afflicted, freezes in her mind’s eye. She can’t shake the sensation. It’s like Spidey-Sense, but in a different frequency. Woman’s intuition. MJ-ition.

The call only rings once before Mae picks up. Even in hologram form, the events of the last mission weigh heavy on her shoulders. Still at Pyotr’s cotside, she hasn’t gotten her suit touched up. Scorch marks mar the joyful riot of her colorful mask. Just a little, she perks up with a cheery hello.

“How’s our special boy holding up?” MJ asks. 

“Medically, he’s aces, but emotionally"—Mae drops her voice and cups a hand to her mouth—"he’s in a tizzy. They’re outta chocolate pudding.”

MJ feigns horror, gasping. “Oh god, that’s gotta be malpractice.”

Out of view, Pyotr shouts his zealous agreement until Mae’s matronly glare, powerful even through her mask, subdues him back into the model patient. 

“Docs keep saying he’s a peach, but I think he’s rotten,” Mae says. Coming from Mae, this is the darkest, most serious indictment imaginable. Pyotr must be behaving really poorly, which isn’t surprising. 

While the exact details of Pyotr’s backstory are red taped and ultra classified, MJ can understand why him and hospitals might not be a good mix. Unregulated human experimentation will have that effect on a person.

“Keep the faith, Pyotr,” MJ says.

Though she doesn’t speak a lick of Symkarian, she’s starting to recognize the shapes of curse words. Pyotr levies quite a few now, but more as a grumbled expression of frustration than an indictment of her good intentions. 

“Are the Docs thinking it’ll be a sleepover?” MJ asks. 

Mae shakes her head. “No. Just finishing up a transfusion and then he’ll be coo coo ca choo.”

“Good, good,” MJ says. Then, like an afterthought, she adds, “Oh, hey. While I’ve got you, will you do me a quick favor?”

Mae nods.

“Check Peter B’s location, will you?”

Mae doesn’t even delay to ask why. Meanwhile, Pyotr peeps in the background about wasting precious pudding procurement time in fewer, less alliterative words. 

As she searches, Mae asks, “Goblin go home easy?”

An affirmative hum is all MJ gives. Solely fixated on the oddity of Peter B’s behavior, she hasn’t digested anything from her conversation with Goblin MJ. It pokes up beneath her skin, disturbed and unsettled, like a parasite, teeming unseen. Coupled with the sour churn of her nerves, disaster brews in her blood.  

With a trumpet noise, Mae announces, “Petey B is on 928C. Looks like the next universe over.”

There’s more. Mae says more, but MJ doesn’t hear. It’s all white noise. Waves crashing on the shore. Static on the TV. Thunder off in the distance, rolling in before the storm.

***

Miguel employs an open door policy, but MJ’s never seen another Spider take advantage of it. As far as she knows, no one ever approaches Miguel unless summoned. They’re all afraid of him. Or respect him too much. It’s hard to tell. 

Inside his lab, she doesn’t wait for the platform to lower. She doesn’t wait for him to acknowledge her. She webs up onto the platform and lands quietly in the corner.

Miguel stands in front of his usual screen bank. Each screen bears the face of a different person. None of them are Spiders, from what she can tell, but she doesn’t really care. 

“Miguel,” she says and he turns immediately, scowling. A few swipes of his fingers and a hologram, shaped like him but with Lyla’s mischief, pops up in his place. As the conversation continues, Lyla’s Miguel hologram emotes where required. The real Miguel steps away, nodding curtly for her to speak.

“Your daughter.” The words don’t come easy. They’re thick with emotion, no matter how she tries to strip away the fat. “She’s from a different dimension.”

Denial and deflection are expected. She’s prepared arguments against both of these, ready to tear him apart for this conspiracy against her. But she doesn’t expect him to sigh. She doesn’t expect him to pinch the bridge of his nose in minor annoyance and say, “I’m in the middle of something.”

Like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t a total bombshell, shattering her entire perception of him and this place she’s started to think of as home away from home. 

“You said it wasn’t possible.” 

A comment from the monitors rings louder than the others. Something about share prices dropping. It might as well be Symkarian for all MJ understands it. It might as well be Klingon for how little MJ cares to understand it. 

When Miguel glances back in response, frown etching deeper, MJ could smack him. She nearly does when he tells her flatly, “I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time,” she snaps. It’s bratty and unreasonable, but he said it wasn’t possible.

“Come back later.”

“I’ll tell everyone,” she says. The spades of her fingernails dig down into her palm. Both hands jitter to keep from eviscerating themselves. Anger splotches pink on her face. “I’ll let them know what you’re hiding.”

Scoffing, Miguel shakes his head. “It’s not a secret.”

“But I—”

“It was a secret from you." Miguel cranes his head, peering down at her. “Who told you? Peter? I told him you wouldn’t be able to understand.”

Be able to understand jams in her craw. She’s not an idiot, but it’s just like him to think she is. It torches every thin string of patience she has left. “I understand well enough. You’ve just told me over and over again that I can’t do exactly what you’re doing!”

“I have to explain everything to you,” he huffs and that stings too. The only things she ever asked him to explain had to do with her family and the calamity that wiped them from existence. Things that he doesn’t understand either.

He continues, “Your situation is too unstable. It would put the entire multiverse at risk.”

“But it’s okay for you to play pretend while my real family is out there?” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your bio. It doesn’t have anything about a daughter. Nothing in the historic records either. I thought it was weird, but some people don’t like to talk about their kids. Except you have pictures of her everywhere. Everyone knows about her.” She’s getting loud, but not shrill. Never shrill. “So, what? You saw some other you had a daughter and decided you wanted her for yourself?”

“Not even close.” Miguel’s lip is curled, a dry, derisive snark, but his attention is split. His head tilts back to the conversation he abandoned and his expression darkens. Lyla, in her Miguel suit, shoots him a furtive glance that has him stepping towards her. 

MJ cuts him off, circling to keep in front of him. “You said it was impossible.”

“I said it wasn’t plausible,” he says, nostrils flaring. He tries to sidestep, but she’s got agility and righteous anger on her side to keep him boxed in.

Though he’s got a foot on her in height, she doesn’t shy from invading his personal space, crowding him as best she can. It’s laughable, really. She’s come a long way these last few months, but Miguel could pound her into a pulp with just his pinky. Rage eviscerates all thoughts of self preservation. 

Behind them, Lyla feigns connection issues with Miguel’s voice and visage, demanding to reschedule. 

For a second, Miguel’s hand flexes towards her and MJ coils, ready for a fight, but he doesn’t touch her. She wants him to. She wants him to hit her. She shouts, “But you’re doing it! My family is out there somewhere and I—”

“You’re an anomaly!” he shouts back. Talons erupt from the points of his fingers as he waves them. “I can’t let you loose on the multiverse when you shouldn’t even be here!"

Immediately remorseful, his expression twists, but the damage is done. The heat in her face is boiling. At her sides, her fisted hands shake and clench. Double vision, split from sharp, percussive fury, is the only thing that stops her from striking out at him. 

“Well I am here! All thanks to you and your Society leaving us to burn! You could’ve saved us, but you didn’t! Too busy playing pretend. Peter believed in you. I almost believed in you, but it’s all lies. Smoke and mirrors so that you can live a shocking fantasy!”

“You’re not listening.” Voice dry of previous inferno, Miguel just sounds exasperated and overworked. He’s probably got a billion things on his plate, including the meeting crashing and burning just a few feet from them. Unlucky for him, MJ doesn’t give a fuck. 

High emotion colors her voice atomic loud. “All I’ve done is listen to you!” 

“Your family’s dead, MariJane. You can’t bring them back. Nothing can.”

The fight sucks out of her, vortexed down into the embers. There’s only a chill in its place, only a yawning, desolate void. Her family is dead. She can’t bring them back. Miguel won’t let her. More than that, they wouldn’t even really be hers.

Nothing short of a divine miracle will bring her family back to her, but the divine is silent, no matter how she begs and prays. 

I made the right choices, she said to the other MJ, only a few hours ago. The right choices. All the right choices, even when it was hard. Even when it hurt. And look where it got her. 

It builds in the back of her throat, jamming down into her chest, her stomach, gripping and twisting and knotting tight. Nerve endings cinch. It all just goes numb, but charged. A numbness with a countdown. A dirty bomb embedded in the soft tissue, ready to burst at the 00.

“Send me home,” she says, cold and razor sharp. “Send me home and don’t follow me. Don’t send anyone after me.”

Miguel drags at his face. “You’re on duty for two more days. Just go cool off and—”

“Cool off? Shock you, Miguel.”

“¡Ay—!”

“No, you ¡ay!” A scrabbling, animal rage takes her. Not full force, but vitriol enough to twist her tongue dramatic. “I’m not your hostage. I’m not your perfect little Agent.” Inspiration strikes. While she’s burning one bridge, might as well burn them all. “In fact, I’m not your Agent at all. I quit. So send me the shock home.”

That gets through. Eyebrows dropping and knitting together, Miguel glares as he works through her declaration. “You quit?”

MJ nods, gnawing on her cheek without the care to hide it. Dimpled, her face sucks lopsided from where she chews. The taste of her mouth is vinegary.

“You can’t quit,” Miguel says.

“Just did. Send me home.”

The conversation from the monitors turns heated. Masculine voices edge out each other, shouting about mergers and acquisitions. Lyla forces Miguel’s voice into the mix, but she’s drowned out. Again, she shoots Miguel a pleading look, stretching his brow uncannily high in the double. 

“You can't quit,” he says again, quicker and more dismissive than ever. “You're just emotional.”

“I can get emotional.” She pitches her voice low and silken and mocking, though the delivery gets butchered by the anger sandpapering her throat. “Would you like to see me get emotional, Miguel? Do you want to see me cry? Is that the only way you'll hear me, if I'm crying and screaming?”

It hurts the exact nerve she wanted. Suddenly vicious, Miguel snarls, “You're such a brat.”

“Put it in my exit interview.”

“You don't get to just leave.”

“You don't get to lie to me. Or call me an idiot. Or treat me half as bad as you have. Or…” Her voice cracks. She bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to rend. Slow blood gushes. It runs viscous down the back of her throat, chugging like flu borne snot. 

Miguel insists, “You need the Society as much as it needs you. What else do you have?”

“Nothing,” she says because there’s no point in hiding it. “I have nothing and I’ll go back to nothing. But it’ll be better than this.” 

The start of a response strangles in his throat as the shouting from the monitors hits a frenzy. With a sweep of his arm, he shoves her aside and subsumes Lyla’s hologram. He shouts, fully and freely, at the others. His voice booms and burns. Already, he’s forgotten about her. 

Fine. She’ll forget about him too. 

Gizmo flashing big and bright, MJ toggles to the Portal Pal. Unlike the other Spiders, she’s never used the app. All her jumps home have to be hand calibrated. Allegedly. She can’t believe anything Miguel’s told her anymore.

Where to? the app asks. 

Fingers tremble as she types out 7-7-8-2. Before she can confirm the entry, red webbing gums up her gizmo, sticks all over her hand. 

Behind his back, Miguel’s hand is flicked down in classic Spider-Man pose, but the webbing emanates from the top of his wrist not the bottom. The strand of web stretches between them, connecting their hands. 

Though twisted sticky, MJ wrenches as hard as she can, tugging the webbing taut and then kicking up high enough to slam her foot down on the webline. Petty and ill thought, the sudden, violent descent of the web sends both MJ and Miguel to their knees. Their hands jerk to and then against the floor.

From the monitor, voices shout in hysterical chorus. “O’Hara!? Where the shock did he go!? Is this some kind of power play!? Shock it, boot him if he won’t take this seriously!”

The meeting clicks off. Dull, orange light replaces it. 

Miguel slams his fist into the floor and the metal dimples with a bang. Another line of webbing splats from his wrist, catches her in the chest. Before she can even react, he slings her into his open hand, dragging her helpless as a fish on a hook. 

As he draws up to his proper height, taloned fingers bunch around her collar, pulling her upright with him. MJ isn’t a small woman, but Miguel holds her aloft like she’s stuffed with straw. Suspended in his grasp, she’s weightless. Her big toes strafe the floor, but can’t find purchase. She grabs at his hand with both of hers, plying at his fingers, trying to bend them away, but his grip only tightens, drawing more of her suit into this hand. The fabric yawns apart in stretches around his poking talons. 

Constricted, MJ gasps. One panicked kick connects with his torso, but he doesn’t flinch. His other hand raises, eclipsing the light of the room. The shadows of his talons slice over her face as he snarls. Fangs glisten, erupted from both gum lines. A minnow of fear flips in her belly. Resolve smothers it. 

“Do it,” she commands. Natural brown meets unnatural red as she meets his fury head-on, incinerating with her gaze.

Between too-tight breaths, MJ thinks he will. She braces for it. The agony of shorn skin and fat and muscle beneath. Veins and nerve endings severed. Blood spilling hot and fervent. Blood enough to choke. One, final revelation of pain. 

None of it comes. Instead, there’s only the ghost pallor leaching color from Miguel’s face and the sudden, unceremonious drop of her body to the ground. Barely, she catches herself, crouching to absorb the collision. It crackles up into her knees, all the way into her molars.

Through the shag of her hair, she glares. The itch for adrenaline fissures and fractures within her. The need for pain, for punishment, is always there, but never more desperate than now. This fight is overdue. Now unleashed, there’s no tucking the animosity back into the pouch of her cheek. 

“Do it!” MJ screams. She waves her hands wild. “Hit me! I know you want to!” 

Searing tears bubble in the edges of her eyes. It smears her vision unreliable. She can’t trust what she sees. Flaring smudges of red and blue swell closer, then shrink away. Muted pulses of orange. Dark, burnished charcoal and gray everywhere. 

Teeth on edge, tension enough to crack bone, MJ heaves, shaking and stewing and very near sobbing from the engorged emotion in her chest. A lifetime of restraint bends under the weight of a single day. The Goblin with her face. Pyotr hurt. Peter lying to her. The entire Society, lying to her. And Miguel. Miguel with a daughter from another dimension. Miguel, living the life he told her she could never have. 

At MJ’s back, a portal roars open. So close, gravity loosens around her. Whirring, the portal tugs at her hair, lifting it off her neck and suckling at it. The strands twist and dance like ecstasy-high ravers.  

“Go home, MariJane.” Deep voice drawn soft, Miguel speaks smaller than he has any right to speak. It’s his fault. All of it. Because if it’s not his fault, if he’s not to blame…

With a swipe of her arm, MJ banishes the tears from her eyes. Vision swims back into hyper clarity. Reality cracks her posture, turns it leaden. 

Only a few feet away, Miguel stares with a broken expression, sincerity welling through the cracks. It's not unfamiliar. This is how he looked at her back home, in the ruin of the collider, and in the dark of her room, delivering news that ended in, I’m sorry. 

The inside of her mouth siphons dry and dusty. What the hell is she doing? What the fuck is wrong with her?

Without a word, MJ steps backwards through the portal. On the other side, Miguel holds her gaze, eyes wide and honest, like he’s sorry, like he’s scared, like he cares. But he shouldn’t. No one should. 

The portal closes and MJ turns from it. 

She doesn’t look back. 

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, LYLA Isn’t Angry, She’s Just Really Disappointed

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Targeted analysis of all psych evals conducted by SM-813 “EZEKIAL” with MARIJANE over the course of her tenure with search parameters [FAMILY] and all disambiguation. 

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #1 - Initial Psychological Evaluation:

[...]

MARIJANE: And your name is?

EZEKIAL: Ezekial. 

MARIJANE: Ezekial Parker?

EZEKIAL: No. I imagine that’s a relief for you.

MARIJANE: It is, actually. You’re good, Doc. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: You’re vapid. You maintain superficial concerns and grievances so no one views you as a problem. You distrust authority because you’ve been hurt in the past and can’t differentiate past harms with present reality. You lost touch with yourself years before you lost your family.

MARIJANE: That’s… okay. I mean, vapid is a bit harsh. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: Oh, one last question. No need to answer. What could you have done differently?

MARIJANE: For my family? Or? You’ll have to be more specific than that. 

EZEKIAL: No, I don’t. Have a good evening, Ms. Watson-Parker. If you have trouble adjusting to the role, have LYLA schedule an appointment. I’m always here to help.

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #2 - Psychological Evaluation for Clearance to Work the Unknown Detail: 

[...]

EZEKIAL: You’re telling me what you think I want to hear. 

MARIJANE: You’ll accuse me of it either way, so why not just trim the fat? 

EZEKIAL: You have a very high emotional intelligence, Ms. Watson-Parker. 

MARIJANE: MJ. 

EZEKIAL: MJ. 

MARIJANE: And yes, I would agree with that. 

EZEKIAL: MJ. Not MariJane. Certainly not Marilyn. 

MARIJANE: Certainly not.

EZEKIAL: Because of your father? No. Don’t answer that. We’re not ready for that discussion. 

[...]

MARIJANE: It is not I who am crazy. It is I who am mad.

EZEKIAL: Excuse me? Are you doing an accent? 

MARIJANE: You know, Space Madness? Ren and Stimpy? It was one of Pete’s favorite episodes. [PETER] always wanted to watch it when [PETER] was sick. 

EZEKIAL: Do you miss your husband?

MARIJANE: Every second.

EZEKIAL: And your daughter?

MARIJANE: Yes. I’m not here to talk about my family. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: You’re not looking for your family? 

MARIJANE: My family’s gone. 

EZEKIAL: Do you hope to replace yourself then? Find a universe where [YOUR FAMILY] lost you, and slot the two realities together like puzzle pieces? I have to tell you—it won’t work like that. Even if such a place existed, it won’t give you what you want. 

MARIJANE: You make a lot of assumptions. 

EZEKIAL: Yes. Never wrong ones. 

[...]

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #3 - Mandatory Follow-Up Evaluation Resultant of Succession Protocol (1.07):

[...]

EZEKIAL: I’m sure it’s difficult. You’ve found a real purpose here, but now you’re hollow for it. 

MARIJANE: I just keep losing [MY FAMILY]. Over and over and over.

EZEKIAL: Grief has no respect for the rules of man. Time and logic have no impact on an emotional wound. You’ll never stop hoping, and you’ll never stop suffering the loss of that hope. It’s the conundrum of the infinite multiverse. It has to work somewhere, but it won’t be here. Not for you. Not for any of us.

[...]

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #4 - Annual Psychological Evaluation:

[...]

MARIJANE: I’d say our little family is all healed up. It just took some elbow grease and living up to the Society part of the name.

EZEKIAL: I’m overjoyed to hear you say that, MJ. Your adjustment was a concern of mine for some time. 

[...]

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #5 - Psychological Evaluation for Clearance After Significant Injury on Mission & Symbiote Exposure:

[...]

EZEKIAL: And before it was Venom?

MARIJANE: I don’t know. It was just Peter’s black suit. I hated it. Mayday had nightmares for years because of it. 

EZEKIAL: What was it like for you?

MARIJANE: I don’t remember most of it. 

EZEKIAL: No, apologies. I’ll rephrase. When Peter had the Symbiote, what was it like for you?

MARIJANE: It wasn’t like anything at first. It was just a new suit. It looked good on [PETER]. And not just because it was tighter than the others. Though, I always joked that it was padded. Peter always had a great butt, but in that black little number? Yeesh. 

EZEKIAL: And then what was it like?

MARIJANE: Um.

EZEKIAL: I imagine the memories are unpleasant. 

MARIJANE: Yeah. Especially now. I don’t want to remember my husband like that. 

EZEKIAL: How long did [PETER] have the suit? 

MARIJANE: About a year. [PETER AND I HAD] just gotten married. Mayday was two. 

EZEKIAL: It must’ve been hard. 

MARIJANE: It was awful. I thought… I don’t know. I thought maybe [PETER] was on drugs or something. [PETER] was just so irritable. And possessive. The press called it [PETER’S] bad boy phase. I remember there was this one headline. It was like, the honeymoon's over: dream marriage to MariJane over before it begins? Like it was my fault [PETER] was beating petty criminals into traction! You know I got blamed when [PETER] died that first time too? Oh, Spider-Man was off [SPIDER-MAN]’s game that night and got crushed by a building because [SPIDER-MAN]’s ex MariJane did a music video half naked. [PETER] sued BNN for all their BS, but I should’ve been suing the tabloids for that garbage!

EZEKIAL: I’m sorry. You said when [PETER] died that first time. What first time?

MARIJANE: Oh. I just assumed it was in [PETER]’s record. Maybe it was confidential? Not sure why it would be though. Seems like quite a few Spiders have a death scare. 

EZEKIAL: No, that wouldn’t be marked confidential. Frankly, very few things are confidential to me. Even with the canon events, I’ve experienced each of mine so nothing is barred to me on that basis. 

MARIJANE: Huh. Weird. Well, [PETER] was recruited in the early days. One of the first hundred. Maybe [PETER] didn’t disclose it. I’ll have to check. 

EZEKIAL: When did this take place? This first death? 

MARIJANE: Summer of ‘14. [PETER] didn’t stay dead long. 

EZEKIAL: Your daughter was born in 2014, right? 

MARIJANE: Yes. December. Peter died. I say died, but I honestly don’t know if that’s what happened. I mean, [PETER] was clinically dead for three days and then [PETER] wasn’t. [PETER] wouldn’t tell me what happened. I was curious, but it didn’t really matter to me what had happened. Just that [PETER] was back. Especially since I found out I was pregnant with Mayday so soon after. 

EZEKIAL: Right. That would have taken precedence.

MARIJANE: Big time. My pregnancy sucked and then the labor was. It was bad. 

EZEKIAL: Bad how?

MARIJANE: I was clinically dead for 8 minutes.

EZEKIAL: Oh wow. 

MARIJANE: Yeah. 

EZEKIAL: Was Peter there?

MARIJANE: It was unexpected. I was only 5 and a half months pregnant, but Mayday developed so fast. Spider genes and all that, I guess. 

EZEKIAL: To have gone through that alone—

MARIJANE: Peter was there at the end. And Harry was there. [HARRY]’s the one that took me to hospital.

EZEKIAL: Is that why you feel indebted to Harry now? 

MARIJANE: I’m not indebted to Harry. [HARRY]’s family. [HARRY]’s always been family. 

EZEKIAL: Of course. Was Harry around for the Symbiote?

MARIJANE: No, [HARRY] was in rehab. 

EZEKIAL: For your Symbiote experience?

MARIJANE: [HARRY] was around. 

EZEKIAL: It’s very common that Spiders hurt the ones they love during Symbiote Enrapture. 

MARIJANE: It wasn’t like that. [HARRY] pulled me out of it. 

EZEKIAL: That’s very impressive. It takes a lot to get through to someone in such a state. Did [HARRY] invoke your emotionality?

MARIJANE: Ha! If only! [HARRY] set me on fire. 

EZEKIAL: Oh. Wow. 

MARIJANE: Yeah! [HARRY] doused me in butane, lit me up like opening night. That damned goo never stood a chance!

[...]

EZEKIAL: Have you had any romantic partners since your husband died, MJ? 

MARIJANE: Whoa. Think you’re getting the wrong idea here. 

EZEKIAL: Am I?

MARIJANE: For sure! Look, it’s like this. Do I think fangs are hot? Yeah, you got me. Great job, detective! But the fangs are hot irrespective of Miguel. He has very little to do with it. He’s a detriment to it. In fact.
And, for the record, I’ve had a couple of romantic partners since Peter so I’m not wasting away or anything. 

EZEKIAL: I said romantic partners, not sexual partners. 

MARIJANE: Slutshame much?

EZEKIAL: It’s an important distinction to make. There’s no judgment passed on my end, shrink’s honor. 

MARIJANE: And what’s the distinction?

EZEKIAL: For our purposes, I’ll say a romantic partnership is one with reciprocal emotional commitment, such as the one you had with your husband.

MARIJANE: Then no.

EZEKIAL: And before Peter? 

MARIJANE: I was desperate to be in love with everyone and needed everyone to be desperately in love with me.  

EZEKIAL: That’s an insightful analysis.

MARIJANE: Oh, I stole that from another therapist. Wish I could’ve made that realization on my own. Would’ve saved a lot of time. And money. 

EZEKIAL: Did you also hedge your responses with that therapist too?

MARIJANE: Big time. Can never be too candid. Never know what’ll end up leaked to the press. They were always after the dirty details of my marriage. 

EZEKIAL: This is our fifth session and we’re no closer to your true self. I can’t help you if you refuse to be vulnerable. 

MARIJANE: Vulnerability isn’t really my color, Doc. 

EZEKIAL: Why is that?

MARIJANE: Dunno. Never has been. Just born with a tough shell. Like a lobster. That's why I can’t eat shellfish. My brethren. 

EZEKIAL: Marilyn, be serious. 

MARIJANE: Really don’t appreciate that tone.

EZEKIAL: I know.

MARIJANE: What’re you hoping for here? A breakthrough? Do you want me to collapse, sobbing about how daddy done me wrong? Ask any other MJ. I’m sure it’s close enough.

EZEKIAL: Close enough, maybe, but not exact. The significance is in what it means to you, not what happened. 

MARIJANE: It means nothing. I have way more issues than daddy issues now.

EZEKIAL: But those were first.

MARIJANE: Aren’t they always? 

[...]

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #6 - Psychological Evaluation for Clearance After Significant Injury on Mission:

[...]

EZEKIAL: Do you have the same dreams?

MARIJANE: Sometimes, but it’s more like I dream about the same things over and over. I dream about my family a lot. Peter and Mayday. 

EZEKIAL: You still wear your wedding ring, yes?

MARIJANE: I. Yes. I do. My husband’s too.

EZEKIAL: Right. Do you still consider yourself married?

MARIJANE: Not like I got divorced. 

EZEKIAL: Not like that at all. 

MARIJANE: So, yeah. 

EZEKIAL: Still married then? 

MARIJANE: Technically widowed. 

EZEKIAL: Technically. 

MARIJANE: You’re doing the insensitive thing again, Doc. 

EZEKIAL: Apologies. 

MARIJANE: No harm done. 

EZEKIAL: You’re hesitant to talk about your family. 

MARIJANE: I talk about [MY FAMILY] all the time. 

EZEKIAL: Not in this setting. 

MARIJANE: No.

[...]

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #7 - Psychological Evaluation for Clearance After Canon Event:

[...]

EZEKIAL: Tell me about your relationship with Harry. I understand it could be turbulent.

MARIJANE: Turbulent. Another good word. 

EZEKIAL: I can only help if you allow me. 

MARIJANE: I’m fine, Doc.

EZEKIAL: MJ, we’ve known each other for quite some time so I hope you’ll excuse me if I call bullshit. Tell me about Harry.

MARIJANE: It’s my fault, you know. 

EZEKIAL: It often feels that way.

MARIJANE: No no no. This one is. It really is. I couldn’t just focus on what I had. I always needed more. So I ignored Harry. I ignored Nu York. I ignored all of it. Everything that happened, it was because of me. Because I couldn’t just…

EZEKIAL: MJ, the nature of these events—

MARIJANE: You’re not listening, Doc. I knew you wouldn’t. It’s like this - if I was never brought into the Society, if I never met Miguel, and all the rest… but I did. And I got distracted. And Harry… 

EZEKIAL: Do you blame Miguel for what happened to Harry?

[...]

MARIJANE: Harry was everything to me. [HARRY]…

EZEKIAL: MariJane? Are you alright? Can you hear me?

MARIJANE: [HARRY]’s family. I can’t hand my guilt over to an algorithm. I could have saved [HARRY]. I could have. Shock the canon event, I could have. But I didn’t. 

[...]

MARIJANE: I’ve been thinking a lot about what you asked me in that first session. What could I have done differently? 

EZEKIAL: And?

MARIJANE: And I would have done everything differently. I wouldn’t have gone to LA after high school. I would have told Peter I loved him sooner. I would’ve stayed home with Mayday everyday and been happy to do it. I would’ve tried for… I would’ve done it all differently. 

EZEKIAL: You can’t change the past. We can scarcely change the future. All we can change is who we are, who we choose to be afterwards. 

MARIJANE: I would change it if I could. I would do anything. Anyone who says they wouldn’t is a liar. 

EZEKIAL: Does the present bring you no comfort?

MARIJANE: [HARRY]’s gone. Pyotr’s gone. Mae’s gone. My family’s gone. Everyone I ever loved and cared about is gone and I couldn’t do anything to save them. 

EZEKIAL: Is that true?

MARIJANE: What?

EZEKIAL: Everyone you love and care about is gone?

MARIJANE: I think I’m only half a person. I can’t… love gets poured into me, but it just leaks back out through cracks I can’t see. And I can’t give it with both hands, you know? I can’t stop reaching back to Peter. 

EZEKIAL: Have you talked about this with—?

[...]

MARIJANE: I keep telling Miguel, but him and listening are old enemies. You know? He doesn’t like listening. He hears what he wants to hear. And it doesn’t help that Harry hates. Hated him. And Peter, I don’t know. I can only imagine it was a rivalry. There’d be respect, but Peter wouldn’t agree with any of this. The canon events. It still surprises me how everyone just eats it up. Maybe because I wasn’t supposed to have any. I don’t know. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: What would Mayday think?

MARIJANE: Wh—

EZEKIAL: You’ve passed judgment on Miguel via Harry and your husband, condemning him in support of your own anger and grief. But, what would your daughter think? 

MARIJANE: I don’t see how that’s relevant. 

EZEKIAL: You don’t? Or you don’t want to?

MARIJANE: He’s not Peter. 

EZEKIAL: He never will be. Will you hold that against him too? Would you like to end the session, MJ?

MARIJANE: Has it been enough? 

EZEKIAL: I—

MARIJANE: Please, Zeke. I can’t talk about Harry. 

[...]

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: In his official write-up of their first session, EZEKIAL wrote of MARIJANE:

“lovely, but disingenuous woman. She blames herself for the death of her family and cannot move past her loss. Struggles with feelings of inadequacy and imposter syndrome. Will flourish with social support and reinforcement. Good candidate. No psych concerns for active duty.”

Lovely, but disingenuous. Cannot move past her loss. All the evidence was there, right from the beginning.

Notes:

chapter title from "Precious" by Depeche Mode

alt chapter summary: the girlies are fightinggggggggggg. this chapter underwent some crazy revisions but i'm pretty happy with where it ended up, even though it has two of the things i hate writing the most - a prolonged action scene and a prolonged argument. the supplemental at the end went through several different iterations too. my process with the supplementals is kinda funky because i have all them written separate from the chapters themselves and then just pick and choose what puzzle pieces I want to lay down next. trying to reveal enough to spark interest and hint at the later story here since it's such a slow burn in a couple different ways, but not give too much too soon. its a weird and maybe unnecessary burden to work with but hey its my fanfic and i get to put strange, nuanced pressure on myself for no reason

next chapter: the wanderings of one unemployed spider through the lonely streets of nyc

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 12: tape up my eyes, coded blind

Summary:

adventures in unemployment: a load bearing chapter

Days pass. A week. Two weeks. Nobody calls. Nobody comes after MJ. Nobody begs for her to come back. After the first week, she stops checking her gizmo. Still, she can’t bring herself to junk it. Maybe in another week or two. Unwanted and unused, it sits dormant in the back of her closet. 

It’s a far cleaner break than she expected with how desperate Miguel seemed to keep her. It’s easier overall, but it stings for now. She knew what quitting meant, but still. Nobody checks on her and it hurts. Friends, family, a place to belong. All of the Society’s promises, all bullshit. 

Friends, family, a place to belong—she has that here. She can find that here. She’s spent her entire life running away. Time to start standing still. 

There’s nowhere to run anymore, anyway. 

***

It gets to MJ too quickly. The melancholy. The monotony. Everyday is mostly the same. Mostly pointless. Every robbery she stops, every civilian she saves just means there’s three robberies she missed and ten civilians she couldn’t reach in time. 

Nothing she does makes a difference, but calling it quits isn’t an option. Spider-Woman is the only thing keeping Peter alive. Without Spider-Woman, Peter is gone for good. 

Even as it beats her soul to dust, she can’t give it up. It’s all she has left. 

***

Theo. Drug runner for the Manfredis. Not that he could ever be linked directly. The Manfredis are careful like that. They remember when RICO charges stuck and NuYPD was owed by corporate interests, not criminal. The other families don’t bother to cover their tracks. There’s no need. The maggia owns the police. 

Theo’s a good kid, though, drug pushing aside. Loyal to his brother Alfie, a high level enforcer, more than Sil Manfredi. All he wants is to keep himself and Alfie safe. 

Based in the East Village, Theo has a decent little routine and knows the neighborhood well. He does most of his work out of a cafe on 11th caught in Manfredi’s protection racket. It’s not the best gig in the city for what he does, but it’s stable and safe enough. Plus, free coffee and cannoli, which MJ usually benefits from. The back alley of the cafe is where she always meets up with him. 

Theo has no great love for her, but she took a bullet that would’ve popped his brother’s melon, so he knocks some goings on's her way. His intel’s never groundbreaking, but he lets her know which way the wind’s blowing.

Like now, Theo’s gotten a new beretta so his .45 doesn’t get lonely. He flashes her a glimpse of the gun, nestled in a shoulder holster beneath his sweatshirt—that’s the kinda kid he is—and says with a gloating grin, “Nothing fancy, but it’ll blow a handsy Symk away, don’t ya think?”

Infighting between the families isn't uncommon, but the threat of the Symkarians has got everyone on edge—criminal and civilian alike. Once a smaller sect, Silver Sable Sablinova has been steadily growing her ranks, smuggling soldiers and ammunition through the quarantine. Until recently, the Symkarians were a welcome member of the maggia family. Until Sable’s hunger surpassed what the maggia was willing to feed her. Until she cozied up to the Syndicate and took each of them under thumb. 

On other Earths, they call themselves the Sinister Six, but they've always been the Syndicate on 7782. Arranged and then abandoned by the Green Goblin as a sort of Super Villain initiative, they rarely posed a unified threat to Peter during his tenure.

MJ’s tussled with each of them individually once or twice, but they mostly keep to themselves, flourishing without the need for crime. In the post-apocalypse, the re-grouped Syndicate is a perpetual boogeyman touted by Sable as a means to slip the yoke of the maggia. Nobody knows why the five remaining villains listen to her or even that they really do. Nobody wants to call her bluff. 

War has been threatened consistently over the last four years, but tensions usually resolve with a few shootouts and a sit-down or two. This feels different. Battle lines are being drawn in Nu York. 

“Alfie says something’s coming,” Theo says. He shrugs, bringing the knobs of his shoulders ear-side with great exaggeration. Before his brother fell in with Manfredi, Theo took a drama class or two at NYC Community College. When other goons try to cut up with him, they call him, Mr. Actor. Not the most creative of names, but effective in its belittlement. 

Theo continues, saying, “The fuck that something is, I dunno, but I figure an extra gun or two never hurt nobody.” 

MJ doesn't quite agree, but she understands the sentiment. She eyes the bulge of gun beneath his sweatshirt and says, “Just keep your head down. You hear anything, gossip, rumors, a bad joke, anything, you let me know, okay?” 

Theo begrudgingly agrees, offering her yesterday’s leftover cannolis for her continued allegiance to keeping his brother alive. She turns down the cannolis. Her appetite’s been gone ever since she put the Society in her rearview. 

***

Days pass. MJ stops a handful of street crimes—shakedowns and drug deals gone wrong and two attempted arsons—and tousles with Vulture over a highrise in Tribeca. Crazed and cancer-ridden, Vulture makes for a poor sparring partner. 

Though she gets an opportunity to smash his wings for good, she doesn’t take it. As far as super villains go, he’s pretty harmless now. Without his wings and capers, he’d wither and pass on in total obscurity. She won’t doom him to that fate. 

If he knows she spared him, he doesn’t say, just slumps away into the fast fading night.  

***

From the wraparound terrace of Harry’s penthouse, Nu York loses all of its charm. Without lights, without the constant bustle of life, it’s just slabs of steel, hammered into familiar shape. Monument to an ideal it will never be again. Nu York. If you can make it here, you never make it anywhere else. Not anymore. 

MJ leans heavy over the railing. Careful, she doesn’t hold too tight. Harry would never forgive her if she left even a dimple of damage in his favorite haunt. It’s one of hers too. The amount of time she’s spent bracing the wind and the stars with Harry and Peter at her side, it probably totals days, if not weeks. 

They used to chain smoke cigarettes and drink too nice wine and laugh about things that were only funny to 20 year olds with nothing yet to lose in life. Even after she and Harry both quit smoking, after Mayday, after she and Pete got hitched, the three of them found their way onto this balcony so many times. The memories all blur together. 

The night Peter dangled Harry over the edge and MJ laughed so hard at Harry’s yipping chihuahua cry of excitement she very, very nearly peed herself couldn’t have been the same night she sat at Peter’s feet, head knocked back in his lap while Harry read aloud from an advance copy of Breaking Dawn, but it feels like it. The good times from before the world ended all seem like a singular, sugary daydream. The bad times from before aren’t worth remembering. 

Now, she and Harry stand in the ruin of their past, trying to make meaning in the dust. 

MJ still doesn’t smoke, but Harry’s picked the habit back up. Cigarettes weren’t cheap even before the apocalypse, but now the good ones are a luxury only the rich can afford through the quarantine. Each box costs Harry a pretty chunk of coin. A necessary evil, they help sate his craving for more dangerous things. 

Leaning beside her, Harry takes the last drag from his second cigarette of the evening. The musty, rough tobacco scent consumes him entirely, but teethes at her too when he exhales. Long fingers tap it against the railing. Dizzying clouds of ash cascade into the city below.

Sock footed beneath a mossy cable knit sweater and jeans, he slots easily into the haze between past and present. It’s MJ who breaks the fantasy. 

In her Spider-suit, it’s impossible to pretend at softer times. She is only as she exists now. Jaded and unemployed. 

Already, her suit is beginning to turn. Pristine pearl ferments more and more of buttery yellow with each passing day and scuffle.

“I’ve been hearing things.” Harry flicks his cigarette butt at the pinch pot ashtray dotted with teeny fingerprint flowers. Somewhere in MJ’s cabinet sits a bowl of similar shape and style, fashioned by Mayday on an adventure with Uncle Harry. 

Missing by a mile, the spent cigarette hits the ground in a puff of ash. Harry folds both arms against the railing, starting straight down. He clarifies, “Things about my father.” 

Memory itches the back of her throat, but she swallows it down. Only fragments linger. Grasping, hooked fingers snagging her ankle. Wrenching her down. Broken concrete and steel punishing against her knees and palms where it catches. Green suit turned gray from dust. A cracked mask, split in the middle. Human on the right. Monster on the left. 

One final, mocking laugh and smile. Blackened blood between his teeth, over his split tongue. “Don’t tell Peter.”

“What kinds of things?” MJ asks, though she doesn’t want to know the answer. 

Harry starts pacing. He keeps his hands clasped behind his back, but they twitch and strain, desperate to break through and gesture. “There’s the true stuff. Oscorp’s slew of corporate crimes. The hush payments to his secretary. His general assholery. Then there’s this other stuff. Competitors and whistleblowers murdered in freak accidents and dealings with the maggia and awful human experiments. January”—Harry’s publicist—“says it’s just mud slinging. She’s probably right.”

MJ squeezes her eyes shut. Sees that damned dying grin. Hears, don’t tell Peter. Relives that one last play for control. That one last act of cruelty. 

Everything Harry says now, it’s probably all real. It’s probably worse. She doesn’t doubt any of it.

“I dunno, Harry.” She shrugs. “Your dad was a dick, but do you really think he was that bad?”

Sometimes, the light catches the angles and the colors of Harry just right. In those tender moments, he might just be the most beautiful man alive. A strange, unearthly beauty. One that would have inspired paintings and poems in a different age. Other times, when he’s cast in shadow, too-pointy and uneven, he looks unfinished. Ugly, but only because he’s caught between soft and stark. The effeminate slope of his mother’s blood resisting the broad, gruff features of his father. 

As he paces, chewing through her question, he morphs from one Harry to the other—beautiful to not and back again—depending on how the poor light spills over his face. She fears his response, but fears the misting of memory in his eye more.

MJ’s a good liar, but it won’t matter any if Harry suspects his father’s true nature. She’s only kept the ghost so long because Norman Osborn died a victim of the Calamity, announced and attested to by his personal assistant. Two months later, that same assistant set fire to his walk-up before firing a .22 into his mouth, taking any evidence of Osborn’s true nature with him. Four other people died in the blaze. Spider-Woman couldn’t rescue them before the building collapsed. 

“I don’t know what I think,” Harry says, at last. The wind rips hard, buffeting against them both. MJ doesn’t shiver. Harry does. “He was a monster, but I don’t know. I can’t believe he did the things they’re saying. How do I even make up for that, if it’s true?”

“Norman’s sins aren’t yours, Harry. No matter how bad they are.”

Harry nods, but it’s peaceable, not agreeable. When he smiles, it’s stiff. He wants this conversation over as much as she does. “These rumors, just check ‘em out. Please? True or not, they’re hitting the polls hard. If they are true, better to know now.”

“I’ll take a look,” MJ promises, running her fingers along the railing, “but don’t be surprised if nothing shakes loose. Oscorp’s locked tighter than a nun’s thighs since it got hit.”

Immediately, MJ regrets mentioning the robbery. Harry goes cold. He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. He asks, “You heard from her recently?”

“No.” It’s the truth. She hasn’t seen suit nor tail of the Black Cat since she wormed her way into MJ’s life and tricked Spider-Woman into a heist. Turns out highly unstable Vibranium cores? Also super valuable. Felicia left that part out when she was whipping MJ into a panic that Doomsday 2 was imminent. 

Harry warned her. Constantly. She burned Pete, she’ll incinerate you was the last warning he gave before MJ walked Felicia right into a billion dollar payday. She’s lucky he hasn’t brought it up prior. Very lucky. 

“Because that would be the absolute last thing I’d need,” Harry says. He pulls the ring corded around his neck from the collar of his sweater. Spun between thumb and forefinger, it makes an arrhythmic hiss. “This campaign is already running me ragged. I can’t spend my free time worrying that you’re going to let your girlfriend rob me blind.”

Felicia was never MJ’s girlfriend, but it’s besides the point. Let does a lot of heavy lifting in Harry’s perception of things. MJ didn’t let Felicia do anything. She trusted a pretty face. She got screwed by a pretty face. It’s a mistake she won’t make again. 

MJ handwaves Harry’s insinuations away. “Felicia’s ancient history. She’s living the high life off that payday. No reason for her to come sniffing back around here.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Do I?” 

She doesn’t. The fling with Felicia was a mistake even when it was happening. A stupid, reckless bender of bad behavior that led to a fuck up of epic proportions. It hadn’t even been fun. Just destructive. So, no. She doesn’t sound disappointed. She doesn’t want to see Felicia Hardy ever again. Thanks to her recent unemployment, she doesn’t have to worry about crossing paths with any of her variants either.

Harry shrugs, not looking at her. The ring ticks around and around on the chain as he continues to spin it. “A little. Maybe I’m just confusing disappointed with lonely.”

If anyone should know the difference between disappointment and loneliness, it’s Harry.

“How can I be lonely when I’ve got you?” A friendly fist brushes against the line of Harry’s jaw, playful in its touch. 

Predictably, Harry snorts and leans away from the affection. His mother’s ring tucks beneath his collar again. “Blech. Sentimentality. When I’m mayor, that’ll be the first thing to go.”

***

For most of her life, MJ’s dreams were dark and aimless. Obscure rushes of touch and taste. Handholds of heat and exhilaration. Chokeholds of panic and terror. Rough doodles of sensation without concrete form. For years, dreams ran through her fingers like water the moment she woke up. 

Not anymore. Not since her first interdimensional foray. Still as senseless as ever, but her dreams have a skeleton. They fossilize after they’ve dripped through her sleeping eyes. She remembers them now. She can’t forget them. 

In the dead of day, she dreams of a field of marsh grass beneath a sunless, starless night. It stretches forever ahead of her, all around her. Underfoot, the ground is cold mush. It will be hard to run through. It will cling to her feet and slow her down. 

The stink of sweat and humanity rises humid from her skin. It mingles with the still, swampy air. The taste of it, oppressive in her mouth. Organic musk and the taste of something sweet on her tongue. 

There’s no wind, but the fronds whisper over each other, skittering and sharing secrets. Eyes shine white beyond the edges. No pair blinks in time with another. Twinkling firefly lights  A thousand mucosal snicks. The only sound in the emptiness, other than her panicking breaths. 

Nothing is behind her. Nothing chases her. But it will. 

The horizon ahead cracks, fracturing open from pitch black to infinite, static white. At the center, liquid metal in a mixer. Swirling and churning. Sucking in heat and light and sound. A wound through the heart of the universe. A glitch in the mainframe. Reality tearing itself apart to heal back together. 

It happens now because it has before. It always will. 

All bend to the center.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Know that You’re Beautiful and Effervescent (and No Longer Employed by the Spider Society)

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref: MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: SW-4.5/5’s “BRATTY BETTY” review of The Great Spider Thespian Exhibition Showcase #1, pertaining to MARIJANE’s showing, as follows:

[...] That is not to say, my beloved reader, that this Exhibition showcase proved all of the so-called “Thespians” to be without merit. There are a few, and quite few they are, within the troop who demonstrated themselves to be among that highest echelon of performers who can only be called “stars.” 

Of those, none shone brighter than the founder and driving force of the Spider Thespians, MariJane Watson-Parker. While the selection chosen by Watson-Parker is one that is intimately known to this author, I daresay Watson-Parker’s interpretation was so novel, so exhilarating, that it was as if I experienced the work for the very first time. 

Dismay. Devastation. Despair. My beloved reader, you will recognize these as my most coruscating criticisms levied against those who aim to make a mockery of the most beloved of the Arts. However, as I pen this review of Watson-Parker’s performance, now I say the same with great exaltation. Dismay! Devastation! Despair!

With an unflinching resolve, Watson-Parker delivered a monologue not dissimilar to the experience of vivisection in all its exquisite, visceral agony. Through a piece that is ubiquitous for its contemplations on grief and guilt, Watson-Parker has introduced a new layer to the text: are these most wretched of experiences not the purpose and pleasure of existence? What is love without loss to balance it? 

It is the natural instinct of an animal under threat to flee that which upsets the delicate equilibrium of emotions within itself. No doubt there were many an audience member who succumbed to this baser complication during Watson-Parker’s performance. I feel for them only the most palpable of pities for they missed a truly rare glimpse into the darkest part of a soul, bared and bloody for all with the heart to see. 

Unfortunately for Mary Jay Watson, it would appear that the gift of divine interpretation is not inherent to sister-variations of Watson-Parker […]

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary : Footage of described performance not spared from DISTORTION. Text of MARIJANE’s chosen monologue remains, but just reads like all the other dramatic dreck the Thespians worship. MARIJANE was a well received actress throughout her career on 7782 (LYLA says she was “criminally slept on”). Similarly well received by the Society. Substantiated that she is inordinately successful at manipulating the emotions/perceptions of an audience. Not any deductive leap to assume she experienced the same success in manipulating those in her personal/intimate life. 

No further analysis required. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Trophies in the Attic" by Phoxjaw

next chapter: we all know what happens to Miguel O'Hara's daughter, right?

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 13: pain and who we choose to blame

Summary:

aftermath of a universe collapsing

Notes:

CW: Suicidal ideation and reference.

At the end of a long night battling Lizard across SoHo, MJ flings open her front door to a distorted, brassy rip of music. It repeats, echoing all throughout the empty brownstone, clashing off the twenty-first century sensibilities. It’s a sound not of this generation or this world. It’s the sound of Miguel calling. 

MJ flies across the foyer, up the steps to the third floor and into her bedroom. From there, she dives into her closet, digging through the burial mound of junk to reach the gizmo at the bottom. With each sweater and shoe thrown aside, the musical sting grows louder and louder. It rings in her teeth, severs her every nerve. 

For weeks, she’s kept herself awake plucking and pruning what she’ll say if Miguel came chasing after her. Not that she was convinced he would. Only that she hoped. Sometimes. Other times, she hoped he looked at her empty seat during Inner Circle meetings, noted her absence and then choked on it ‘til he was blue enough to match his suit.

Halfway through the pile, an old sock sticks to her palm, even as she snaps her wrist back and forth to fling it off. The call’s still coming. MJ breathes. Relaxes. The sock unsticks and floats to the carpet. 

When, finally, she pulls the gizmo loose, the face reads SOS Miguel Calling. MJ swipes answer and sets her expression. Not too furious. Not too elated. Something sharp, but somber. A negotiator’s expression.

It takes a second for the connection to lock. A featureless, person-haze projects up from the gizmo. Bit by bit, it takes shape. Very quickly, MJ recognizes it’s not Miguel on the other end. All her bravado goes up in smoke. 

“Hey, sorry to bother you on your time off,” Jess says, rendered impressionist. Stipples of color give her shape, more painting than hologram. The cuts of sore, plum color under her eyes are severe without her goggles to hide them.

“Not really time off if I quit.”

As MJ moves the party to her bedroom proper, sitting on the edge of her bed, Jess just stares, waiting for a punchline that MJ never gives. It doesn’t take a super genius to put the pieces together. “He didn’t tell anyone I quit, did he?” 

Jess just laughs. A brittle puff of air, it’s a laugh only in the skeletal sense of the word. She rubs at her eyes with the flats of her fingers. “No. No, he absolutely did not tell anyone you quit, but hey, ain’t that just like Miguel? What a mess.”

The holoimage clarifies, the colors melding together. As the resolution increases, the bags under Jess’ eyes get worse and worse. Of all the Spiders, hell, of all the people MJ’s ever met, Jess is always the most put together. If there was an award for Most on Top of Her Shit, MJ would’ve fought a sudden death cage match to make sure it went to Jess. 

Right now though, Jess does not look put together. She does not look on top of her shit. Jess looks like she got hooked to Vulture’s tail end and dragged face-first up the side of a building. 

Whatever reason Jess called, it isn’t a good one. 

“Let me guess,” MJ says, “Miguel fucked up. He fucked something up and it’s on you to fix it and you’re understaffed so you were hoping I would come back.”

“You’re not far from right.” Jess sighs. “Any chance I can pull you back from unemployment? I have clearance to portal you to HQ. I can explain better here.”

An hour and a half later, MJ sits across from Jess in one of the conference rooms in sector 13. Though the floor to ceiling windows provide a primo look out at the utopian skyline, Jess has the view shuttered. Datapads and empty coffee cups crowd the table around her. Her goggles are strewn at the other end of the table, clearly thrown away in a moment of frustration. 

In the dim, Jess draws her hands over her forehead, pulling tight back to her hairline. Her eyes bug wide, showing fractals of red through the white.

Before Jess can even give her promised explanation, three other Spiders dip in and out of the room with urgent questions about missions and anomalies slated to Go Home while Lyla appears and disappears like a demented firefly around Jess. The holowoman spares only a terse acknowledgement of MJ (a little disgusted noise like ugh, so don’t have time for you) before instructing Jess to sign-off on things and rattling off strings of numbers at random. 

“What the hell happened?” MJ asks, bewildered and unable to piece together what possibly could have crumbled in a structure that had always seemed infallible, save for the man atop it. 

“God, where to begin?” 

The explanation starts with Miguel’s alternate life. His daughter. His experimental habitation. When MJ says she already knows all about it and quit largely because of it, Jess asks delicately, “Excuse me. Just one sec?” 

Spinning in her chair, Jess bashes her heels against the dark window with furious little kicks. While she’s doing that, Lyla pops back in to direct Jess’s anger to a requisition form. Jess stops kicking. She signs the form with a tight snarl of a signature.

“I told him to tell you,” Jess says by way of explanation, spinning back around. “It was only a matter of time before some idiot blabbed and you felt like this whole thing was one big joke at your expense. Did he listen? No. Of course not. Nobody listens to Jess!”

And then Jess tells her about the end of a universe. Broadly, she describes the fabric of reality crushing in on itself tight enough to erase everyone and everything trapped inside it. She explains how Miguel survived through Peter B’s quick thinking alone. “Miguel’s devastated. He blames himself. Says if he hadn't been there, it wouldn't have happened.”

The sentiment stabs familiar in the pit of MJ’s stomach. It echoes the thought that’s haunted the valleys of her heart for years. If she hadn’t been there, Peter would have stopped the collider. He would have saved everyone and himself. With MJ there, he had to choose between her and salvation. He made the wrong choice. 

“Is he right?” MJ asks. 

Jess sighs, running the length of her nose over and over with her middle finger like she’s ironing out a crease. “No set conclusion yet. But, yeah. I think he’s right.” 

Sympathetic grief sinks MJ like a stone. All those people. All those possibilities. All gone. Just like that. Much as she resents Miguel for his hypocrisy and apathy, she never hated him, not enough to wish something like this upon him. 

“His daughter, is she…?” MJ doesn't have to finish the question. Jess gives a slight, sad shake of her head. 

Lyla makes a fresh appearance, conjuring two screens. Numbers and graphs pollute the surface of both. While Jess reviews them, Lyla forks her fingers to her eyes and then out at MJ, glaring, silently saying, I’m watching you and I do not like what I’m seeing. 

As the only witness to her explosive argument with Miguel, MJ doesn’t fault the holowoman for holding a grudge.

“So, the reason I called you back here,” Jess says, “I thought maybe you could talk to him.”

It’s rude, but MJ laughs. She laughs hard. A hacking dog kind of laugh. “Oh, trust me. I might be the last person he wants to talk to now. Or ever.”

Deflating, Jess knocks her head against the back of her chair. The cushion of her hair settles around her face, framing it like a thought bubble. Again, Jess scrubs aggressively at her face. 

“That’s what Lyla said, but I’m out of ideas. Nobody can get through to him and he’s getting worse. He blames himself. Even though there was no way he could've known. There's no way any of us could've known.” Heavy emphasis is placed on any of us. It lends nuance to the lichtenberg lines in Jess’ eyes. Miguel isn’t the only one wracked with guilt. “It doesn’t help that none of us can understand what he’s going through. I just thought—”

“That’s low, Jess,” MJ interrupts, empathy sizzled. 

There’s a sizable chunk of Spiders who live post-apocalyptic, but only one who lost a daughter in the process. Now, there’s two. And Jess wants her to… to what? Have a dead daughter heart-to-heart with Miguel? 

It makes her blood swelter. Fury prickles in little, stinging beads of sweat on her scalp. Index and middle fingernails scour the palms of her hands, tearing hot and ragged through the skin, into the capillaries beneath. 

“I’m desperate, MariJane. Those charts Lyla keeps showing me? Suicide projections.”

Rage washes out, leaving a wasteland in her body. Heat tingles the corners of her widening eyes. It reads like sympathy, feels like jealousy. It’s both. 

Sympathy for the eviscerating trauma of losing a child and a future in one fell swoop. It’s an agony she knows all too well. An agony that never eases. 

Jealousy for the overwhelming support and love heaped on Miguel. Everyone she loved died in a fatal second. It was weeks before she even knew Harry survived. When she grieved, she grieved everything and everyone and she grieved alone. It nearly killed her. 

Nobody was studying uptrends and downtrends in suicide projections when she threw herself into the Hudson. 

“Is he here?” MJ manages. 

Soon enough, MJ's on a crash course with Miguel's lab. She gets the lay of the land quick. Dissent among the ranks has spread like an ick. The halls, normally teeming with as many colorful characters as a coral reef, are dark and desolate. The few Spiders she does pass move aimlessly and seldom look up from their gizmos. 

MJ hasn't checked the Webb since her hasty departure and Jess strongly recommended keeping it that way. Apparently, it’s rife with doomposting and unchecked neuroses. Jess doesn’t have the first idea of how to calm everyone down (not after the Society wide message of KEEP CALM AND SPIDER ON failed to do the trick), and Lyla’s sapped for processing power. The only one the Spiders want to hear from is Miguel, but he’s gone completely dark. 

Not just figuratively. Literally, too. The hall to his lab is completely dark. No overhead light. No ambient glow from the baseboards. Nothing. Total dark. The only thing that keeps MJ going is the peach fuzz haze off her gizmo, leading her through the din.

She’s starred in this movie before. The pure-of-heart-and-body heroine with a temperamental light source sets off to confront greater evils to save her friends. God. She needs to calm down. Stop dramatizing. Miguel’s not evil and MJ’s body hasn’t been pure since she started filling it out. Besides, it can’t be that bad. Right? 

Famous last words. How bad could it be? Worse. It could always be worse. 

Just before the doors, Lyla pops up. MJ’s stomach drops. For a life approximation, Lyla looks rough. Sans her iconic glasses and puffer coat, Lyla wears a rumpled black jumpsuit, more a function of comfort than fashion. Her meticulously kept hair is lank, pieces crumpled and frizzed at uneven intervals across her head. Dark circles flare like bruises beneath her eyes and her computer-generated skin has a waxen pallor.

“Oh, nuh uh, absolutely not,” Lyla says, sawing her hands in an x. Up and down, she draws that x over and over. “Definitely not about to let you kick Miguel while he’s down. In fact, I should boot you right now and save us all the headache.”

Jess had warned getting past Lyla would be the first of MJ’s troubles. Apparently, the holowoman’s been playing guard dog for Miguel since the incident. A little, yipping chihuahua of a guard dog, but still very capable of biting.

“God, you were such a bithead!” Lyla rants. She kicks at the air in frustration and an animated pile of junk erupts with a dynamic spew. “Normally, I wouldn’t say that, but Miguel’s not exactly upkeeping my spam filter right now.”

MJ winces. Lyla’s anger is warranted. Her departure wasn’t her best look. In fact, it was one of her worst. MJ says, “I don’t want to make anything worse. I just want to apologize and, well, I kind of know what he’s going through.”

Lyla pinches the bridge of her nose. “I want to believe you. My sensors indicate I can believe you, but my loyalty parameters are made of way stronger stuff. You really upset Miguel when you left.” 

Good. He should have been upset. She tried very hard to make him upset. But, differences aside, Miguel isn’t her enemy. The last thing she needs is Lyla thinking she takes any joy in the situation he’s in now. So, she asks, “How’s he doing?”

“I’m not allowed to say.” Lyla blows up her bangs with a huff of hair like a snorting horse.

“So, bad.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“So, really bad.”

Lyla doesn’t respond but flattens her mouth and gives two quick nods.

“Jess thinks I should talk to him.”

Lyla laughs. “Oh, no. Bad idea. Not sure if you missed the holonote, but you’re not exactly Miguel’s favorite Spider.”

That dislike isn't unfounded. Far from it. That dislike was industriously set and solidified over three months of clashing heads and gnashing teeth and a real ornery streak on her part, brought to a bloody, brutal head when she screamed at him to hit her. MJ’s done a pretty good job not dwelling on that particular part of her departure from the Society. She’s not about to waste that effort now. 

With a scoff, MJ asks, “Does Miguel have a favorite Spider?”

“Mmm, good point, but I still can’t let you in, babes.”

Babes. A good sign. MJ can work with it. “Has he eaten since it happened? Slept at all?”

Lyla pulls a face and a bright red prohibition sign flashes up behind her with an accompanying analog noise for error.

“Does he blame himself?” A redundant question. Of course he does. 

Lyla sighs. “Miguel’s stubborn.”

“Please, Lyla. Let me talk to him. Can’t you like, run the numbers? The odds of me making everything worse by talking to him now?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Lyla says, but a scroll of greenlit numbers runs behind her head. She rubs at her eyes and then drags her fingers down, revealing the jumbled static undersides to  her lids.

“Fine,” she groans, “you can talk to him, but if you make it worse, I’m coming for blood.”

An animated rendering flashes. In it, cartoon MJ makes her way through the Society, whistling as she goes past a darkened doorway. From within the dark, heart-shaped glasses glint with murderous intent. The vision wipes clean, replaced by Lyla’s unconvincing grin. “Just kidding. Unless you try to hurt him. Then, I’ll call down the full force of this Society on your head and make sure you wish you'd stayed gone, ‘kay?”

Lyla’s cheery voice only makes her threat cut deeper. She vanishes. The doors behind her groan open, splitting apart in fourths. MJ swallows, clenches her fists, steps through.

The overhead lights of the lab are off. There’s only the soft orange glow from active monitors overhead on the raised platform. She doesn’t wait for a greeting. A punch upside the head is more likely than a hello. Not that she expects Miguel will be violent, only that a punch wouldn’t be a surprise. As Lyla was keen to flag, they didn’t exactly part on good terms. 

Spidey-sense guides her up and up in the mired dark. Thwips ring thin in the cavernous clutter. She steps lightly onto the platform, wary of tripwires and dirty bombs.

Ahead of her, the wide array of screens winks off until only one remains. Miguel stands in front of it, watching a video she can’t hear. Masked, but the air around his head shimmers, as if he’s just put it on. He doesn’t even glance at her, only stares at the video. Footage flashes around him. 

A young girl babbles, grinning wide, and holds up a gold plated medal, but her hands are clumsy. She gestures joyfully and the medal goes flying out of her hand. It strikes the concrete and cracks clean in two. Her mouth falls open, revealing several pokeholes of erupting teeth, as her head bobs down at the medal and back up at the lens. Her eyes squint in reproach at something silently said before bursting into laughter. Then, the video loops. 

Gabriella beams. Drops her medal. Watches it crack. Nearly cracks herself, except for well timed comic relief. Except for fatherly affection. Unheard, but there. The video loops. 

Gabriella grins. The medal breaks. Gabriella laughs. The video loops. 

Gabriella. Shatter. Gabriella. Shatter. The video loops. 

Clarity wallops. MJ shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a space for her. She is nothing to Miguel. No one. Just a nuisance who told him to fuck off and stick his dick in a mousetrap the last time she saw him. 

What the hell was she thinking? What the hell was Jess thinking?

Gabriella’s dead. An entire universe is gone. Nothing will ever make that better. If Miguel can’t survive the newfound gouges in his soul, MJ would never fault him for it. Existence is miserable enough without carrying the weight of the dead. 

But MJ doesn't leave fast enough. 

“Lyla ¿qué chingados?”

MJ doesn’t speak Spanish, but his tone is translation enough. Miguel is not thrilled with her visit. 

Lyla shifts into existence over his shoulder, looking as stylish as ever, regular ensemble in-tact. The only hint of disarray is a single rucked hair at the crown of her skull, poking up from the otherwise smooth shag of hair. “Sorry Miguel. She found my weakness.”

He doesn’t follow Lyla’s prompting. His fingers curl and unfurl at his sides. The jump and shake of his suit is more erratic than MJ remembers. Volatile. Magma about to spew. She shifts back. If her Spidey-Sense flares, she’s gone like low rise jeans. If Miguel decides he really doesn’t want visitors, she definitely won’t put up a fight. 

“She said please,” Lyla says, but her voice is weary in its attempt at levity.

Miguel remains silent. Lyla casts a pleading glance over her shoulder, jerking her head for MJ to approach. MJ shakes her head. A chicken move, yes, but the only one she can muster. 

Behind pink glasses, Lyla’s eyes turn to hellfire, blazing out of her skull in sudden, righteous fury. Warning blasts MJ from all angles, Spidey-sense going ballistic. So, MJ does what Lyla wants.

Circling the platform, slowly, giving Miguel ample time to snap, MJ comes to stand just as his side. Stance loose and at the ready, she crosses her arms in her best attempt at nonchalance. 

“Thought you quit?” Miguel grunts. 

It’s uncomfortable to imagine someone like Miguel, resolute and (over)confident, crying, but that’s what it sounds like he’s been doing. His voice is thick as a head cold. 

“Yeah, well, rumors of my quitting have been greatly exaggerated.” 

He doesn’t laugh or give any indication that he recognizes her attempt to ease the tension. Instead, he just growls, “Well?” 

“Well…” she trails off. The thread she was meant to pick up spirals away. 

“Just get it over with,” he demands, rounding fully on her. His size is casually staggering, but he comes up on her fast enough to spook. She stumbles back, eclipsed in his shadow, as he insists, “Tell me this is what I deserve.”

MJ’s shoulders creep to her ears. Never, never ever, would she say something like that. It stings that he thinks she would. “No one deserves this. I actually wanted to apologize for what I said before. And I thought I’d see if you wanted to talk.”

“Oh.” Masked accents translate his squint. “That’s worse. I don’t want to talk to you. Ever. Get out.”

“Jess wanted me—”

“Santa María—”

“She’s worried about you. Everyone’s worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sitting in the dark, refusing to talk to anyone, watching the same video over and over—all signs of a man who’s fine.”

“Leave,” he says. “I won’t tell you again.”

She huffs, frustrated with herself, frustrated with him. So, she shifts tactics, pulls from experience. “It doesn’t stop hurting. It gets easier, but it doesn’t hurt less. If anything, it hurts more because you forget things, things you never even thought you’d need to remember, and it makes you miss them more. I don’t know the history, but I know you love”—Your daughter seems too raw and Gabriella too personal—“her. Her world. That counts for something.”

Miguel scoffs. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I hoped it might.” The words are bland and shapeless. More dejected than she has any right to feel. What did she expect? 

Miguel remains utterly unmoved. His stillness is unnerving. “It doesn’t. You were right. I can’t save anyone.”

It takes her a second to remember. She had said that, or something like it, back at the beginning, when she wasn’t quite sure she wanted any part of his Society. When she blamed him outright for the death of her world. And now she knows he blames himself for it too. “Miguel, I—"

“Lyla, get her out of here.”

Lyla materializes beside her. In her hands, she offers a gold star and whispers, “Decent showing.”

Beneath MJ, the platform begins to descend. She sidesteps off it, determined. This can’t be his memory of her. She can’t be a knife for him to cut himself with. 

“I was wrong,” she says. “I should never have said that. I was pissed off and hurt and alone. When I lost everything, all I wanted was not to be alone.” 

Each word gains momentum, driving towards a point that unfurls soft and oversweet. Orchid petals of sincerity. Intimate and delicate. Truth time. Honesty enough to make her own voice thick. “All I wanted was someone to understand and hold me and tell me it was going to be okay and save me from it because I didn’t know how to save myself. I didn’t have that and I made mistakes because of it. I hurt worse because of it. But, I know better now. I can help you. If you want. Miguel, I—”

Shit! 

Panic blades across her fore-senses, ungluing her feet from the platform into a sideways roll, lunging out of it. A sparking chunk of machine whizzes past her. She comes up from her lunge as the projectile crashes into the far wall, exploding in a wash of blues and electric reds. It meteors to the ground and sets off a cascade of projects and other machinery. Everything knocks into everything else, ringing out in groaning, metallic harmony. 

Wide-eyed, she looks at Miguel, anticipating another attack, but none comes. Wispy sparks burst from the clawed-out crevice of the monitor bank. The red of Miguel’s palm is fluid slicked across and over the sharp points of talons. His chest heaves. He glares down into his empty hand. 

“I…” but whatever the thought is, he can’t finish it. It’s like he never spoke at all. 

MJ can’t speak either. She can barely breathe. Adrenaline strangles. 

Down below, the crash site catches fire with a hiss. Black smoke rises. The chemical fumes warble the air. It feels like a dream. A dream, not a nightmare. She is not afraid of Miguel. She is afraid of the slow draining mania in her chest. The hope that swells and blisters. Afraid of herself. Of what she might have said, if he hadn’t stopped her.

It is a lonely thing to survive the end of the world. For some brief, stupid second, she thought it might not be so lonely anymore. 

The smoke reaches the ceiling. The fire suppressant system kicks on. A shroud of dust falls with a whoosh. It smothers everything. Light. Touch. Sound. Total silence falls. The room is blanketed and still like the night of a fresh fallen snow. Her pulse has no sound, but it chokes. It hurts. 

MJ leaves. Her footsteps crunch in the grit, recording her retreat off the platform and out of the room. Just before she makes it out the door, Lyla says, “She was just trying to help.”

And Miguel’s response, weary and warworn. "Everyone's always just trying to help.”

When the door slides shut behind her, MJ falls back against it. She fists her hands together and smashes them hard against her mouth. Her lips give and her teeth catch the shaking glut of her fingers. Skin scrapes open. Blood oozes. Blood slows. Blood scabs. Skin knits back together. Teeth bite. Skin scrapes open. Blood oozes. 

Bite. Blood. Bite. Blood. Bite. Again and again and again. 

***

Within thirty minutes, a mandatory message goes out to every member of the Spider Society. It auto plays at full volume without warning. In the lobby alone, hundreds of gizmos blare Miguel’s confession. Alone, he addresses the camera.

Stiff voiced, he describes the collapse of Gabriella’s world and the circumstances that led to it, as he understands them. Unmasked, he offers himself up for punishment with bloodshot eyes and unkempt stubble. His expression never teeters beyond one of martyred resolve. He never says it, but he wants punishment. Execution. Swift and absolute. He needs it. He won’t accept anything less. 

I am not a good man. That’s how he ends the video and that’s what MJ remembers most. I am not a good man delivered with complete sincerity. 

“What the hell is he thinking?” Peter B muses aloud. 

In the interim between MJ’s disastrous discussion with Miguel and his call for removal going live, Peter B found her. What a scene she must have made outside Miguel’s lab, hunchbacked and shaking, gnawing at her hand like a deranged squirrel. But Peter hadn’t judged. Without a word, he led her from the dark 

Now, from both their gizmos, Lyla announces that Miguel has initiated Succession Protocol (1.07) for his removal as head of the Spider Society. A vote of no confidence is underway. All Spiders must respond YES or NO. 

The halls of the Society are alarmingly silent under the hum of Lyla’s voice. Every Spider is at a loss for words. The vote closes in 24 hours to allow for every Spider to lodge their vote. 

“Use your best judgment,” Lyla advises. There’s more she wants to say, straining against her code, but she never manages. With a solemn bow of her head, Lyla blips from every gizmo. YES and NO flicker in bold red typeface. Additional guidance is available upon request, according to the tiny text at the bottom of the screen. 

“This is all my fault,” MJ says, miserably. 

Peter stares at her for a second. Then, he laughs. Only a short, honking laugh before his mouth snaps shut with a click. His cheeks darken to a dangerously bright shade. “That was awful. I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just so insane to think that you had anything to do with this.”

“But I tried to talk to him just before he did this. Why did I do that? Why did I think I had anything worth saying?”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Peter says. “You were just trying to help. You didn’t do this.”

They sit together on a sofa in one of the several social lounges. MJ doesn’t know what floor they’re on. She barely remembers the journey here, the halls looping and turning and never-ending. She chews her lip and the inside of her cheek interchangeably. The discomfort keeps her above the churn, but just barely.

“For days, he doesn’t do anything and then the second I talk to him, he lines up for the firing squad,” she insists, louder than she means. They’re alone in the lounge, but MJ fears unseen eyes. Everyone is on edge. It’d be easy to redirect the permeating dread and confusion of the Society onto her shoulders. Anger is always easier. 

Peter sighs. Gently, he snakes an arm around her back, coaxing her head against the notch of his shoulder. He smells like fresh cut grass and wind through the trees. MJ’s so worn out, the strangeness of it doesn’t even register. It’s just nice to be held. 

“Miguel’s not well,” Peter says. “He’s trying to run away because it hurts. The question now is whether we let him or not.”

MJ knows he’s right. It doesn’t mean she bears no blame for pushing Miguel to the edge. But there’s no point arguing for argument's sake. Peter’s steadfast in his conviction. So, she hums and admits, “You’re pretty smart when you want to be, Peter Parker.”

“Hey, gotta uphold my title as Midtown High’s Biggest Brain ‘99, right?”

With a sniffle, MJ leans up off his shoulder, squinting at him. “God, you’re old.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Peter drops his head back. It hits the wall with a thunk. He flinches, whipping a hand up to rub at the impacted dome of his skull. Wince ever deepening, he adds, “I’ll be in my 50s when Mayday starts high school.”

MJ would’ve been 38. 41, by the time Mayday graduated. One of the benefits of having a kid fairly young. She doesn’t make this point to Peter. With the stress of the day and his wife’s imminent due date, he looks one bad crack away from a pre-midlife crisis. 

There’s more gray in his hair than the last time she saw him. A lot more. Coupled with a set of severe under eye smudges, Peter’s aged years in only a few weeks. Aged clean outta his late 30s, looks-wise. 

Helplessly watching the annihilation of an entire universe will do that to a person.

MJ and Peter’s gizmos thwip in tandem. A new message from Jess for them both. 

SW-332 - Emergency meeting. Conference room 9 sector 13. ASAP!

Dread tastes like a migraine headache and stomach bile, frothing rabid in MJ’s mouth. She swallows it down, choking around its weight. Jess trusted her to comfort Miguel, not convince him to blow up the building. Metaphorically, of course. The blow up the building button is a dummy button. A joke of sorts. At least, she thinks so. Miguel’s sense of humor is darker than hers. She never really got the hang of it. She never really tried. 

Another message thwips.  

SW-332 - Actually screw ASAP. Meeting NOW!! As in MOVE!!!!  

Beside MJ, Peter stands with a gruff sigh. He cracks his back, mumbling about being too old for this before he offers his hand to her. She takes it, gripping firm as he hoists her upright. At the top, the room spins sideways. Unfed, her body is slow to stabilize. Starbursts sparkle at the edges of her vision. 

Peter doesn’t let go of her hand until she lets go of his. 

“Don’t worry,” Peter says, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Jess is gonna yell at me way more than she yells at you.” 

MJ isn’t afraid of being yelled at. She’s got thick skin and a long history as a sounding board for the anger of others. Disappointment has always hurt her more than anger. 

Peter continues, eager to ease worries he’s diagnosed without evidence. “There’s just something about my face that makes people wanna yell at me. Some people have a punchable face. I got a yellable face.” 

Despite everything, it does lift her spirits. Just a little. 

“By god, Parker. I think you’re onto something.” She doesn’t quite nail the enthusiasm she wants, but she gets close. Peter smiles, thin but genuine, and lets her latch onto his arm, tugging him into motion. “C’mon, we gotta test this theory immediately! Scientific breakthrough is moments away!” 

It’s goofy. It feels goofy. But, in moments like these, it’s nice to take a step back. To breathe. To pretend like the sky isn’t coming down on top of her.

Because moments like these? This levity? It never lasts. 

End Part I

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Shame, Shame, Shame!

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref: MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: MARIJANE’s optional, extended response after voting “No” in the Vote of No Confidence raised via Succession Protocol (1.07) for MIGUEL’s removal as head of the Spider Society. MARIJANE dictated as follows:

Does he even read these or do they all just get processed by you? OK, well then can you please make sure he sees this, LYLA? 

Miguel. What happened, it sucks. Shocking majorly. And I want to say too, what happened with my earth, it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault except Norman Osborn’s. And maybe mine. 

Delete that last part. Delete. Backspace. Backspace? Test test test. Seriously?

That’s really annoying. Ugh. LYLA, that's a new note for the comment box. Anyway, please ignore the Boo Hoo, Poor MJ moment. Had to meet my quota for the week. 

I won’t lie and say I’m not pissed you lied, but I get it. I don’t love it, but I get it. Especially since I reacted exactly the way you thought I would. Peter always said my redhead temper was legendary. Said my Symbiote name would just be Wrath. Can you believe him? The audacity. It’s not even a good name!

I’m sorry for what I said to you when I quit. It wasn't fair. Most of it wasn't true. I actually happened to think you were a fairly decent guy who just really knew how to grind my gears before I blew up like that. I was just mad and angry and I took it out on you. 

And I’m sorry I thought I could make any difference talking to you earlier. That was stupid. I would blame Jess, but she meant well. They all do. 

It’s really crazy this thing you built. Like, certifiable. But it’s really amazing too. And I think you’re the only one who can pilot this schooner to safe waters. Imagine Ben leading this thing. It’d look like a Snyder flick in here. 

And you probably think Jess would replace you and she could probably do it but she so does not want to. Like, she’ll pop wheelies on your corpse if you tried to make her. She so does not want to do it. Make sure that’s emphasized please, LYLA. Like bold, underline. Jess so does not want to. 

You’ve given all these Spiders a place to belong and something bigger to believe in. You got me to believe in it. Which is totally bananas. We both know how totally bananas that is. 

You made a mistake. You’re human. You saw a little girl who would grow up an orphan and you wanted to try and save her. Peter said you uprooted your entire life to take care of her so she’d never know heartache. That’s hero stuff. 

You couldn’t have known how it would end. You wouldn’t have been there if you thought the risk was too high. You’ve chewed me out enough at this point for my own risk taking that I say that with 100% certainty. You and your shocking risk analyses. 

But, anyway. 

You know I would’ve done the exact same thing for my daughter. So I don’t fault you for what you did. None of us do.

You’re a good guy, Miguel. Don’t let this crush your heart. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Sentimental. 

Notes:

chapter title from "BODY/PRISON" by HEALTH and Perturbator

and so ends part one. thoughts? questions? concerns lol?

next chapter is an interlude/backstory and then starts part two, which is far less angst, much more slowburn rom com (and then maybe the b plot comes in with a steel chair at the end but dont worry so much about that right now)

ive been trying to keep these notes quick and brief but that seems to be less and less the case lol. a huge motivating factor for starting to write this thing was that i just do not buy the spider society's bs in atsv nor do i buy that all the spiders buy it. theres a ton more i could say (but ill spare the word count) and just say - the fuckery of the blind faith and adherence to the "law" of canon is more tolerable if the society existed BEFORE miguel came up with canon theory (which you may have noticed hasnt been a feature of this fic so far - spoilers for part two lol)

next chapter: an interlude - Nu York after the end

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

just a selection of advance tags/teasers for part two in no particular order:
#everybody's favorite crazy android enters and the studio audience claps
#fake dating
#fun with symbiotes
#miguel ohara: master of mixed signals
#alchemax and other corporate evils
#exclusive failson content
#shipping discourse
#help! i almost got it on with spider-man but i was hijacked by a symbiote the whole time - AITA?
#harry :(
#the prose gets a lil slippery
#tyler stone jumpscare
#the b plot really starts b plotting
#slow burn into simmer into oh fuck it boiled over

11/30 edit -
Miguel POV: in your dreams, in your song: chap 3 - And the Universe Swallows Itself Whole

Chapter 14: interlude - variations on a love theme: i. dies irae

Summary:

nu york, years ago, at the end of the world

Notes:

cw: suicidal ideation & attempt by drowning

(11/10: this past week sucked - double posting chapters 14 & 15 because 14's an angstfest and 15's more fun)

Sixteen and a half minutes before the world ends, MariJane Watson-Parker stands bound and gagged on the edge of a broken platform in a derelict warehouse, overlooking a rip in the very fabric of time and space. 

It’s a Tuesday, mid-fall, and her fifth wedding anniversary. She doesn’t yet know the world is a few moments from ending. There are far more important things afoot than yet another hairbrained scheme at world domination from one of her husband’s many archenemies.  

Colors and sounds—some she knows, some she’s glad she doesn’t—bleed from the universe’s gaping wound. It makes her a little seasick to look at it, so she doesn’t. She shifts in her bindings, alleviating some of the pressure in her wrists, and tries to follow the zig zag maneuverings of her husband and his nemesis overhead.

With a backhand so fast she can scarcely follow it, the Green Goblin cracks Peter across the face and sends him cartwheeling through the air. She winces. Beside her, a hired goon chuffs, picking at his teeth with a dirty pinky finger.

In defiance of her glare, he flashes a grin so crooked and tobacco-stained that she can only assume gooning doesn’t come with decent dental benefits. She wants to tell him to kindly take a swandive into the ever-growing tear in the universe underneath them, but can’t, courtesy of the crusty cloth shoved into her mouth.

Ever flexible, MJ settles for manifesting his untimely end instead. She doesn’t want him to die, per say, but a brush with death might make him think twice about gooning himself out in the future. Plus, he called her Spider-Whore, which was a bit too crass for her liking. Though, it did make her sound kind of edgy.

Overhead, the battle continues. She finds her husband easily as he rights himself against a steel girder. His blue and red suit is stark against the industrial hellscape of metal beams and concrete slabs. He looks every bit the hero he is as he makes a fresh swing for the control panel below. MJ doesn’t quite understand what he intends to do—there’s no big button that reads SAVE THE DAY—but she doesn’t doubt his ability to figure it out. Spider-Man always saves the day.

Before Peter can get close to the panel, the Goblin swoops down from the heavens. A blight of green and purple, he cuts in front of Peter, forcing him to retreat. For the third time in a row.

It’s a game of cat and mouse that’s gone on a bit too long for her liking. 

While she’s a little rusty in the role of damsel in distress, MJ gives it a good faith effort. She keeps her eyes big and wide. She looses muffled oh my gods and watch outs! She lets her body tremble. She makes her breaths quick and panicked. She crumples her favorite cocktail dress to draw her body hunkered and quivering over itself. She does everything she can think of to keep from looking too bored.

The weird, pulsating space-time calamity is a concern, yes. She’s not insane. But her jaw is really starting to twinge from the gag. With the all-call on set for her Next Big Thing, Sure to Net an Oscar Nom only three days away, a sore jaw is not something she’s willing to risk. 

Plus, Peter did his best to keep it a secret, but she knows he made reservations for Guigino’s at eight. Delicious, orgasmic pasta and breadsticks are only a saved day away. Her stomach growls, loud and unladylike, but the goon doesn’t notice. The wailing, shrieking rip in space-time is far louder. She can’t even hear Peter’s incessant quipping, though he’s likely screaming at the top of his lungs to be heard.

A shockwave emanates from the rip, blasting her chic, prim bangs back from her brow and making her stumble. The goon, built of brawn and bricks, doesn’t flinch. He gives the growing tear a passing glance and then returns to staring up at the blurs of red and green zipping through the air. MJ rolls her eyes and sets her mind on escape.

The derelict warehouse she’s trapped in isn’t much different from every other derelict warehouse she’s been held captive in over the years. It’s little more than a massive, descending scaffolding leading down into the expansive belly of the building that holds the device currently destroying the space-time continuum. 

As annoying as it is that Peter’s enemies refuse to enact their schemes somewhere more hospitable, like a Marriott or a Cinnabon, the common locale only bolsters her confidence in escaping. All she needs to do is cut her bindings, flee the goon, and wait for Peter to save the day. Just like she has a hundred times before.

In the past, she did her best to help or fight back, but that usually ended with broken bones and a bigger mess for Peter to clean up. Experience (and one very weepy talk with Peter) has taught her to stay out of it. Even though it makes her stomach turn to hunch and hide like a fucking coward. 

What kind of lesson is she teaching her daughter? How to be a survivor, according to Peter. 

It's luck alone that the initial blast from the collider that tore open the fabric of the universe also snapped part of the rusted railing behind MJ in half. A jagged piece juts at the perfect angle for her use.

It occurs to her, as she barely puts any effort into cowering in fear from the growing tear and saws through her bindings with the sharp edge of the railing, that she’s grown too complacent. After all, five years of marriage to Nu York City’s eminent superhero has made peril and mind melting impossibilities rather mundane.

Trying to get her daughter into Brooklyn’s premiere magnet school? Convincing her husband that their daughter is finally old enough for MJ to really reignite her acting career? Maintaining the delicate balance between Three Time Emmy-Nominated MariJane, Generational Trauma Breaker Mommy, Best Wife Ever, and Just MJ?

That is all downright terrifying and damned difficult.

But being abducted by the Green Goblin? Having to listen to Goblin monologue about raining calamity upon the multiverse via a stolen quantum collider? Standing helplessly by while said collider sequence ultimately failed upon start-up, chewing a hole through reality?

Just plain frustrating. A little trite, too.

Mysterio had pulled a similar stunt only about a year prior. A few years before that Doctor Doom, MD, had tried his hand at a quantum collider. Peter had done a big team-up with the Avengers for the Doom debacle and gotten his first Nu York Times cover, plus a Presidential Medal of Heroism out of the ordeal. 

As the zip tie snaps from her wrists, MJ imagines Peter must be telling Goblin all about it. He never passes up an opportunity to talk about the Times shoot— supervillains, friends, family, all were subjected to discussion and witness of Peter’s favorite story about himself. If she was feeling generous, MJ could admit it was a very flattering photo and write-up, enough so that she’d agreed to adorn their living room walls with framed copies. But, usually, she was just sick of hearing about it. 

Now, MJ massages some feeling back into her hands, careful to keep both behind her back and not to draw the goon’s attention. Once her fingers stop tingling, MJ feels for the broken rail. She manages, just barely, to not stab herself with it. She gives it a hearty pull, hoping it will come loose.

It doesn’t, but it does bend, which gives her hope.

So, she pulls again. And again. And again.

Each time, it jiggles just enough to give her hope that it’s only one good, solid tug away from breaking free. After the sixth jerk and as Peter goes sailing dangerously close to the tear in space-time, MJ loses her patience.

She spins, taking hold of the bar with both hands and bracing one foot against the intact portion of railing. She jerks the bar this way and that way, tugging and pulling and grousing God and all his angels with enough venom to have Aunt Anna spinning in her grave, but it never comes loose.

A courtesy tap on her shoulder marks the end of her time trying. She spins, grateful to the goon for the head’s up, even as he takes a vicious swing at her with one meaty paw. She ducks just in time to keep all her teeth in her skull.

Thanks to an adulthood as a professional victim, MJ is well versed in what to do in a fight. She's fluent in what not to do in a fight. So, rather than try to take on a man nearly three times her size, MJ runs. 

Thankfully, the platform is solid concrete beneath her so running in her heels isn’t a complete crapshoot. It also helps that several of her biggest roles involved extended running-in-heels scenes, so she’s practically an expert. As she sprints away from the goon, she makes it look effortless and rather stylish.

If only there was an Emmy category for that.

Unfortunately, the goon is faster than his bulbous frame suggests. He snags her by the wrist as she takes her first step up the rickety staircase leading out of the warehouse proper. 

With a furious tug, he yanks her backwards and then cements her to his odorous chest with a massive arm around her throat. She squawks, less dignified than she’d like, and she struggles. He squeezes tighter, pinching her air and bloodstreams closed.

Based on his delighted little chuffs in her ear as she chokes, he enjoys the sensation. Just like she enjoys the sensation of driving her pointed heel through the toe of his boot, spearing one of his toes with a stroke of luck. 

He shrieks in a very un-goonlike manner. He doesn’t let her go, which would just have been too easy, but his grip loosens enough. With a bracing breath, she jerks her head back, bashing his jaw, his mouth, his nose. The blunt edges of his yellowed teeth scour red hot grooves through her scalp and her vision speckles, but she doesn’t relent until he does, until his arms loosen like butter melted by the heat of her ferocity. 

She scrambles away from him. A tentative touch to the back of her head finds sharp pain, jagged flesh, blood. She hisses, a little from pain, but more in realizing that Peter will have to cancel their dinner reservation. There’s no way she can nibble breadsticks with a massive headwound. And oh, how she’s been craving Guigino’s breadsticks. 

“You stupid idiot!” she shouts, brandishing her manicured nails like cat claws. 

“Don’t say stupid idiot. It’s redundant.” A bloodborne lisp adds newfound softness to his growling Brooklyn accent. He lunges at her and she barely escapes his grabbing hands. She breaks for the stairs again. She nearly makes it. 

With a crack to crumble mountains, tongues of sudden lighting fork from the ever-expanding calamity. The sky fractures. She freezes as the world flashes black and white, rendered to outlines and negative space. 

Blinding. Absolute. Total stasis.

Up above, the glider crashes into the rafters. The ensuing fireball singes MJ's from trailblazing, albeit now-frazzled bob to Louboutin clad toes and knocks her to her knees. The concrete strips the tights and skin from her shins and kneecaps. Twin bolts of scorching pain ricochet up her legs and into her teeth. The impact coupled with the intense heat steals her breath. 

The fumes strangle and she hacks wretchedly, falling forward onto her hands. She retches canine as her eyes sting and water and burn. Through the haze of the explosion, the world is tinged green and purple and unnatural as the air squirms like a living thing.  

She screams for her husband as a reflex. And, when he finally saves her, the relief jolts through her body like an anesthetic, soothing the bumps and bruises suffered during her ordeal. 

“Took you long enough,” MJ huffs, but her grin betrays her, so she buries her face against his neck. Even through the nauseating stench of burning ozone and sulfur, she can smell his cologne, woodsy with notes of citrus, and the sharp tang of exertion. He smells like home.  

Peter doesn’t respond. He lands and deposits her on the uneven debris from his fight with Goblin. She stumbles, one heel sinking into the cracked concrete, but he doesn’t let her fall. He takes her by the arms, clutching just beneath her elbows far tighter than her shorn-through restraints. His fingers curl into her skin. Feverish and sharp, his grip is a rabid dog’s bite.

“That hurts,” she says, fidgeting.

Peter doesn’t let go. He looks past her to stare into the calamity chewing its way through the bounds of the world. In the glossy white reflection of his mask, she watches the edges of reality smear into unnatural flashes of orange and yellow like caution lights reflected on a wet street.

Her heartbeat thumps in her throat.

“Peter?”

He doesn’t answer, but he turns his head, tilting it down to meet her eye. His masked face is expressionless, motionless, but that only gives him away.

Acid scorches her throat. Her next breath is wet and wretched.

“Peter?”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. She already knows.

There will be no anniversary dinner at Guigino’s. No extra order of breadsticks. No bottle of Riesling shared between them. They won’t try and fail to sneak from the restaurant. She won’t laugh when he tells the inevitable crowd of slack-jawed fans something cheesy, something like, My wife has no bad sides, but I’m only bad sides, and he won’t take her by the waist and swing her over the city as dusk settles. There will be no goodnight call to their daughter. No searing kisses to boil the wine from her veins. No soft and sweet lovemaking to usher in another year of marriage. 

There is only now. This sharp moment of realization. This single breath of fear. This lightning strike in the dark.

Peter looks at her and she looks at him. The tear in the universe teethes at her back, sharp and piercing where it grazes, raising ice cold gooseflesh where it touches. It is so utterly wrong that she recoils from it, jerking forward into Peter’s embrace. 

“MJ, I—” 

But he’s too late. The rip in space-time crests over them like a wave, furious and frothing. She can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe.

The last thing she thinks: thank God Mayday is with Gayle.

The last thing she sees: Spider-Man's blue embossed emblem. 

Calamity crashes around her, swallowing her whole.

***

There is no floor just as there is no sky. There is only the lurch of freefall. The death of gravity and the maelstrom of force in its absence. MJ spins up and over herself, legs and arms and head tumbling over and over each other. Lost. Totally untethered. 

Reality shrieks around her, growing ever louder without reprieve, pressing onto and then into her eyes, her mouth, her ears, her skull. Every soft and unsoft surface breached by the horrific bleating of nothingness, of everything. She screams, but it makes no sound that she can hear until it is the only sound she can hear. Her own voice, recursive and whetted sharp. It tears her apart. 

Each of her limbs stretch until they disjoint. Her fingers brush the far corners of the universe. Her bones shatter and punch out through her skin. Her teeth fracture. Her eyes bleed. There is only pain, looped and knotted and eternal.

She no longer screams, can no longer even remember what a scream is, but the void remembers. It reminds her. It says: this is what it sounds like when you are made liquid and immaterial. How pathetic. How very, very sad that you cannot comprehend as you are made and unmade in body and blood and beauty and horror. Everything you are, everything you were, and everything you might yet be sings through you, but you do not understand. Not yet. 

She is nothing.

She is everything.  

And then it ends, all at once, but never fast enough.

***

From the eye of the hurricane, MJ awakens. Lungs full of dust. A mosquito whine in her ears. She lies curled around herself in the bowl of impact. The lingering devastation wrought by the collider emanates out from her, though she can scarcely see any of it through the smoke and the smog.

Memories rise and then bleed into one another, watercoloring the canvas of her mind. There she is picking out her outfit for the evening. Singing along to Kidz Bop with Mayday. Hugging her sister quick and one-armed. Arguing with the tillman when her subway card declined from an error in the system. Bracing for impact as the train car slammed to a halt. Flailing against the Green Goblin as he dragged her out into the tunnel. Biting the goon who first tried to shove the gag in her mouth.

And Peter. Oh God. Oh please. Peter. 

Peter, looking like the perfect hero in his new Spider-suit. Peter, arriving too late to stop the collider’s start-up. Peter, failing to save the day.

Everything hurts. Nothing makes any sense.

There's only darkness around her, and it's unkind. Her eyes make shapes in the shadows until they make her sick. So, she closes her eyes, accepts only the darkness that is her own.

She brings her knees to her chest and waits for Peter to save her.  

***

Peter never saves her again. 

***

MJ stands from the wreckage eventually. It's agony, but she manages. She feathers her fingers down and around her body, over sore, aching muscle and mass, but there aren't any sudden, vibrant eruptions of pain from the examination. She hurts, but she's whole. Unbroken.

Only one glance is spared for the wreckage, surveying and surface level. MJ doesn’t linger. She doesn’t search. 

There's a throbbing in the soft back of her throat, an unswallowed mass of body-bred certainty. It keeps her breath short and shallow and jagged and true. It's the same word of the body that told her she was pregnant and then again that her pregnancy had run its course before the doctors and the tests to confirm. She doesn’t doubt it.  

She knows Peter Parker is dead.

***

Beyond the debris, the world stands perfectly still, a moment trapped in amber. Cars stall on the streets. Hazards and stop lights blink in discordant intervals. Bodies lay sprawled on sidewalks, over crosswalks, in the middle of the roads. Bodies everywhere and no sign of the living. 

MJ retches and retches and retches until her stomach is stripped raw. When she brings trembling fingers to her mouth, they come away frothed with blood. 

Up above, the sun shines, but not with the warming comfort she understands. It’s a bright, bitter heat. Direct contact prickles her skin, makes her vision sway and her tongue fuzzy.

Later, the children who survived will be the first victims of radiation burns; their skin cracked and split with unnatural pallor, and their eyes streaked with chalky red. There will be no treatment found in time. The inhabitants of this sick and dying world will adapt to life in the shadows.

That comes later. Now, MJ darts beneath awnings and overhangs, sticking to shadows. The floor is lava, but only where the light touches. Within her, jagged instinct drives her onward through the bones of Brooklyn, over the bridge that spells its own grisly tale of crumpled cars and broken guardrails and bodies and bodies and bodies. 

If anyone else lives in this terrible after, she doesn’t know it yet. She retches again over a piece of remaining guardrail. Bile and spittle and blood corkscrew down into the river below. Tears find fractals in the sunlight. Too bright and bitter to withstand, she walks squint-eyed, keeping her head downcast as she continues onward into the Manhattan grid.

Feet bloody and battered, but she doesn’t slow. She runs fast. Faster and faster with each street that brings her closer to her daughter. Louboutin pumps aren’t made for sprinting, but they endure. Sweat drenches. Breath burns. Mind and body unite in singular purpose as maternal instinct rots in her gut. 

At Gayle’s condo, MJ finds her sister dead. 

She doesn’t find Mayday at all.

***

When night falls, the city that never sleeps wakes up. Questions and confusion quickly turn to pandemonium. The streets are still littered with bodies and no clear cause of death. TVs and cellphones and lights have gone dark, refusing to be roused with panic or pleading or prayer.

For the first time in modern history, the electric Nu York skyline is dark.

Overhead, there are no stars.

***

After two days searching and another of aimless waiting, MJ returns home resolved to drink herself to death.

When that fails, the thought sparks that something is wrong with her. Drinking enough liquor to drown a horse doesn’t even elicit a buzz. Doesn’t drown the constant corona of extrasensory awareness clueing her into every panicked word of her fleeing neighbors, every shuffle of feet on the street below, every mote of dust that floats through the air. Doesn’t drown a fucking thing.

MJ suspects, but suspicion is brittle so she breaks it and chooses rage instead. Every bottle of beer and wine and liquor breaks against the far wall of her bedroom. They shatter on impact. Beautiful bursts of glass and liquid. Winking and twinkling. Flashbulbs to commemorate MariJane Watson-Parker’s final bow.

***

The waters of the Hudson are cold and slurry-dark, but they welcome MJ home when the last breath wrings from her lungs. Drowning isn’t as awful as it might seem. There's no room for grief or guilt or fear when the body cinches tight around itself for survival. For one brief, breathless moment, the world is weightless and made majesty. 

And then something pulls her out. 

***

Waterlogged and graven, MJ finds herself back in Brooklyn with looters in her home. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s reality. She stands barefoot in her kitchen with three guns leveled at her chest and the refrigerator down cocked open in her hand.

“We’ll hurt you,” the looters scream. “We’ll fuck you up!” 

Bravado swells them big, but their voices are slick with youth beneath makeshift masks. Inexperienced fingers tremble over triggers. One of them hasn’t even clicked off the safety. 

When she opens her mouth, sludge and silt gush, coating her chin and splattering dark to the tile underfoot. Uncorked, she vomits half the Hudson before her body calms. Aftershocks tremble through soft tissue. Whispers like scraping bricks fog her mind, but she can’t make sense of them. Conscious thought is all too difficult when she’s half dead. 

One of the looters screams obscenities. One sniffles back tears. One takes aim at her head, snapping the trigger of their gun. 

Shrieking sensation flares over MJ's left eye. The meat of her moves, ducking with preternatural speed, as her mind struggles to comprehend. The bullet cracks into the backsplash, splintering the wall behind. Another bullet whizzes. Another miracle move saves her life. 

The fridge door rips off its hinges easily as a sheet of paper from a school notebook. MJ lobs it at the nearest looter and he goes down with a comic thud. Thrown with so much force, the fridge door ricochets off him, catching the next looter in line at the hip. Something shatters. Neither looter screams, but both give their best Big Mouth Billy Bass impressions as they gape and struggle for breath. Two down, one to go. 

One-to-go has finally clicked off the safety. Two bullets burst in quick succession. Both whizz past as she charges forward. Shoulder dropped, she catches the looter in the chest. Reverberating in flesh, she hears the wet splinter snap of ribs against her shoulder.

The looter's gun fumbles from their hand, goes pirouetting across the linoleum.  

She stands and the looter boy—he's just a boy; can't be older than 19—doesn’t rise with her. He groans and grabs at his chest, interest in her foregone in favor of his pain.

The other two looters have regrouped, bolstering each other to train their guns on her. Each shouts some semblance of threat, but she’s faster than she should be, faster than their squeezing fingers. Their bullets streak into the space where she once was and burrow into the body of their friend. 

One shrieks. The other chokes off a curse before her fist catches the boy—another boy; younger than the last, but only just—upside the head in the small stretch between earlobe and jaw. A sharp crack reverberates after impact. His body jerks, arcing along the momentum of her strike, and she drives her other fist into his gut before he collapses.

The remaining boy—the scrawniest of the three—fires again. The flash of a migraine warns her of the bullet’s trajectory, but she’s a split second too late to dodge it entirely. The bullet streaks across her upper arm, chewing a line through the farthest edge of her figure. It hurts, but it doesn’t drop her.

Adrenaline and anger and something else, something she’s just beginning to understand, keep her from dwelling in the pain. She dodges another bullet, leaping at and then clinging to the wall with sudden confidence. She doesn’t think about the unnatural stick of her fingers to the plaster, the missing strain of keeping her entire body aloft, the exact pose of her body that she’s seen Peter take hundreds of times before. She doesn’t think at all. 

MJ flings herself from the wall, tackling the remaining boy to the ground. He spits at her where his mask has rucked up, calls her freak mutant bitch. And she hits him. And she hits him. And she hits him. 

The force of her blows is staggering, devastating. But she doesn’t stop, lost to her rage and her grief (and something darker and deeper, slumbering but dreaming within her).

She hits him and it doesn’t feel like her hand that breaks his nose, but the hand of some phantom other. She hits him and she stands apart from herself, watching the carnage with dispassionate eyes. She hits him and he cries for mercy until his breaths are weak and burbling, lungs shot through with shards of shattered ribs. She hits him and she doesn’t mean to, doesn’t want to. She hits him and the back of her skull alights with frenzied, horrific warning, but she doesn’t listen to it. 

She hits him and isn’t surprised when a bullet streaks through her back, bursts from her chest, embeds itself in the floor just beside the mangled boy’s head. 

“Oh,” she says. Small and broken. Stifled by the viscera fast collapsing around her lungs. Then, she crumples, falling onto her side, clutching at the hole in her chest. 

The shot boy and the boy with the broken jaw grab the third under the arms and drag his limp body from her home. A small smattering of blood marks their progress from the kitchen, into the living room, and out the front door.

Bullet-wound blood flows over the smooth tile, eeks into the grouting. Eyes flit closed. Prayers rise to shuttered heaven for death and mercy and the end of pain.

Time heals all wounds, but Venom heals faster. 

***

Galaxies swirl where there was once empty space. Power thrums heady and drunken through her. Nothing hurts. Nothing matters. It’s the headtrip of a lifetime. It’s adrenaline mainlined right into the fucking heart.

What was once MJ and what was once Venom swirl together, intermixing into something new. Something worse. 

Together for a brief, brutal time, the Symbiotic Spider Thing formerly known as MJ scales buildings and raids stores and museums and homes. The quarantine goes up around the city and MJ doesn't know until she swings clean into the static barrier bisecting the George Washington. 

Envenomated to high heaven, she doesn't even care. What do geographic boundaries matter when she's gorging on the stuff of gods? Drugs and spirits and people are made divine through the Symbiote's interpretation.

Every sensation is a new high. There are no lows. Not when the Symbiote hedges the tragedy of the world for her. Not when she gives the Symbiote everything it could ever want without a fight. 

Peter and the Symbiote, they didn't get along. They had problems. Problems that MJ was sandwiched right in the middle of. Problems that resulted in night terrors and panic attacks brought on by men in dark suits. But the Symbiote doesn't like her to think about these things so she doesn't. She's not afraid anymore. Because MJ and the Symbiote? They're simpatico, baby. Gracious host, charming guest. Bonnie and Clyde. Thelma and Louise. Instant iconic duo. 

So it isn’t her will that breaks the Symbiote’s hold. It’s Harry’s. 

A far flung whimsy rises from her mind—lots of goodies at Harry’s—and settles in the Symbiote’s. They break in through the skylight. Huge, serrated panes of glass form a corona around clawed thick feet. A monster in a black suit looms in the reflection. Yellowed, mismatched fangs burst from the seams of an always open mouth. It should scare her. It used to. It doesn’t now. 

Harry’s slumped on the bed. Alive but only just. Feeble life. Bare chested and strung out, he’s hauntingly, strangely beautiful. Sculpted in wax instead of marble, fast sloughing off an unsteady frame. Familiarity aches. The Symbiote wants him. Fucked, devoured, disemboweled. The Symbiote doesn’t distinguish. It just wants.

Knelt at Harry’s side, conjoined hands rouse and shake and touch until long lashes split and hazy consciousness sparks in hazel eyes. Fear comes quick.

The cowl peels back from her face and she sees with her own eyes for the first time in days. 

“It’s you,” Harry says.

No, she tries to say. Wants to say. But it doesn’t come. It's shoved back down in her throat. She chokes on the gagging fist and the first fissure runs between her soul and the Symbiote’s. But it’s not enough. 

Not as Harry rages and not as she backhands him across the room and not as reality strains, dunking her into subaqueous slumber. Daydreams and fictions, put under a stronger, deadlier will. Blissful ignorance until blood boils and skin flays. Butane fire blisters the Symbiote from her flesh. It's a slow agony. Ruptured nerve endings. Pain in her teeth. In her arms legs spine womb throat marrow. Pain in her eyes enough to squeeze and spot them. Pain to eviscerate and peel and gouge. Pain that takes and takes and takes.

***

The comedown is slow. Charred skin heals pinkish new, but it takes her mind longer to recover. It's a hangover to the umpteenth power. Hours bleed into days bleed into a week bleed into two. Harry stays for it all. Harry breathes life into her when she can’t breathe for herself. Harry keeps her alive. 

At some point, in the emptiness between euphoria and despair, MJ rouses to find Peter. He stands, suited but maskless, beyond the bay doors leading to the balcony. His figure is fuzzed by the frosted glass, but it’s him. He’s here. He’s alive. 

Keep going. That's what he tells her, though he won't look back at her. No matter how she screams and wails and begs, he won't look back at her. Just keep going, he tells her and for too long, she hates him. 

Who is he to tell her this? He, who died and took the world with him. He, who saved her only to thrust this terrible, awful power onto her. She didn’t ask for this. He knows she didn't want it. 

She reaches for him, but he never stays. 

***

After the Symbiote and after Harry, MJ returns home. Empty for weeks, the house sits beneath a fine layer of dust and disuse. Stale air settles light and cool over her skin. Dust and other small things twinkle throughout the air. 

On the ground floor is a bookcase. Built into the wall itself, it doesn't draw the eye. Books of every genre and interest line the shelves. High sci-fantasy and weird fiction for Peter. Low fantasy and creative memoirs for MJ. Everything in-between for them both. There are a couple of children's books shoved into the lower shelves at random, but the bulk of Mayday's collection lies in her bedroom. 

There’s a trick door built into the bookcase. Though a faux book-lever would be more fun, Peter built a catch into the penultimate shelf. Imperceptible to the human and most inhuman eyes. 

MJ pulls the latch now. The shelf swings open with a creak into Peter’s secret den. Within it: a worktable littered with scrap metal, diodes, coiled wires, loose tools. An unsteady desk with a wireless keyboard and mouse, dead monitors above it, a jury rigged super-computer tower beneath it. A framed collection of boudoir shots with MJ's curlicued signature in red sharpie over each. And, finally, the pièce de résistance—a menagerie of Spider-suits lining the walls, making the small room feel all the smaller. 

It’s near pitch in the secret study, but MJ can make out each suit, can picture them in her minds’ eye, even if she can’t discern all their details. 

The suits range in color and design, all the hits—the red and silver with blue webbed accents he wore for his first Avengers’ team-up; the polarizing white and black suit he debuted after his identity was revealed—and all the misses—the attempt at a cape; the complete revamp of his design and silhouette in his failed Web-Walker. A near complete history of Spider-Man, encased in glass all around her. 

Except his first suit, on loan to the Smithsonian. 

Except his last suit, disintegrated into dust with him inside it. 

And, except one suit. Smaller. Slimmer. Atotal outlier on the wall because it was never Peter’s.  

It’s MJ's. Manufactured for a Vogue article and shoot to better service the publicity stunt their engagement became, the suit is a riff on Peter’s classic design. Rendered in white with blue flashing so that her brand-enhancing hair wasn’t lost in the classic Spider-Man red, it's embellished with a vaguely spider-shaped flourish over the chest. It's a homage rather than a direct reference, and far preferrable to dealing with copyright law.

MJ hated the article from its too busy title— Caught in the Web: MariJane talks childhood in Queens, unlikely fame, and the journey to becoming Mrs. Spider-Man—to the absurdly stylized photos of her in the stupid suit, posed to mimic Peter’s iconic stances. She hated further enmeshing her fame to his. She hated that MariJane and Spider-Man were more important than MJ and Peter. 

The suit comes in handy now, even if it’s tighter around the arms and shorter in the legs than she remembers.

No matching mask had been made so she appropriates one from the nearest mannequin. It’s completely incongruous, sitting red and blue against the white expanse of her suit. Nor does it sit right either, bunched and looped in strange places.

But, it serves its purpose. A mask to hide her identity. That's all she needs it to be. 

On the way out of her house, MJ catches sight of herself in a mirror. A blur of nostalgia and blasphemy. She scowls. She doesn’t stop for a closer look. 

***

After the Symbiote comes the Vulture and then Vermin, both looking for Peter but finding only MJ. She survives both encounters in the same way she survives the Symbiote—just barely.

Vulture finds her on patrol, drops her nearly thirty feet over Queens and leaves her for dead when she doesn’t immediately stir from the concrete. The fall breaks three of her ribs and leaves her scraped and bruised, but she walks away otherwise unscathed.

Vermin takes a chunk of her in parting, raking claws through the meat of her hip just before she manages to dropkick the creep out of a third story building. 

News of her encounters, her pseudo-victories spreads, but hope sours quickly when the city learns it’s not Spider-Man running through the streets. 

Spider-Woman, they call her.

Spider-Wannabe, some jeer as she passes. 

Spider-Widow, she thinks of herself.

As MJ patrols the streets at night, her past smiles down from peeling ads and movie promos, bleached and blotted by the killing sun.

***

For the first year after the world ends, MJ does her best imitation of Peter, forcing levity and quips into every fight, every battle, but the jokes fall flat on her tongue and miss her audience by a mile. She is not her husband—she is scarcely herself—and the knack for quips and gaffs apparently doesn’t come inherent with the powers.

Eventually, she stops trying to be Peter, opts instead to fall back on the airy, vivacious persona of her 20s—one she outgrew years ago in favor of sincerity. It works, for the most part; Nu York doesn’t hate her. 

In a world without need for fame or celebrity, her star fizzles too quickly to be missed. MariJane Watson-Parker, acclaimed actress, disintegrated in the collider blast alongside her husband, the world’s First and Only Spider-Man. The woman who stood free of the wreckage is less a person and more an homage to a dead hero’s will; keeping watch over the city he died trying to save.

Spider-Woman is not beloved nor lauded, but Nu York needs her, just as much as she needs it. She protects the city because she’s one of the few who can. Because the symbol she’s become is greater than the grief she’s been. Because she’s still alive and so many are not. Because the post-apocalypse doesn’t have to be grimdark. 

There is hope, weak and fledging, but it’s there. It’s the exhilarated laughter of those she saves. It’s the mischief in the eyes of the kids that make games of the long hours standing in line for food scraps. It’s the warbling songs that sneak from open windows and echo down desolate city streets. It’s the umbrella convoys that cross the city during the day who refuse to cow to the killing sun. It’s the city itself, hollowed out, but still standing.

She finds hope everywhere, once she thinks to look. 

***

Eventually, the lights turn back on at the old Bugle News Network building. Rebranded to just The Bugle, the outlet goes back to its roots: print media. The first issue consists of a running list of Those Confirmed Lost. It details everyone from the Mayor down to the owner of the bodega on 24th. Between Peter Parkins, single father, and Peters Parks, Wall Street Broker, sits Peter Parker, Spider-Man. 

The Bugle’s list is an impressive monument to human effort and compassion. Far more compassionate than MJ ever would’ve expected from J. Jonah’s haunt. Plus, it's incredibly thorough. After publication and review by the city at large, the list undergoes only one published correction, removing and adding names as directed by those who stop by the office.

One notable retraction: Mayday June Parker, daughter of Spider-Man and Actress MariJane—neither dead or alive, just Missing. 

The issues that follow detail the clean-up efforts around the city, offer insight into the goings-ons of the rest of the world, outline the return to democracy following the crime reduction efforts of Spider-Woman, and list the polling locations for the upcoming mayoral election. 

Thankfully, Betty Brant-Leeds is more Pro-Spider than Jameson, but it’s not a high bar to cross. Though the paper doesn’t bemoan Spider-Woman's vigilante nature—vigilante is an outdated word in a time of scavengers and survivors—or postulate as to any sinister affiliations, it does call her a hack and a pretender to the Spider throne.  

Unlike Peter, who waged a war of libel lawsuits against the paper, MJ offers no rebuttal.

***

MJ sees Peter everywhere she looks, but never where she wants. 

***

Harry often worries MJ pushes herself too far, stretches herself too thin.

“This isn’t what Peter would want for you,” he says one night, nearly two years after the world ends.

Though five glasses deep into a whiskey pilfered from his late-father’s extra-special reserves, Harry looks no worse for wear: a professional through and through. His face keeps his drunkenness like a secret, expressive to a fault, but practiced, intentional. There is no flush on his cheeks, no slur to his words. His only tell is the deliberate canting of his gaze away from hers. His eyes, slowed and drooped by drink, refuse to meet hers.

He’s quit Morphoid for the time being, but he’ll be back on it again in another month. It will be another year beyond that before he quits for good.

MJ stands across from him, arms crossed, face free of the mask she’s appropriated for herself. Her suit is streaked with grime and blood—none of it hers. Her hair is a greasy, tangled snarl, grown long and limp over the years. Her lip is split and her eye is blackened and her right hand won’t stop twitching, but she knows she will be nearly healed come morning. She looks far worse than she feels.

It’s an odd moment between the two of them now. A truce, of sorts. 

“This isn’t what Peter would want for anyone,” she says.

Harry closes his eyes with a sigh. He pulls from his glass until it’s empty. Then, he tilts back in his chair, angling his head to the ceiling and loosening the muted gray tie around his throat. He brings the empty glass to rest against the side of his head, just beneath the eruption of bronze curls, and sighs again. In his sharp pressed suit, sulking sublime as only an Osborn can, he could be a GQ cover man again, tastefully posed beneath a tagline reading, Man Out of Time.  

Though his devotion to maintaining his Effortless Professionalism (his words, not hers) keeps him perpetually popular among his fans, who look to him as conduit to the past, it makes Harry easy to mark in a crowd. The rest of the world scampers about in simple clothes laden with patches and hasty repairs, forced to value form over function, while Harry insists on suits and ties and penny loafers.

Their worst arguments, the ones where she gives in to her red headed temper and he gives in to the shadow of his father, always start with his appearance, his devotion to the Past and his inability to live in the Present. They always end with his labeling her a hypocrite, at best; a fraud, at worst.

He’s far too good at cutting to the quick of her, just as she is far too good at lopping him off at the knees. They’re too similar in their hurt and their harm. Their histories are written in parallel: tumultuous upbringings. Mothers lost too soon. Vainglorious, violent fathers. Lives dominated by fame and tabloid headlines.

In another life, she and Harry may have found their way together, chained their stars to one another and fought and fucked their way through a torrid, loveless romance until there was nothing left to hurt. They are the same in all the wrong ways. And Peter had loved them both.

Harry closes his eyes and presses his empty glass against the side of his forehead like the barrel of a gun.

“But what do you want, MJ?” he asks.

She doesn’t know. And she tells him as much. And he laughs.  

She hates him, a little, but not as much as she could. And he hates her, always has, but less than he once did.

Together, they remain.

Harry, whose father doomed the world, and MJ, whose husband failed to save it.    

Notes:

8/18/25: kickass fanart of the apotheosis scene by the very cool and super talented PrincessBubbleNumb:

fun fact: the scene between mj and harry at the very end of this chapter was the first thing i ever wrote for this fic. i just think they have such a crunchyyyyy dynamic that NEVER gets explored and this fic is just like wish fulfillment for me. i just want more harry and mj constantly tense and on edge because they have HISTORY but they also both love peter so much that they think the other isnt good enough for him (and also routinely question whether they themselves are good enough for him) so im really just feeding myself (scraps) here lmao. my sweet special beloved toxic ot3.

next chapter: anyone down for a time skip and some light canon theory?

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

11/10: this past week sucked - double posting chapter 14 & 15 because 14's an angstfest and 15's more fun

Chapter 15: part ii. invocation - up above our heads (on and on and on)

Summary:

on the other side of a time skip...

(11/10: this past week sucked - double posting chapters 14 & 15 because 14's an angstfest and 15's more fun)

Notes:

11/30 edit -
Miguel POV: in your dreams, in your song: chap 4 - Two Person Grief Group (takes place soon after chapter 13, but better read before chapter 15)

ii. invocation

---

A herd of helpless, hapless Spiders wiggles through complexities on a stage. The floodlights overhead are overbright and overhot, but no one complains. They’re meant to be invoking melancholy and ennui. They look like a worm colony suddenly bared to a spotlight. MJ’s squished in the middle, twisting her body enough to participate without really participating. 

This nu age dance methodology, it’s not really for her, but, hey, the other Spiders really seem to get a kick out of it. The interpretative wind down exercises always get the most positive feedback. Every class, they’re explicitly requested. The Spiders can’t get enough, but Spiders are weird. Just one of the things she's learned over the last six months. 

The class ends. Congratulations and encouragements are sent around. Several hearty slaps on the back come MJ’s way, compliments on an impressive showing of the combo they learned. MJ demures, thanking without dismissing. The truth is that she’s far out of practice as a dancer and, even in her prime, couldn’t hold a leaky glowstick to her sister. In this class alone, there are several Spiders far more deserving of praise, but arguing the point won’t do her any favors. 

“Hey, Gwendy,” MJ says, saddling up alongside the other Spider-Woman. Gwendy ducks out of conversation with another Spider and turns to MJ, grinning. 

Is it weird to see her husband’s long lost living, breathing love every single day? It was. Now, there’s five different Gwen Stacey variants she considers friends and a dozen more she’s friendly with. 

MJ and Gwendy talk feedback and schedules as they exit the auditorium. Attendance is up by another ten Spiders. Another ten more and MJ’ll have to build out another class and find another instructor. Gwendy’s too busy between the two classes already on her plate, the standard rigors of Society responsibilities, and pending nuptials to a Parker back home. It’ll be a headache for MJ to sort out, but it’s a good problem to have. Spiders are taking interest and getting involved. 

The better part of a year has passed since the Vote of No Confidence failed and the entire Society huffed a simultaneous sigh of relief. The gist, as far as MJ can make of it, is that everyone agreed Miguel fucked up, but held enough trust in his ability to make things right. More importantly, no one really wanted to take over for him or spearhead his removal. 

But changes have been made. The biggest: delegation. As Miguel’s second, Jess took on the brunt of his excess work with the intent to cut the big guy some slack. As Jess’s begrudging second, MJ took on the pieces that fell through the cracks. Acclimation. Community building. Overall morale. 

Hence the Spider Dance Club. And the Spider Thespians. Both under the jurisdiction of the Spider Arts Guild, an offshoot of the Spider Social Committee. Not to mention all the other clubs and committees MJ isn’t an active participant of, but oversees. It’s maddening to balance such a jam-packed schedule with the rote duties of the Society and Spider-Woman, but she manages. Lyla’s a huge help in keeping her on track. Reminders and loving nudges from the holowoman are commonplace. 

Like now, as MJ and Gwendy break into the lobby, Lyla pings. Gwendy offers a sympathetic smile and then webs up and away. 

“Hey girlfriend,” Lyla says. She wears matching neon leg warmers, arm bands, and a sweatband with a black leotard right out of Flashdance. She jogs in place, rhythmically pumping her arms. “You’re five minutes away from being fifteen minutes late to the meeting. I know that’s your sweet spot.”

Right. Inner Circle Meeting. Miguel’s big breakthrough. Six different reminders not to forget, at least three of them set by Miguel on her behalf. What a considerate guy. Not. 

“Thanks, I’ll head that way—”

“Hey! Hey MJ! Em-ster! Heeey MJ!”

MJ’s smile blanches. The color and creativity dusts from Lyla’s appearance in an instant, returning her to base model.

“I wasn’t here!” Lyla hisses, vanishing without fanfare. 

Ahead of MJ, Spiders scuffle and squawk as another bulldozes through them without care or courtesy. A giant, waving claw breaches the crowd, whapping back and forth for attention. 

The extra effort isn’t necessary. It’s impossible to miss the 7 foot tall cherry red freight train of a Spider storming her way. Today, he cuts an extra imposing figure, inexplicably one arm short. A sparking stump of wires, diodes and gloppy synthetic flesh marks where it should be. 

“Flipside!” MJ shouts. “What happened to your freaking arm?”

The android skirts to a stop, jerking his head to the wound like it's a surprise. His masked eyes narrow and scrutinize. Then, he shrugs. “Dunno. Must’ve been drifting during my reboot. Probably some Trojan Horse that glitch hologram slipped me.”

“Oh, absolutely not!” Lyla blips up, flitting around Flipside’s head like a demented firefly. He swats her away, but she continues to yell and shake her fist, undeterred. “I have footage of you ripping it off, you dented bucket of bolts!”

A fairly new addition, Flipside’s arrival to the Spider Society has brought nothing but controversy. Uncovered during the course of Aggressive Expansion, the lore goes that he was found sitting totally inert on a rock, overlooking the crater of the nuclear blast that wiped NYC off the map ten years prior. Sitting so still, the Agents thought he was dead. Like good Agents, they employed basic Rock, Paper, Scissors protocol to determine who among them would investigate further. 

It didn't make much of a difference who lost. All three ended up with varying degrees of broken limbs after Flipside woke up. Handily, he overpowered the Agents and hitched a ride to HQ on a stolen gizmo. 

Needless to say: that was one crazy fucking day for the Spider Society. 

Ever since, Flipside’s been a nuisance no one knows how to handle. He’s not a threat. He’s not an asset. He’s just kinda around. And looks just like Miguel—suited, not de-suited (nobody knows what, if anything, he looks like under the mask). Sounds just like Miguel too, but more a recording than a tried and true duplication. And, oh yeah. He is totally, completely, irrevocably obsessed with his lookalike.

“That footage is doctored! I’m being framed!” Flipside screeches. One armed, he waves imploringly at the crowd around them, begging to be believed. They look at each other, arch eyebrows at MJ, but never look directly at Flipside.

“You’re not worth the processing power!” Lyla shouts.

Dramatics cut cold, Flipside sets his hand on his hip. Servos whir as he looks Lyla up and down with a sniff. “And we all know how strapped for bandwidth you are.”

“Keep up the snark, scrap for brains. I’m this close to having Miguel disassemble you for spare parts!”

“Miguel would never—”

“Look, I’m sure Daddy loves you both equally,” MJ interrupts, “Can we walk and talk, Flippy? I’m almost late to being fashionably late.”

Lyla sneers. Flipside returns it. An admirable effort, given he has no facial features beyond the eyes. When Lyla pops away, Flipside relaxes. “Ay, thought she’d never leave!”

“You gotta be nicer to her.” 

Flipside blows a raspberry, succinctly voicing his thoughts on that suggestion. Most of the Spiders are unnerved by him, but MJ can’t get enough. He’s weird and brash and loud and hysterical.

The Miguel infatuation is a bit much, but they’re working on it. Well, MJ’s working on dissuading him out of the hero worship. Flipside’s working on siphoning Society resources for his fan club. His application for an official club has been rejected sixteen times in the two months he's been at HQ, but persistence is one of his key features. Persistence and insanity. 

“So what’s up, Flips?”

“Who cares what’s up!? Did you mean it?”

“Huh?”

With Flipside towering at her side, the crowd bursts apart ahead of her. Some mistake him for Miguel and nod. Others recognize him right away and glare. Others still clock the spurting stump of his right arm and yelp. In any case, proper deference is given. 

“Miguel. You said he loves me.”

Breath sizzles through MJ’s teeth. Really, she knows better at this point. Any mention of Miguel thoroughly and completely blows up into a five alarm fire for the android. 

“Oh, I dunno, I’m sure somewhere inside that clenched, repressed heart of his, he loves all of us.”

They clear the lobby and slow in front of the lifts. MJ presses the down button. The screen overtop the lift doors advises the next one will arrive in 15 seconds. 

Beside her, Flipside itches absentmindedly at his wound. His sharp fingers squelch in the mangled flesh. A fresh array of sparks shoots out. “Yeah, but do you think he loves me best? Did he tell you that?” 

A countdown flashes over her gizmo, courtesy of Lyla. T-minus two minutes and counting until her fashionably late turns into really late. She’s about fifteen floors too high, halfway across the building and a gravity flip away, but she can make it. She just needs to cut the dead weight. 

The lift slots into the bay. The doors hiss open. MJ steps through. Flipside attempts to follow, but she stretches her arms wide across the gap, leaning slightly through. “What really happened to your arm?”

Flipside drops his chin, giving her a solid impression of sad orphan eyes with only dark lenses. “I got bored.” 

MJ holds in her shiver until the lift doors slam shut. Rocketed several stories down, but the upending of her stomach isn't just from gravity slipstreaming around her. Leave it to Miguel to have a chillingly crazy… clone? Double? Thingy?

Whatever the connection is between Miguel and the android, neither has been eager to divulge the truth. Miguel keeps the truth close to the chest, which only makes Flipside’s preening far worse. To hear Flips tell it, he and Miguel are soulmates, tormented by the most intense and maddening psychic link, teetering on the edge of explosive sexual tension. 

Flipside is, of course, totally insane. MJ suspects he wants to eat Miguel, more than fuck him. He skirts the line of admitting to either.

“Minute thirty left, babes,” Lyla says, pipping into focus just in front of the elevator buttons. “Miguel's started doing his grumpy shuffle.” 

Live feed of Miguel glimmers in the air. In it, he saws at his teeth and rocks weight from one foot to the other. Of the unseen audience, he demands, “Where the shock is MariJane?” 

MJ rolls her eyes. “Tell him to douse the jetfire. I'm basically there already.” 

This gets relayed to Miguel in real time. He takes it about as well as she expects, which is better than it would've been months ago. 

Wars of attrition aren’t really her style, but MJ is trying to make up for her terrible first (and second and third, etc. etc.) impression. Miguel doesn’t make it easy, but a shift in her perspective makes it tolerable.

Like now, when she rolls in a fashionable fifteen minutes late on the dot, Miguel cuts Jess off mid-sentence. “Oh great, MariJane finally found time for us in her busy schedule.” And MJ, picking her way around the table to wedge between Jess and Peter B, fixes him dead-to-rights with a real scorching flick of her lashes and blows a kiss. 

Miguel glowers and Peter coughs and Ben squints back and forth between them and Jess rolls her eyes and it’s fun, this jig they spin. Keeps her from wanting to throttle his big thick neck if she’s playing at flirting with him instead. 

Miguel’s still… Miguel, but he’s a functioning member of the Society again. Mostly. His interactions with the Society at large are far rarer than even before. As he retreats farther and farther from active Society interaction, the mythos and worship of the mighty and moody Miguel O’Hara grows. 

The dissolution of 928C is storied fable at this point. Miguel's hard edges and crass tongue are forgiven in favor of the ghosts he shelters. 

And MJ and Miguel? They’re OK. Apologies were made. Apologies were accepted. He’s still a real hard ass; she’s still a real pain in the ass. They make it work. The teasing helps. A lot. MJ gets why Lyla is so fond of yanking his chain. He’s just so easily flustered. 

Not that they don’t still fight. They do. Frequently. But it’s friendlier. Mutual understanding in the connective tissue. Losing a daughter will do that. 

Not that they've discussed that. Not directly. Sometimes though, he gets a little droopy around the gills or she catches in a far spun memory of Mayday and neither says anything to the other, but it’s nice. A quiet compassion. It doesn’t need spoken. 

“Well,  now that everyone’s here, are we ready to light this sucker?” Lyla asks. She floats over Miguel’s shoulder, asking the question of the room, but looking to him for the answer. He gives a curt nod, though his glare never wavers from MJ. She pulls a face—a little pursed mouth, curved brow whatcha looking at?—and he drops his gaze with a huff. 

The lights go down. The wall behind Miguel brightens. Solid, black text reads: Canon Theory and Its Implications for the Longevity and Prosperity of the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse

“Little wordy,” MJ mutters. Miguel’s glare finds her in the dark, red-tinged and glinting. It eases when the title card bursts, black text disintegrating into a swarm of teeming spiders that scuttle and scurry off screen. MJ startles. Her knee knocks against the underside of the table. Sharp pain welds her mouth shut, swallowing any further smart comments. 

Peter takes up in her stead, asking, “Whatever happened to a solid star swipe?”

“Miguel wanted something with pizzazz and style,” Lyla says. “He really wants to impress you guys.”

A collective aw sounds around the table, started by MJ. 

“No, I wanted to impress on you all the importance of the…” Miguel trails off, failing to convince even himself. Two fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. He waves Lyla on. “Just start it.”

A familiar image takes form throughout the room. The infinite, intricate web of the multiverse glows bluish all around them. It’s not real, just a trick of the light, but MJ shivers. The gossamer of phantom threads tickles the back of her neck. The temperature notches down a few degrees. 

“I thought I understood the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse. So I took risks. Pushed the limits I thought I saw. You’re all familiar with Initiative 3241”—The official name of Miguel’s switcheroo experiment. The file long declassified, MJ’s well familiar with it. She’s read it so many times, she could deliver the narrative as a monologue—“so I won’t get into it, but when you push the multiverse, it pushes back.” 

Behind Miguel, footage starts to roll. MJ’s never seen it. Until this moment, Miguel’s kept it locked tight as a chastity belt until the wedding. Understandable. It’s horrific. The terrified shrieks. The impartial silence of the universe unzipping. The raw devastation on Miguel’s face. The opening and closing and opening and closing of his hands around the dead air that once was his daughter. 

Peter doesn’t watch. Jess keeps her gaze on Miguel. Ben holds a hand over his mouth. MJ can’t look away. 

It wasn’t like this. This isn’t how her world ended. But it’s close enough. It’s fucking close enough. 

Fingers strain against the edge of the table. It groans, splitting with a hairline fracture. Nobody acknowledges the noise, but they all react. Quick flashes of eye whites and irises. Pulled taut mouths. Flinches of hands and heads. Decisions made to keep silent, keep to themselves. 

“You needed to see this,” Miguel says and he’s talking to her. Only to her. Everyone else, they don’t hear. They don’t know. Peter may have been there, may have witnessed, but he doesn’t know, not really. There’s a difference between watching the world end and wishing you ended alongside it. 

MJ is not a weak woman, but suddenly, selfishly, she wants to be held. Comforted. Made to feel less alone. The want comes with a spike of shame. Nobody’s going to save her from herself, especially not Miguel. She would never ask it of him, anyway. 

With Lyla's assistance, Miguel launches into his canon theory, explaining that his breaking of the so-called canon caused the erasure of Earth-928C. He pushed too far. The multiverse pushed back. 

It’s dense. There's classifications divvying up each Spider into their own neat category with their own specific canon events. Prime Spiders. Legacy Spiders. Orbital Spiders. Overlaps between the groups are highlighted, given nomenclature. Greater meaning. An ASM-252 event  is always a precursor to SSM-131, but SSM-131 can happen without ASM-252.  

It's interesting. The trajectory of her husband's life maps easily onto the Prime Spider path. The Spider-Bite. The deaths of Uncle Ben, Gwen, Peter's own (and subsequent resurrection). The early vilification by the press. The rotating gallery of villains and grudges.

On the other hand, MJ doesn’t fit anywhere. Using Miguel’s nomenclature, that makes her extemporaneous. Kinder than anomaly, but not by much. An outcast by either name. 

"Are you planning to roll this out to the whole Society?" Jess asks. "What if Spiders haven't encountered certain events? Won't it tip them off?"

"Every Spider here has encountered at least three core canon events following their inciting event,” Miguel says. 

A list flashes up on the screen. Event markers, each given with an ASM-tag. There’s one that applies to her—Spider-Symbiote bonding time—but otherwise? 

Death of a mentor directly or indirectly caused by Spider-mantle? No. 

Betrayal by a father figure? Nope. 

Quitting the Spider-gig, but ultimately coming back to it? Nada. 

Death of a partner at the hands of an arch enemy? Only in pieces. Green Goblin was Peter’s arch enemy, not hers. She doesn’t even have an arch enemy. Just a few enemies that make her a little arch. 

“If they haven’t,” Miguel says, “we don’t offer them admittance.”

It’s hard not to squirm when everyone turns to stare at her with the same bug-eyed, dawning realization. It doesn’t help that Lyla pips beside her and coos, “MJ’s our extra special two-event exception, of course!” 

The little lyrate is well-intentioned, but it would still feel great to flick her across the table. Miguel does it all the time. There’s gotta be some relief to it. Instead, MJ says, “So long as I'm extra special.”

Lyla winks, touching her finger to her nose and then blips back over Miguel's shoulder, cuing up the next slide. It reads: Markers of a Canon Event. It dissolves in the same burst and scurry of spiders, revealing a looped video of a younger, scrawnier Miguel knotting a rubber-tube tourniquet around his bicep. He bites the end of the tube, drawing tight to produce a prominent vein while his hands busy themselves uncapping and dosing a syringe with yellowish fluid. Desperation wrinkles his face, but his pupils are pinprick small and unsteadied. 

Strobing lights flash all around him, disconnecting his movements as he sinks the needle home. The plunger depresses. Young Miguel stumbles back into a chair. Restraints clamp shut. The lights strobe faster and more violent. 

The video loops. No explanation follows. MJ isn’t quite sure what to make of it. Is this Miguel’s spider bite moment? 

A glance at the man in question fizzles her breath. Miguel just scowls at her, working through something that churns and cants beneath his face, but never settles. There’s no anger in his eyes, nothing so warm. No, the look on his face is cold. Dissecting. Like she’s a clinical curiosity, pinioned to a microscope slide. 

Then, his expression wipes clean. So quick, she doubts her previous impression, as he launches into a fresh spiel about the parameters that make up a canon event, as well as what they look like in reality. 

To better elaborate, Miguel calls upon his own life, labels himself a legacy Spider, spilling into a different, but overlapping mold to the prime Spider (928B’s long dead Parker). He highlights similarities, emphasizes differences. 

ASM-121 is particularly gruesome: a woman riddled with bullets, slack in Miguel’s arms. Blood and viscera obscure whatever she looked like in life. Her fingernails, dainty and manicured, are painted a bold canary yellow. They show stark against her tanned skin and the dark blue of Miguel’s mask, where he clutches her limp hand to the side of his face. Miguel’s not as bulky. His suit’s muted, less electric. The image must be at least a few years old. 

It flashes off screen, replaced by more charts and data. Relegated to just another tragedy in Miguel’s backstory. One that connected him to Peter and the web of the multiverse. More than the victories and joy of the Spider-mantle, it’s the tragedies that thread them all together.

It all makes her chest ache. 

After dissecting his own, Miguel lays the pattern over the lives of the others. Peter B, a prime. Ben, an orbital. Jess, a prime. Petra (absent), but a legacy. 

Every Spider in the room has a flinching reaction to the cavalier listing off of their lowest moments. Except MJ, who hasn't experienced any, and Miguel, who maintains a tight, dour frown throughout the rest of the presentation and the barrage of questions once it's done.

Afterwards, MJ hangs back, shrugging off Ben's offer to work out the demons in the gym and ignoring Jess' pointed, concerned stare. Miguel waits for her, makes no motions to leave.

When the door glides shut behind Ben, MJ gets up and moves to sit on the table beside Miguel's chair at the end. He leans back, stretched abnormally long so that his lower half hangs entirely off the chair. He steeples his fingers in his lap, expectant. It doesn’t look comfortable. 

The question she wants to ask won’t come, so she asks instead, “How’re you holding up?”

"Just fine,” he says, but his brow furrows. It isn’t what he expected.

"Seemed rough, walking down memory lane like that. The last one, ASM-121, was she—”

"I'm not going to talk about it," he says, short but not rude. Matter of fact. Open and shut. 

Peter was never like that when it came to Gwen. He struggled to talk about it—the fall; the botched rescue; the decisive snap of vertebrae—but he would with hardly any coaxing. More times than not, he wanted to talk about Gwen, needed to talk about her. Not just her death, but her life. Her laugh. Her love. And you would’ve loved her, MJ,” Peter says. He says it like a fact of the universe. The sky is blue. The ocean is wet. MJ would’ve loved Gwen Stacey. 

As the years have gone on, Peter’s conception of his lost love has muddied. More and more, Gwen seems less like a real woman who had lived and died at Peter’s side and more like an imaginary friend. Only Harry keeps his memory honest, saying what MJ can’t. 

“You’re nuts, Pete. Those two would’ve gotten along like Diana and Camilla.”

It’s not exactly how she would’ve put it, but the point is the same. Of course, it flies over Peter’s head. He takes offense to being compared to Charles and—

A hand touches her shoulder. Big and wide fingered, it spans the width, touching her back and chest at the same time. MJ startles, but Miguel keeps her steady. He’s leaned close enough that she can see the distinction between his lashes and the mild worry washing his expression. She offers a weak smile. “Sorry, popped into the land of delusion for a sec.”

“You do that a lot.”

“I do?” 

Miguel nods. His hand falls away, tucking into the crook of his elbow as he crosses his arms and leans back. Lyla blitzes into the air between them. She stretches her arms wide and a photo reel scrolls from palm to palm. In each photo, MJ stares blankly and off focus into the distance of a different, varying landscape, clearly zonked out of it. 

“At least three times a day, on average,” Lyla says. A smack of her hands accordions the photos into nothingness. She flits closer to MJ’s face, craning to stare directly into each of her eyes. “What goes on in that pretty little noggin of yours?”

Admitting to the constant slippage of time and memory inside her skull is more trouble than it’s worth. MJ shrugs. “You know the dream sequence from The Big Lebowski?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So it’s mostly just that, on repeat.”

Lyla scooches closer, peering into MJ's eye with a magnifying glass and newfound detective's cap. “Well now I need you to explain in excruciating detail.”

“Lyla,” Miguel says. 

Lyla huffs, but pops away. Distraction gone, Miguel fixes MJ with a laser stare and says, "You have questions."

Many. Hundreds. Thousands. So many questions, they bottleneck in MJ’s throat, muddying until one unspecificity manages to break free of the jam. "Could it happen to me?"

"Could what happen?” Miguel’s brow furrows, working back from her question to its genesis. “ASM-121? Canon events?"

Again, MJ nods, affirming the last of his guesses. 

He's careful in responding. "It's possible but—"

"Not plausible.”

For her bitterness, he gives a tight-lipped, rueful smile before explaining further. "You've had an inciting event. Otherwise you wouldn't be here at all. But the constraints of your world aren't aligned with what we see for other Spiders."

Inciting event. Not a bite or a gene splicing accident or a lab experiment for her. Just the sudden transference of Peter’s Spider-ness into her. A total mystery. One that even Miguel’s breakthrough canon theory can’t explain. Extemporaneous. Anomaly. Not aligned. 

Rubbing her temples, MJ works through the mindfuck of her existence. She asks, "But what caused things to go wacky? The collider?"

"That's one theory." 

“You’ve got others?”

His eyes says yes, many, but his mouth says, “None more likely.”

“Okay, fine, so I don’t have a canon. And that just makes me, what, extemporaneous?” 

"You're more than that,” he says and it wrinkles her. There's an unabashed sentimentality there beyond her conception of him. It’s been cropping up more and more lately, chafing against long held understandings like Miguel=Asshole Supreme and Miguel+MJ≠Friends. 

“I'm trying to be,” she says, vulnerable as the moment feels. 

Heavily, Miguel rests a hand over her knee. A small, steadying comfort. She accepts the gesture without touching him in return. It isn't as surprising as it once was. 

It's just another thing she's learned about Miguel in this newfound gray area. While he resents the touch of others, he initiates it constantly. Microdoses on small, fleeting affections. 

MJ gets it. Gayle was like that. Always good to support everyone around her, but never able to accept support for herself. It’s how she ended up baby trapped twice by a loser who ran off with another woman. The only silver lining is that loser had the boys with him out of state when things went wrong in Nu York. The boys are safe, happy, and don’t ask about MJ at all, according to the single letter sent by said loser (only after Harry pulled some strings and sicced some never-to-be-tracked-back goons on him).

Unlike Gayle who could muscle through small affections and support, Miguel's clinical with it. He set the Society record for standing vertical jump when he startled away from an attempted hug from Peter B.

Familiarity sparks, but Miguel is a mess MJ knows full well not to tidy. Men like him are dangerous. So desperate for softness, they choke on it in excess. Too much of a good thing can kill just as easily as too much of a bad thing. 

“So where does it end?” MJ asks. 

For a second, she thinks the context of her question is lost, and begins to rephrase, but the look in his eye isn't confusion. It's consideration. Risk analysis. Pros and cons laid out in quick assessment. 

The hand on her knee retreats. With two fingers, he taps out commands on his gizmo. The lights dim. A dramatic flick of his hand slingshots an image wide over the wall. Miguel's dedication to production normally makes her smile. 

It doesn't now.

After a long session of staring at canon events, the format is familiar, but the event itself isn't. Existential dread and gore have been the themes of the day, but this is disturbing in its simplicity.

In the faded orange light she's come to associate with comfort and safety, an image of Miguel's bullet-ridden corpse displays in stale color. Sterile and stark. Utterly devoid of warmth. The bullet holes are cleaned and dimpled into inert, bloodless skin. Evidence of autopsy portions his body in a stark split y, but great care had been taken to put his corpse back together.

It turns her stomach. She can't help it. She nearly reaches for him beside her, just to feel his pulse, prove his life, but she resists. Still, it takes a beat before MJ can swallow the horror to even glance at the title. USM-160. The Death of Spider-Man. 

Miguel doesn't say anything. MJ stares and comes to her own conclusions. Two event exception. That's what Lyla called her. At the time, it sailed right over her head. 

“Alpha and omega,” MJ manages stiffly. It's the punchline to a joke that isn't funny. “The first and the last. All at once.”

Miguel just nods. MJ bites the inside of her cheek, hard enough to quiver her mouth. 

“I fell out of the church years ago,” Miguel says, “For a lot of reasons. But I hated the idea of a plan. A set ending. Thought I knew better, seems to be the theme of my life.”

Barely, MJ hears him through the scrabbling sob that's pulsating in her skull. It's swallowed to the back of her throat, but she can't keep it down, not entirely. It scratches in the soft tissue of her mouth, strangles the breathing flutter of her lungs.

Fuck. Fuck! She needs to get a hold of herself. She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek. Breathes heavy through her nose. It helps. A little. Not enough. 

Miguel continues. “Thing is, it's not whether I knew better or not. That's not the point of it. Learned that lesson too late. There's comfort in knowing things happened because they had to happen that way. That you have no control of them.”

That it's not your fault. 

It’s not something she can believe, not now. Maybe not ever. But, staring at the stark black text of USM-160: The Death of Spider-Man, she wants to believe. God, does she want to believe. 

“You really think people are gonna buy that line?” MJ asks.

“In light of the consequences? Yeah. I’d hope so.” 

MJ squeezes her eyes shut. The images of a universe dissolving play in the black of her mind. All of that? Without warning? Because of one flubbed death scene? 

“But how do you know those are the consequences?” 

It’s a dumb question. MJ knows it’s a dumb question even as she asks it. 

Miguel rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, repeats her question with dry exasperation. Normally, this little action is enough to cool off his irritation. Not this time. 

“What is it you think I’m doing here?” he demands. “You think I just roll out unconfirmed, untested theories en masse? You think I just, what’s the phrase?” He crosses his pointer and middle finger, raises them up right into her eyeline. “You think I just do this"—he gestures his crossed fingers with a fuck you emphasis—"and hope it’s right? That there’s not something else that erases entire universes? Do you really think that?” 

MJ rubs hard at her eyes, trying to keep herself calm through the onslaught. She knows better than to take the bait. She knows this is a sensitive subject for him. She knows it took a lot out of him to talk about it. It’s a kindness that he’s explaining it further to her. 

Grace and patience. These are the two virtues she’s been exercising with Miguel the last six months. Grace: striving to bestow the benefit of the doubt. Patience: restraining herself from taking the nuclear option at the first sign of tension.

It’s nothing personal against her. It was just a dumb question and Miguel’s used up his socializing quota for the day. It’s nothing personal.

Until it is. 

Until Miguel reaches the critical mass of his frustration and blurts, “The consequences of canon events aren’t any less real just because you’re still holding out hope for a fake family and—”

End scene. Exit MJ, stage right.

Quick as she can, MJ stands and gives herself a mental pat on the back. The deep breathing works! No nuclear winter over the Spider Society tonight! 

She makes it about three inches before Miguel shoots up from his chair, gesturing for her to calm down.

“Wait,” he fumbles, “Shit, I didn’t mean—” 

“No thanks.” MJ thumps him on the chest when he doesn’t get out of her way. A light tap. A love tap, really. His wince and rub of the affected area are surely just for show. 

“Better things to do than hear a half assed apology,” she explains, beelining for the door before Krakatoa spews from her mouth. “I'm sure you understand.” 

As it turns out, he does not understand. He follows her out into the hall, saying, “I'm sorry. Jesus, can you just…? I'm sorry!” 

Christ. All the rage bubbles over. She whirls on him with death in her eyes. 

“I get that this shit is hard for you, okay?” MJ says at a hissing whisper. She’s not trying to keep her voice down. That’s just the way it comes out. Hot steam, more than voice. “But if you don’t watch your manners and mind your mouth—”

“Mind your manners, watch your mouth,” Lyla corrects with forced cheer. She pops up equidistant between them, eyes ticking staccato back and forth. A barred referee shirt and black ball cap replace Lyla’s usual attire. A silver whistle dangles around her neck. “Turns of phrases, tricky on the tongue, no?”

MJ gives a sour smile, clipping the tip of her tongue under her front teeth. Grace. Patience. Grace. Patience. Grace, patience: a mantra circulated with every beat of her inflamed pulse as Lyla takes the whistle between her lips. 

In the intervening months, Lyla has elected herself peacekeeper between the more fiery members of the Inner Circle. So, only MJ and Miguel. She’s unnaturally gifted at redirecting arguments to productive avenues or, in situations of particular intensity, extinguishing the tension with such cool and cutting precision that only embarrassment remains.

A shrill burst of whistle and Lyla rolls her arms around each other—the multiversal sign for traveling in basketball. She says to MJ, “Miguel’s worried you’re going to quit again.”

Another burst of the whistle and Lyla 180s to Miguel, striking her arm out like she’s throwing a flag. “And MJ’s really hurt that you think so little of her.”

Both MJ and Miguel protest Lyla’s summations at the same time, but the holowoman only shrugs. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Just stop fighting. It’s really gauche. Miguel, that means—”

“I know what it means, Lyla.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, waving at her to go away with the other hand.

Stubbornly, Lyla remains, hovering expectantly. 

Miguel glares at his assistant. “I'm not thanking you for anything.”

Lyla crosses her arms. She taps her foot, glancing at a wristwatch willed into existence for the bit. 

“Fine, thank you,” Miguel mumbles. 

The wristwatch vanishes along with the ref attire. Lyla draws a heart with both pointer fingers. A glittery pink line captures the course of her affection, shooting out to burst into shimmers in front of Miguel’s sneering face. Lyla beams. “I know big guy, I don’t know what you’d do without me either!”

Then she’s gone the same way she arrived. 

Thanks to Lyla’s theatrics, the Spiders that once milled about have taken to staring openly, waiting to see what will happen next. The onlookers don’t bother MJ—an audience will keep her honorable—but Miguel isn’t a live performance kind of guy. 

All it takes is one eviscerating glare and a snarl with teeth, not fanged (boo), for the Spiders to scatter. They don’t go far. They just make their staring less overt. 

“I’m not quitting, okay?” MJ makes no effort to keep their conversation private. She’d broadcast it to the whole Society if she could. MariJane Watson-Parker isn’t going anywhere. She’s a bona fide fixture, baby, and if everyone could stop assuring her that the Society would implode without her that would be fantastic, thanks. 

“Good,” Miguel says without a lick of anger, allowing the exhaustion to ring out loud and true. Tired is a permanent feature of his voice even though relief goes a long way to smoothen it. “Jess would declaw me if you quit again.”

MJ blinks. “Would she make you wear a little cone around your head too?”

“She did mention that, yes.” 

“Well, now I’m rethinking my whole not quitting stance.”

“Ha ha,” Miguel says, straight-faced. “Look—”

An alert pings on MJ’s gizmo. T-minus three minutes to Monday open mic. MJ is not participating (she never does), but has learned the hard way that all open mics must have a dedicated emcee. Generally, Spiders are terrible at self moderating.

Specifically, Ben Reilly is apt to hijack any opportunity at a mic to speak to the “truth” of his soul (i.e. do spoken word versions of Linkin Park songs), but only if he isn’t beaten out by Spider-Ham taking the mic to do a loose five (hours) of food-based puns or Flipside giving readings of criminally horny poetry. All bad, but none worse than an MJ given free reign.

It was one such MJ’s decision to cannibalize the open mic to workshop her one woman show—Jackpot: A Mary Jane Story—that ultimately led to the decision for moderate open mics. 

There’s a rotating list of emcees, but MJ’s pulled the short straw for the day. 

“I gotta go,” she tells Miguel. “Do we need to talk anymore?”

Heavily, he sighs. He drags a hand down his face, manually wiping the frustration from his expression. “If you have any other questions—”

“Ask Lyla,” MJ finishes.

“Yeah.” Another heavy sigh. Drama queen. “That’s probably best.” 

There’s no good way to end an awkward conversation, but MJ opts for, “I’ll see you around” and avoids wincing in the face of her own cringy behavior thanks to a lifetime of practice. 

“Sure,” is Miguel’s equally eloquent response before his mask pixelates over his face. 

Terse nods are exchanged. They both turn to the hallway proper to make their leave and witness a gaggle of dispersing Spiders. 

“Shameless,” MJ tsks, watching two Spiders collide with each other. 

“I know they all have better things to do,” Miguel gripes as the last Spider disappears around the corner.

MJ chuckles. Miguel’s masked expression softens. And then comes the awkward already-said-goodbye-but-now-we’re-walking-in-the-same-direction shuffle. Neither speaks, though Miguel drops an audible clicking tongue of relief when MJ turns left while he turns right at the end of the hall.

As she picks up the pace to a steady speed walk, MJ doesn’t dwell on the veritable bomb of information she just survived nor the almost argument that followed. She tucks it away, recognizes she’ll need to sift through the shrapnel sooner rather than later, but ultimately keeps moving. 

A crucial lesson MJ has internalized within the last six months: just keep moving. To stop moving is to think and to think is to suffer. You can’t suffer if you’re moving, and if you’re moving, you can never stop. 

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Take Care of Yourself, OK?

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Detailed schedule for MARIJANE on DATE OF DESERTION “DoD” as follows:

4:00AM: LYLA wake up call

4:05AM: Secondary LYLA wake up call

4:10AM: Final LYLA wake up call

4:15AM: Shower 

4:30AM: Make breakfast*

*Note from LYLA - reminder that you have to load the baking cartridge BEFORE turning on the wave cooker. Please don't start another molecular fire. 

5AM: Breakfast [SHARED EVENT - SM928B]

5:20AM: Gym 

6AM: Gym w/ Ben [SHARED EVENT - SM35]

7AM: Rise n shine pilates [SHARED EVENT]

7:30AM-10:30AM: On call - UNK [SHARED EVENT - SW886]

10:30AM: Lunch w/ Jess [SHARED EVENT - SW332]

11:00AM: Expert Combat Refresher 

11:15AM: Expert Tactics Refresher

11:30AM: Expert Defense Refresher 

11:45AM - 12PM: Mentor block

12PM - 3PM: AE, R&R [SHARED EVENT - SM886]

3PM - 4:30PM: Committee meeting [SHARED EVENT - SM8311, SW20023; FS666…]

4:30PM: Go Home

5:45PM-7PM: Dinner w/ G [SHARED EVENT - SM928B]

7:15PM-8PM: Inner circle meeting [SHARED EVENT -  SM928B, SW332, SM616B…]

8PM - 8AM (SUNDAY) - Shore leave

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Security footage shows MARIJANE leaving at 4:32PM. Public Eye drones buzz her route from Babylon Towers, but lose her when she drops Downtown. LYLA pings her outside [REDACTED] at 4:44PM. At 4:49PM, MARIJANE’s gizmo vanishes from the network. 

Interviews conducted in the month after DoD and before INCITING DISTORTION EVENT “IDE” reveal that MARIJANE exhibited no signs of distress, beyond those noticed by MIGUEL, nor gave any indication of her intentions on DoD. 

Analysis against prior Active Duty schedules indicates the 4:30PM to 5:45PM gap without activity is atypical, but not unprecedented. Of note, “Dinner w/ G” was pushed back 45 minutes by request. Did not raise concern at the time, but obvious now this was to give MARIJANE a head start.

Reason for desertion is clear, but plans beyond that remain unclear. Seems unlikely that things went the way MARIJANE hoped. Again, it is unclear what she planned to do once she had definitive proof to support claims made by HARRY. She knew desertion and further universe-hopping would brand her an ANOMALY, but there’s no evidence to support she had intentions to remedy this or evade capture long-term.  

IDE likely borne of panic when cornered. 

Further analysis of motives underway. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Twin Skeletons (Hotel in NYC)" by Fall Out Boy

i have absolutely no good excuse for including flipside beyond that i love him, your honor. the original 2099 has some really fun moments and miguel being besieged by a toxic yaoi evil twin android when he is at his lowest and most broken is in fact one of them [...]

next chapter: interview with the vampire (who is NOT a vampire and is just a spider-man trying his best)

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

11/10: this past week sucked - double posting chapter 14 & 15 because 14's an angstfest and 15's more fun

 

author's continued Rant about state of sman 2099 read only if so inclined:
[...] sman 2099 (like most marvel IPs *cough cough*) has sooooOoo much potential to absolutely fucking rock, but it usually bungles it entirely. the original run is the most bang for buck in delivering on the high concept of 2099 hell world BUT it is absolutely not without fault and takes some really weird (aka dumb) narrative turns.
at the very least, it has a fun cast of characters in a pretty dark narrative that i really dont feel we've gotten with the more recent runs (i kinda liked orlando's dark genesis... is that a controversial take? it had it PROBLEMS but at least it was playing more with the corporate hellscape of 2099 than PAD's recent work (i did not care for any of miguel stuck in modern day (except tempest and even then i wanted waaaaaaay more of her instead of just being miguels Tragic Motivation (and also that part where he goes on american ninja warrior - that did in fact fucking rock. it was so dumb and i loooooved it)) and for the love of GOD dont get me started on symbiote 2099... what a JOKE!!!!!!!!!)).
personally feel like the best weve gotten recently is the dark tomorrow novel and even then I Have Grievances!! do REALLY enjoy loser washed up and angsty miguel.
have VERY mixed emotions about the spider society comics (irony upon ironies - i Do Not Care for the spiderverse concept beyond the movies. its overdone, convoluted, and just bloats the entire spidey brand imho). and lord. across the spiderverse. i go back and forth. enjoyed the movie. loooooOoove oscar isaac. love antagonistic miguel, honestly! dont love the Conversation around him. this entire fic largely exists because i dont find the characterization to be so beyond his comic persona but i do find it to be Extreme and then i was like hmm, i would like to see more of this fella before he was a total hardass and then i was like hmmm what if peter was DEAD and harry was COMPLICATED and mj was a SPIDER and miguel was a SPIDER and then those two spiders HOOKED UP (and then i wrote a crazy dense fic because im incapable of having two characters kiss without a fully fleshed out story around it. *ben wyatt voice* its about the narrative intricacies of will they/wont they/should they)

anyway uh i have a lot of thoughts (is anyone shocked). miguel pov is in the works (still debating when to start posting that one because its more in-between the chapters of this than a 1-to-1 pov switch (its waay shorter lol) but also uh Plot Things start getting addressed earlier in that one than in this one) and then also i have another mj miguel thing (all blame to Spider-Man 2099 Meets Spider-Man this time though) because apparently this is just what i do now.
okay im done rambling - til next time!

Chapter 16: no way to breathe easy, no time to be young

Summary:

a conversation fully on the record and a public shaming that comes later

Notes:

nobody asked for this but fic playlist? fic playlist anyone?

“This is ridiculous,” Miguel grumbles. 

Eye to a microscope, Miguel hunches over a lab table. The ridges of his spine knob and jut against the rind of his suit. A twist of a dial shoots electric fire into the sample he studies. The lab flashes in stark negatives before quieting into grayscale. Gradually, moody red fades back in.

Behind him, MJ lounges on a derelict hunk of machinery. One leg dangling off the edge, the other she tucks against her chest, leaning against it. Her gizmo’s set to record, but so far all it’s gotten is Miguel’s emphatic refusal to cooperate. 

“It’s necessary,” MJ says. “Someone’s telling the newbies you drink blood.” 

“Again?” 

Yes, again. It’s the fourth time since MJ’s been a member of the Society. It’s a common rumor. The ever popular Miguel’s a vampire myth. A shame of  a myth, really. It would be so much cooler if he was some sort of undead scourge rather than half spider, half grump. In comparison, it’s kind of lame. Like, everyone in the Society is some sort of Spider. A vamp Spider would be seriously sick. There’s gotta be at least one, right? 

Something to look into later.

MJ hums, nodding. “Crazy how skulking around in the dark and only popping out to threaten people can give the wrong impression.” 

Two more twists of the dial. Two more flashbang explosions. It brings to mind red carpet events and PR stunts with the blinding flashes of paparazzi cameras and shouts to look here! MariJane! Show us your tits! Smile! Where’s your husband tonight?  

Most of her contemporaries loathed the paparazzi. MJ didn’t mind them so much. They were irritating and many of them downright evil, but without those early photos with Spider-Man, her career would’ve burst apart at takeoff. 

Red webbing bursts from the hump of Miguel’s wrist, whiffing just past her ear. She doesn’t flinch, just raises a brow. It catches with a splat and then reels back, bearing fruit—an aerosolized container that makes a dreadful racket when Miguel shakes it. Red neon and bluish chrome blur together in one sweep of color as he shakes. It sprays clear, best she can tell blocked by Miguel’s bulk, and then he chucks it backwards, straight for her. All without a courtesy glance her way. 

MJ catches the canister. Squint-eyeing the label doesn’t give any clue to its use. Spidiotic Fluid is set in block letters along with SMELLS LIKE COCONUT, DOES NOT TASTE LIKE IT and DO NOT SPRAY IN MOUTH. There is the slightest hint of coconut in the air, smothered by her own dusky perfume and the molten haze of fried ozone. Though tempted, she sets it aside. 

“Easy solution to the bloodthirsty tales,” MJ says, “you could do the feature and stop moaning about it.”

A daily campaign, Meet the Spiders is a supplement to the standard backstory each Spider is tasked to publish. Featuring a new Spider every day, the first couple—Jess, Peter B, the Spider-Docs—have been very well received. Early feedback has even suggested boosts in morale, community togetherness, and approval ratings for the Spiders featured. 

From the moment positive feedback hit the Webb, MJ’s been chasing Miguel like she’s desperate to sell him a screenplay. Each and every one of her suggestions to improve his image have been summarily shot down, but he can’t ignore data like this. Not easily. 

“Will you leave me alone if I do?” he asks.

“Not sure why you’re so eager to get rid of my stellar presence, but sure. If you actually participate instead of bellyaching after every question.”

“Fine.”

Sparks fizz. The world flickers creamsicle. Whites and oranges, slurred together smooth and teeming around his edges. It smells briefly, overwhelmingly, of coconut.

MJ leans forward, jutting her gizmo towards him like a microphone. In her best Barbara Walters voice, she asks, “So, what do you do for fun?”

Miguel snorts. “You’re looking at it.”

“Wow, what a blast.” She has absolutely no idea what she’s looking at—other than the impressive musculature of his back. “What else?”

One shoulder rises and falls. “Not much time for anything else.”

“C’mon, nothing? That can’t be your answer. No guilty pleasures? No late nights out on the town?”

Rolling his neck, Miguel straightens up. He looks back at her, over his shoulder with characteristic scrunched brow. “Ay, what’re you after, MariJane?” 

“Something I can sell. You fiddling around in the dark with a microscope ain’t it. We need people to like you. Or, at least not be terrified of you. You don’t have hobbies?” 

The answer is no. No hobbies. No extracurriculars. No fun. His schedule is 24 hours of work with pesky necessities like sleeping and eating wedged in wherever convenient. Which is not supposed to be the case anymore. Not since the Inner Circle took a ton of responsibilities off his chest. 

“Jesus, Migsy”—The nickname earns her a glare meaner than the business end of Rhino’s horn. Another one to cross off the list—“delegating only works if you actually delegate.” 

He crosses his arms, gives no indication that he has been properly shamed. “There’s always more to do.”

There’s some truth to it, but not that much. If Lyla’s personality matrix weren’t cycling through a reboot, MJ would call on her for a reality check. Without Lyla’s infallible receipts, the argument isn’t worth having. 

MJ switches gears. She points at the microscope and the test tubes and samples surrounding it. “What’re you doing? Like, actually?” 

The question takes him by surprise. He turns to his workstation, familiarizing himself with it again. The cogs turn in his head. Likely, he’s dumbing down his work into something she can digest.

Eventually, he comes up with: “New Spider came through with super accelerated regeneration abilities. They lose an arm, it grows right back. Widespread potential with something like that. If I can isolate it, then I can replicate it. Ideally. So, I’m combing their genome.” 

It certainly sounds worthwhile, but it also doesn’t sound like something Miguel needs to be personally tackling. “Lyla can’t look through it?”

“She can, but I’m better.” A little puff of his chest and a cocky smile does wonders for his appearance. The expression looks natural on him. It erases five years of weight around his eyes. “One of two things I’m better at.”

“What’s the other?” 

“Poker. She can’t keep a straight face.” 

MJ has no idea if he’s joking or not (she’s inclined to think he is, more than he isn’t), but unlike Lyla, allegedly, Miguel has a severely straight face. 

“Oh, I suck at poker,” MJ says, “Got a terrible tell when I bluff, if you can believe it.” 

“So that's what that is. Thought you had a facial tic,” Miguel says. He rubs at his mouth so she can’t see and can only hear the smirk in his voice. She doesn’t hide her own. 

“Big talk coming from a man who emotes predominantly by eyebrow.” 

It gets a smile and a roguish raise of the brows in question. They're not friends, but not not friends. The line blurs more with each new interaction. 

“Poker night,” MJ muses. “That could be a good event for the Spider Social Committee, no?”

Miguel shrugs. “So long as you play for Society credits, not real money. Take three Parkers in their thirties and they’ll have $100 and some subway tokens between them, if you’re lucky.”

It’s a joke, but it chafes, just a little. MJ knows all too well the broke Parker struggle. When she and Peter dated, the first time, financial troubles played a big part in their messy breakup. Peter couldn’t maintain an education, a steady job, and a Spider side-gig, and MJ certainly wasn’t bringing much to the table with her struggling acting career and day job waiting tables. 

In 2010, an aspiring actress and an applied chemistry student walk into a bar and then walk right back out because they’re broke as Blockbuster. Then, they go back to the actress’ shitty apartment and pretend not to blame the other for their shared embarrassment. Rinse and repeat until they stop going out at all and just skip right to the blame. 

The money (and the comfort of having money) came much later, but those early days of abject poverty left a mark. So, yeah. MJ doesn’t love the jab. Especially since Miguel’s wealth is an open secret. The exact amount is a hotly contested topic, but terms like gazillionaire and beaucoup bucks have been thrown around.

“Not sure anyone could afford your ante, champ,” MJ says.

It flicks a nerve. Not a particularly painful one, though. Miguel’s eyes dull, but the smirk remains. “Best keep that idea in beta then.”

This is another challenge of being sort-of friends with Miguel: the lingo. MJ is no stranger to interesting word choices and experimental phraseology, but the cyber slang of the future is totally ridiculous. Coming from uptight Miguel, it’s a laugh riot, which means she’s grinning like a goofball far too often. Ever since she heard him shout jam it (Nueva York alternative for damn it) with complete sincerity, she struggles to take him at grumpy-face value. 

Before an awkward silence can fall, Miguel gestures to the microscope. “You wanna see?”

Before he’s even fully backed away, MJ’s off and sticking her eye up against the lens. She expects a double helix laid out clean and clear as the diagrams as her high school biology textbook. This ain't that. What Miguel’s studying is far from blocky onion cells and pencil drawings of DNA.

Radiant, recursive squiggles of pinks and greens and blues, curl down and down and down. All furled together, but distinct. Each curve is hazy against the next, but they don’t knot. They just snake down, helixed around an invisible middle. Colors. Curves. Dimensioned and distinct. Dizzying, but dazzling. 

“Does mine look like that?” she asks, a touch breathless. 

“No.”

Disappointment rankles. She leans away, squints at Miguel. “Does yours look like that?”

He snorts, but she doesn’t get the joke.

“You wanna see yours?” he asks. 

One antiseptic wipe and a homemade webbing tourniquet knotted around her bicep later, Miguel draws her blood. His bedside manner is surprisingly gentle, tapping the vein with ease and only the slightest pinch. Needles don’t bother her, but MJ still looks away as the blood leeches free. 

It’s over and done in seconds—one of the perks of future tech—but the drained feeling suffuses as Miguel nicks a talon through the tourniquet and slides the needle from her arm. The hole in her skin knits back together within a few minutes, scabbing and fissuring smooth before Miguel finishes prepping her sample. 

Quick as a bee sting, Miguel has the microscope ready for her viewing pleasure. 

Beneath the scope, the new sample is not pretty. Variations of red saturate and fade like bubbling, primordial ooze. Marbled with fatty yellow, her genetic matter looks more like a hunk of ribeye than the magic under the microscope prior. 

“Well. Guess that proves the red’s all natural,” she says with a scowl. 

Miguel nudges her out of the way. He adjusts the microscope settings then guides her back. When she looks, the pattern is bigger, zoomed into one section than the entirety. It's prettier than before, all cherry red, no yellow, with crystalline fissures throughout. MJ still has no idea what she's looking at. 

To his credit, Miguel does try to explain, but most of it streams past her, failing to stick. The words themselves are vaguely familiar. Code and telomeres. Regeneration and flexibility. Multiplication and mitosis. It’s the gook in between the buzz words that muddles her mind. 

None of it’s going in the write up, though she’s more than happy to listen. There’s a levity that sloughs decades from the hard lines of his face as he babbles on and on about her genes. Miguel’s an interesting guy for sure. A real geek hidden beneath a firewall of bulk and bluster. 

If he ever decided to go into academics, he’d have a stuffed classful of students with Love You written over their eyelids. MJ wouldn’t be a great student (no way in hell she’d do the homework), but she’d show up and suffer the long, stretchy bits of jargon just to hear him talk. 

The passion in his voice as he rambles about these intangible, infinitesimal pieces of her, it makes her veins fuzzy and warm. Little butterflies in her stomach fly on the wind of you’re special, you’re important. 

Is that weird? Maybe, but she’s always been a sucker for glowing admiration. Doesn’t matter that he’s more interested in getting his hands on her deep innards than her outards. 

Miguel cues up a new view for her. Cross-section of the crystalline sinew of her DNA, cut slantwise to show the real nitty gritty. The proverbial money shot of the base of her being. Thrilling to see, effectively meaningless. To her, at least. But, to Miguel? Primetime skin-o-max. He huffs this stuff. Gets giddy from the thought of it. 

Well, maybe not giddy. Miguel’s showing a whole new range of emotion today, but she seriously doubts giddy is in his arsenal. Still, the last time he was this personable with her was… never. Both Jess and Peter have insisted he is capable of it, but MJ harbored her doubts. But here, finally, after nearly a year of knowing him, here’s the proof! 

Leaned back on the table with one hand braced on the edge, Miguel stirs the air, gesturing gently to emphasize whatever point he’s imparting. Cool confidence, but genuine interest. A very good look on him. 

Inspiration strikes. With quick fingers, MJ calls up the shutter function of her gizmo, casts it out, and click. 

The photo comes out crisp. Miguel, rendered in momentary, abnormal charm. Mouth quirked, he’s forever caught midway through a good-natured chuckle. A filter or two to soften the harsh lab lights and it’ll be exactly what she needs for the cover photo. Natural. Candid. Perfect. God bless you, Spider reflexes. 

The image sucks back into micrometers of code, saved for later use. Miguel’s oh so familiar scowl replaces it in her field of vision.

“Here.” MJ calls the image back so that it flares bright over her gizmo. Saddling up against Miguel, but careful not to crowd him, she points out the smile that will single-handedly repair his reputation. What she says though is not quite what she intends. It’s just what she’s thinking. Freud, meet slip. “Really shows off that great mouth of yours.”

The pressure drops. It’s a faux pas. A massive, grotesque faux pas. If there’s one thing Miguel’s extra prickly about, it’s his mouth and the superhuman chompers inside it.

Tension drips in the air, humid enough to coat her skin. MJ chews her lip to keep from wincing, playing it off as artful consideration. She soldiers onto greener pastures. “This photo’s gonna do a lot of the heavy lifting for us. So long as you don’t mind capitalizing on your good looks.” 

MJ turns to him, expecting a no, but finds him staring at her. Staring very intensely at her. Brow crunched, but not glaring, he stares like her face is a dense text, plundering for deeper meaning beneath the confusing scrawl. MJ tilts her head in an unspoken question. He doesn’t answer it. Instead, his russet eyes drip down, settling on her lips and bleeding a touch darker. 

Oh. Interesting. Turns out there’s a flesh and blood man under that curmudgeon exterior after all. A chill courses her spine, but doesn’t linger. She grins and his gaze snaps back up. There’s the daintiest flush on his face. 

“Great mouth, right?”

“Shut up,” Miguel huffs, cutting his eyes away with a sulky jut to his jaw. 

“No harm to it,” she says, shrugging. “Game recognizes game.”

“Seriously, shut up.”

And so concludes Miguel’s Meet the Spiders interview. 

***

Though fashionably late is MJ’s preferred kind of late, just plain late has been her usual flavor since starting the Spider gig. Two hours after the start of a Very Important, Do Not Miss This event for Harry’s campaign, MJ strolls through the doors, making her grand re-entrance into high society. 

Heads turn as one. Someone asks is that? and another answers, it is! A flashbulb goes off. Then two more. From the raised platform at the front of the dining room, Harry twists his face into something more agreeable than his initial irritation. 

“Didn’t I say this campaign would keep you on your toes?” Harry asks, garnering a good natured chuckle from the crowd. “The stunning MariJane, everyone.”

MJ waves away Harry and the ensuing, snapping of photos with a demure, oh you motion. Harry's manager jumps to the rescue, directing her to her empty seat at the head table. The buzz calms. A glass is filled with red wine for her enjoyment. She sips at it, only for that small sip to be immediately refilled. 

The event’s well into the downswing. Dinner has already been served, but a plate of tonight’s leftovers are scrounged together for her. A steaming assortment of shell-on seafood aside an assortment of greens. Standard fare in the Before Times, but a delicacy befitting a queen now. MJ forces herself to enjoy every bite, even though she hasn’t eaten shellfish since she got married. Peter wasn’t devout by any means, but he did his best to eat kosher, and MJ did her best to support him. 

Picking at her shrimp, MJ glances around the room. It’s a smaller event. Press and donors only. Not that Harry needs donors. If he wanted, he could just buy the election out from under Vanessa Fisk’s nose. But Harry wants to do it right. Harry wants to win. His chances are better and better with each new poll. A cry for law and order is a powerful platform to a populace trapped between madmen and the maggia. 

Popular with the people, but Harry’s made enemies. Enemies with no qualms about lining the incumbent Fisk’s campaign coffers or sending waves of hitmen after him. He’s got a crack security team—the absolute best money can buy—but it doesn’t stop MJ from worrying, especially as his rhetoric gets more and more divisive. The more attempts on his life, the more justified he feels.

Applause erupts when Harry finishes his speech. MJ stands with the rest of the room, clapping harder than anyone else and giving a cheeky whistle for added emphasis. She may have missed most of it tonight, but she’s heard the speech many times on many other nights as he practiced and workshopped it. He has a team of writers and assistants, but he likes her feedback best. 

Unlike the paid help, MJ is honest and unafraid to be so. 

As Harry rejoins the table, she brings him in for a hug, whispering, “Absolutely amazing as always.”

Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he mutters, “The beginning was even better.”

It was. A personal anecdote about his friendship with Peter as a vehicle into the nucleus of his platform, the beginning of his speech was phenomenal. It would have been even more powerful if Peter’s bereft widow were there to show her support at the time. Guilt manifests like heartburn in her chest. If she could feel any worse about being late, she’d be dead.

More than anyone else, MJ knows exactly what it feels like when the one face looked for in a crowd is the only one missing. Doesn’t matter the reason. Good, bad, fate of the world—it doesn’t matter. She wasn’t here when she needed to be. 

The exact moment Harry slaps her in the face with shame is made immortal, photographed from twenty different angles when Harry wraps his arm around her back, drawing her to his side to give one final wave to the applauding crowd. It’s only in the slant of her brow, slightly down, instead of up and fully joyous, but it’s there. MJ knows it’s there, if no one else can see it. 

Light entertainment—mediocre musicians in a string quartet—helps pass the time, but night holds no other excitement. Harry drags her along for his rounds around the room, introducing her as of course you know MariJane.

Everyone does know her. They pinch her fingers when they shake her hand and press spitty kisses to her cheeks in greeting and say things like, I loved you in Secret Hospital, or, I had your spreads all over my dorm room. Some of them she’s met before. Most of them, she hasn’t. Regardless, they all treat her the same. 

They fawn. They make empty conversation. They offer offer condolences for her husband. 

“I always said Spider-Man should’ve been an Avenger!” a donor says, just before freeze framing for a photo op. 

Another surprises her with a kiss on the mouth and then says, “Your husband was one of the good ones. Not like this hack Spider-Woman.” 

Blessedly, nobody mentions Mayday. It seems MJ’s reputation as a serious mama bear continues despite her years away from the public eye. The press liked to complain about her treatment of them, but it was an unspoken rule among their ranks that mentioning Mayday Parker in the press meant that not even Spider-Man could save them from Mrs. Spider-Man. MJ took her daughter’s privacy very seriously. She still does. 

It’s an exhausting night, but MJ missed the worst of it. Harry holds her hand through the rest of it. He’s not the best to ever do it, but he’s certainly come a long way. He drives conversations with a distinct charm—a very East Coast sensibility with a sarcastic, self-effacing intelligence. The Nu York nepo baby to end all Nu York nepo babies. 

The donors eat it up, chortling like the fat cats they are. MJ hates them and the bubble they inhabit. The heart and soul of Nu York atrophies in the street while the rich spread their rot through the city in the name of profit. They court Harry for his sway and stock in Oscorp, not because they believe in his campaign. Most were good friends of his father’s and still hold firm to the belief that an Osborn on top is good for business.

It’s probably true. Doesn’t make MJ care for it any more. 

In the end, the event is a success according to Harry’s staffers. They twitter amongst themselves while the last of the donors and straggling press trickle from the room. Three of them debate how to best leverage MariJane’s newfound involvement in the campaign. Is it too early to tease rumors of a relationship? Yes, they decide. Best to wait another week so that the headlines don’t cannibalize each other. 

It’s only surprising how unsurprised MJ is by this revelation. She isn’t an idiot. Harry is still Nu York’s most eligible bachelor and MariJane the most eligible widow. Their names have been inseparable in the press for over a decade. It would be scandalous. It would be romantic. Most importantly, it would sell. 

But it will never happen. Not again. She loves Harry too much to repeat past mistakes, even if it’s just pretend. Even if it could be the bump he needs to win. It’s the one thing she can never do for him. 

Indiscreetly, she thumbs the rings hanging from her neck. Hers, nestled against Peter’s. The jutting diamond from her band keeps it from being encircled by Peter’s completely. There’s a notch worn into Peter’s band from months of rubbing together. 

The matchmaking staffers fall silent. MJ doesn’t have to look to confirm they’ve been properly shamed. The door swinging open and closed is confirmation enough. 

With the staffers gone, only the event staff, Harry’s bodyguards, and manager remain beyond her and Harry himself. The room is torn down, leaving behind an empty ballroom that will remain empty until the next event. It’s rare that anyone has use for a space so lavish anymore. 

Out on the terrace, Harry is on the last puffs of a cigarette. He takes a mighty drag, holding it in his chest before billowing it out. Smoke curls all around him, swallowing him in the dark. He waves away the smog when MJ takes up at his side. 

“Next Friday,” Harry starts but doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. MJ threads her fingers through his on the rail. Laced together, they squeeze hands, tighter and tighter until Harry can’t take more, drawing away. 

“We’ll tear it up,” MJ says. She gives a stupid little twist of her legs. “Dance to keep the blues away.” 

Harry snorts. “You know what? I think I’d like that.” He takes one last draw from his cigarette, letting it fall from his fingers as he exhales. He smashes it underfoot. “After all the PR I gotta do, it would be nice to just be dumb.”

“Well then mister, sounds like it’s a date.”

“Sure,” Harry laughs. “At least then we can say that’s why we’re crying.”

She hugs him, glad the staffers have fled so she doesn’t have to feel weird about it, and closes her eyes when he returns the affection, setting his chin on the top of her head. He smells like Tom Ford Vetiver and cigarettes. An anachronistic smell. The same he’s worn in all the years she’s known him. Through law school, every club in the city, board meetings, weddings, rehabs, funerals. Through it all. The same smell as now, but a different Harry. 

There’s a break between the Harry that was and the Harry that is. The beaten, broken Harry of the past and the driven, luminary Harry of the present. The best thing that ever happened to Harry was the death of his father. If only it hadn’t come at the cost of the rest of the world. If only Peter were here to see it. 

She says, “Next Friday it is.”

Next Friday, five years from the end of the world.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, You’ll Be Hearing from Spider-Man, Attorney at Law, Very Soon

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX :   Transcript excerpt of MARIJANE’s featured interview for Meet the Spiders initiative, conducted by SW-3123 “J. JENNA JAMESON/TRIPLE J” as follows:

[...]

TRIPLE J: Alright, one final question. This is the one that everyone’s dying to know. What’s the deal between you and our fearless leader?

MARIJANE: [laughs] How’d I know you were gonna ask this?

TRIPLE J: C’mon, what kinda gossip journalist would I be if I didn’t?

MARIJANE: A bad one! [laughs]

TRIPLE J: So, what’s the story? 

MARIJANE: We work together, same as you.

TRIPLE J: Well, if the rumors are true, the kind of work you do is a little different than the rest of us. 

MARIJANE: [laughs] If the rumors are true then I’m pregnant with twins and LYLA’s an eldritch God from Mars.

TRIPLE J: The imagination of some Spiders, amiright? [laughs] 

MARIJANE: [laughs] So crazy. 

TRIPLE J: But this Form 34 you filled, that wasn’t to disclose a relationship with Miguel?

MARIJANE: What?

TRIPLE J: The Form 34 in your file, that’s disclosing a relationship with another Spider than Miguel?

MARIJANE: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

TRIPLE J: Here. We can’t access the full disclosure, obviously, but it’s noted in your record. Form 34: Disclosure of Inter-Spider Relationship. Filed Monday, the 21st of—

MARIJANE: Is this a joke?

TRIPLE J: Nope, just good journalism.

MARIJANE: How did you get this?

TRIPLE J: We requested it. 

MARIJANE: You can do that?

TRIPLE J: Yep.

MARIJANE: But you can’t tell what relationship’s been disclosed? If any?

TRIPLE J: We raised a request on Miguel’s file, but looks like he checked all the right boxes, if he filed one.

MARIJANE: And I didn’t? 

TRIPLE J: No. That’s how we were able to find record of the filing. Not classified.

MARIJANE: [laughs] Don’t you just hate bureaucracy? 

TRIPLE J: [laughs] It’ll bite you in the butt, for sure! So, who’s the lucky Spider? 

MARIJANE: Oh no. You’re not getting a bombshell outta me! [laughs]

TRIPLE J: Just for the record, you’re denying a relationship with Miguel O’Hara?

MARIJANE: The record? When did this go from friendly interview to court of law?

TRIPLE J: I’m just trying to give the fans what they want. A decent chunk of the Society is invested in this. 

MARIJANE: If you’re hoping I’m going to give you a headline, it’s not gonna happen, sister. I mean, what? It’s not like I’m just going to say, oh, golly, you got me and here are the full, dirty details. We’re madly in love. We’ve been together for months. We live together. C’mon. That’s crazy talk.

TRIPLE J: Is it? 

MARIJANE: Uh, yeah. 

TRIPLE J: Is it really?

MARIJANE: Yes!

TRIPLE J: So this Form 34?

MARIJANE: Look, I wish I could tell everyone what they want to hear. I really do.

TRIPLE J: What’s stopping you?

MARIJANE: [laughs] It’s not reality. 

TRIPLE J: So these pictures—

MARIJANE: [laughs]

TRIPLE J: Are you suggesting these don’t reflect reality?

MARIJANE: What is reality, Jenna? 

TRIPLE J: I’m sorry. Are you? What’s reality? 

MARIJANE: Yeah. Reality. Is it the same for both of us? Do we experience it the same?

TRIPLE J: I… These photos—

MARIJANE: The photos are one reality. Are they my reality? Are they yours? Do you just want them to be real? Look, when I think about the whole of creation—that’s you and me. That’s the dawn of time to the end of time. Microbes to flying cars to the heat death of the universe. Everything that’s already happened and everything that will. It’s all happening at once. Interlocked. Instantaneous. I can’t escape it and neither can you. We’re all trapped inside plans laid by something that doesn’t care about us. And that knowing strain, that hurts everyone differently. It warps our perceptions. It changes our reality. You see what I mean? I mean, nobody thinks the same way. Nobody sees the same way. My reality isn’t your reality. 

TRIPLE J: Okay, interesting point. But these photos are real.

MARIJANE: Who says? You? God? 

TRIPLE J: We had them independently verified. And, let’s be honest, MJ, anyone with eyes can see these are real and clearly show—

MARIJANE: A reality. Not mine. 

TRIPLE J: So you’re no longer together?

MARIJANE: Can two people ever really be together?

TRIPLE J: Uh, yes. 

MARIJANE: I guess this is just where you and I will have to agree to disagree, Jenna.

TRIPLE J: So, you’re not denying the relationship?

MARIJANE: I’m not denying it.

TRIPLE J: But you’re also not admitting to it?

MARIJANE: That’s correct, Jenna.

TRIPLE J: So what does that mean for the MigJay heads out there?

MARIJANE: It means find a better hobby for yourselves. Or a better name, at least. I love you all, but I worry about you. 

TRIPLE J: Well, that’s as good a note to end it on as any. Thanks for your time and your, uh, perspective. 

MARIJANE: Anytime, Jenna. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Audio and visual gone entirely, but transcript remains. Interview caused a PR firestorm after it was released. Little attention was given to the content of MARIJANE’s rant/attempt to derail the interview beyond supportive comments on the Webb—the kind LYLA calls “yaas queen” comments. Most of these have vanished. Those that remain host a dead link. 

Informal poll of Spiders suggests nobody even remembers that this interview happened nor the overwhelming response to it. Not unprecedented. While highly distorted prime sources remain, most secondary or corresponding materials have entirely vanished, including memories. Even LYLA’s memory has holes, though she recalls more than most. Her processor is far more complex than any human/humanoid mind. Harder to erase? Need to test against other, high dimensional minds. SM-444 and SM-711 to start. Maybe FLIPSIDE? Could be good opportunity to patch his mainframe too.

MARIJANE's comments about reality are disturbing. Spoke sometimes of God, struggles with religion & dealing with survivor’s guilt, but never with apathy or hopelessness or existential dread expressed here. Attempt to disorient TRIPLE J and distract from discussion of relationship, yes, but what she said has more weight in light of later events. Rationalization of what she did/was going to do? Could be genuine belief. Should have pushed for intensive psych eval after Osborn. Should have institutionalized her after she shot up with serum. Knew something was wrong. Didn’t want to believe. Own fault.

Hard to process. Hard to separate emotion from pure observation. How much was missed? How much was ignored?

LYLA, flag commentary for later clean up. Can’t organize thoughts now. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Crazy on You" by Heart

this is one of my favorite supplementals lol

so, as may have been noticed, i tend to write some pretty long and chewy chapters. frankly i loooOoove a long chapter. LOVE, a long chapter. but. i am debating posting some of the future chapters from here on out in chunks (pt 1; pt 2; etc etc) because, would you imagine that some of them are even longer than the ones ive already posted? anyway, i want to both to cut down on individual chapter length, as well as stretch out some pacing issues in having certain scenes immediately back to back within a single chapter. this would ultimately bump up the chapter count (which ive kept to myself pretty much for this exact reason) BUT if i do this, i'd post the parts on a daily basis (i.e. pt 1 at the usual time-ish with pt 2 the next day, etc etc). i dont want to slow the story down at all so it would still be a chapter a week, but just trying to make this more digestible as it goes. its a tricky thing but this is my best solution.

next chapter: a night out on the town #fake dating? LYLA says yes

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

11/15 - re fic playlist(s): we've got the hot n ready fic companion playlist HERE (DISTORTION) and the obligatory title track playlist HERE (T&SIB)
i just think theyre neat /said like marge simpson holding up a potato

Chapter 17: fake it so real

Summary:

aint no party like an alchemax party

Five years and a day after the end of the world finds MJ universes away, scrubbing at the same strip of skin beneath scorching hot water. 

She’s OK. Really, she is. It’s just... 

So, there’s this one stretch of her—the back of her left arm, right where the shoulder turns to arm—and reaching it isn’t difficult, but it used to be. Back when she wasn’t flexible or bendy or Spider-y. So, she scours it clean because she can and it stings a little but it doesn’t really hurt. Not when the abrasion heals faster than she scrubs.

It’s unconscious really. An instinct that rises and stays and stays and stays. She doesn’t think much. She just scrubs. Until she’s had enough. 

The shower clicks off with a tap of her finger. A cloud of steam follows her out and settles over the mirror. She stares at her reflection, blurred and distilled into the pale slopes of flesh. The tinge of pink over her cheeks and chest. Shadows of long-faded freckles over her nose and shoulders. The umber snarl of damp hair. 

When she swipes a clean path on the mirror with her palm, it fogs over almost immediately; harsh clarity hazing softer and kinder. It's impossible to see the scars that litter her body or the preternatural clutch of hard muscle over her made-for-TV physique. 

She looks like the MJ she remembers, not the MJ she is. Not the MJ who counts more years as widow than wife. Two more years and she’ll have lived longer without Mayday than with.

Despair rises, balling in her throat, but she’s still worn out from yesterday. There’s just a void where grief should be. Nothingness, tinged with guilt. 

As the air loosens and the cold creeps over her still-damp skin, she stares at herself. Even then, it takes the tootling alert of Lyla to draw her attention from the mirror. She draws a towel around herself just as Lyla flickers into form. 

“You busy, babes?”

Winding the towel tighter around her body, MJ pulls a sour face. “Why?”

“Sheesh. You know, most MJs are down to clown with whatever.”

“You’d be bored if I was like most MJs.”

Lyla winks a spurt of glitter. “True that, but it’s our little secret.”

Towel secured, MJ fusses her face in the mirror. She leans close, peering at pores that haven’t caused issue in years. Pulling at the corner of her eye, searching for imperfections that aren’t there, she says, “Let’s say I’m not busy.”

“Oh, let’s! And let’s say Miguel isn’t busy either. And that Nueva York is calling both your names.” 

It’s definitely not what MJ expected. The sprawling metropolis of the future has intrigued her since she first arrived, but exploration is strictly forbidden. Even stepping foot onto any of the balconies without express clearance can earn formal reprimand (but never with any teeth. Just a hey don’t do that from Lyla and a personal reminder from Miguel, once.)

As far as MJ knows, no Spider other than Miguel has ever ventured into Nueva York. So, of course, she’s interested. 

She says, “Didn’t think he ever left HQ.”

“Not if he can help it, but he’s gotta bankroll this whole project somehow,” Lyla explains. She pops over the sink faucet, straddling it like a pony. “And sometimes, like tonight, he’s gotta make an appearance and keep the shareholders happy, which is easier when he’s got some arm candy.”

Arm candy burs in MJ’s side. She’s good for so much more than that. 

“He’s kind of a legend around Nueva York,” Lyla continues, “and that’s without people knowing he’s the S-Man. It’s nuts. You’ll see.”

The way Lyla talks, it’s like MJ’s already flashed the green light. It’s coming, of course it is, but she hasn’t given it yet. 

“He can’t ask me himself?”

“Oh, he’ll ask eventually, but not soon enough for you to get ready. Men, amiright?” 

As Lyla talks, a small, animated MJ shimmers into being along the curve of the sink. Fake MJ goes through the motions of getting ready, slathering on makeup and blow drying her hair as if in fast forward. She dons a slippy black dress. 

All the idle animations that follow—fidgeting with the shoulder straps, adjusting her boobs to sit better in the dress, pursing and unpursing her lipsticked lips—are such a dead ringer for the real MJ that it makes her a little self conscious. Also, a little flattered. Fake MJ is pretty hot, especially right before she blinks out of existence with a sexy little pout. 

“C’mon, you know you wanna.” Lyla smirks, wiggling her fingers with come hither motions. 

It's clearly an olive branch (and an oh so convenient way to keep tabs on her around an emotionally rife anniversary). But MJ’s not sure what else it might be. She and Miguel are on better terms, but not quite friends. Certainly not at a level of hanging out socially. And the arm candy comment? Well, that's a level locked up behind a paywall. At least, if it's a serious comment. If Miguel seriously wants her as arm candy. Or wants her at all. 

Lyla lays off the gas. She leans back over the faucet, holding the stopper like a saddle pommel, and shrugs. “No’s a good answer too. It’ll put the big guy out of his misery at least.”

“Maybe,” MJ says.

“Maybe? Maybe’s good. Maybe’s not n—” Lyla vanishes. A split second later, MJ’s gizmo rips the atonal symphony of an incoming call request. She answers, angling her gizmo a little higher, and Miguel appears via hologram, masked and glaring.

“What did Lyla tell you?”

“Hello to you too. Fancy seeing you in my bathroom.”

Miguel’s masked eyes widen and then slit. He grumbles, “She’s determined to make my life hell.”

“Lyla?”

“Who else?”

Holding her arm at awkward angle, high enough to give him a view of her face and nothing more, MJ leaves the bathroom and begins a one-armed shuffle to redress. On the way out, she asks, “Where’d she go?” 

“Surprise reboot of her personality matrix. She won’t be happy about it. What did she tell you?”

“That you're taking me out on the town,” MJ says, dropping the towel. There’s a built in privacy filter for all intra-Society video calls. A safety precaution to protect Spiders from humiliation after one poor soul accidentally butt dialed Miguel during their shower and appeared before him fully in the buff. Still, MJ keeps her arm angled high. She shrugs on a pair of underwear, debates how to don a shirt with only one free hand. 

“You want to go?” Miguel asks. “On the mission?”

Ah. A mission. Now that jives with reality. It's been a question for some time of when MJ was going to draw the short straw of a super serious, not a shocking joke mission with Miguel. All the other members of the Inner Circle have each suffered through at least one of their own little trauma bonding missions with Miguel. 

Such a coincidence that MJ's first one falls the day after the anniversary of her losing everything. A very timely distraction. And one that can only be intentional. 

Miguel doesn't do anything by accident.

"Sure, I'll do it," MJ says. "Better than sitting on my hands and singing the blues.”

That, she did yesterday with Harry. Long after the need for public appearances had faded, they tucked away in his penthouse with the shudders drawn tight to hold their own private vigil. They drank and drank until Harry passed out under the weight of his own sadness and she fell into uneasy sleep beside him. When she woke up, her red, bleary-eyed stare was twin to his. 

But Miguel doesn't know that. She doesn’t tell him. 

“Good,” Miguel says and his mask dissolves with a flick of light to reveal a small, secretive smile. Then, he clears his throat and sets his expression, saying, “That’s good. Get your mind off things. I ran the numbers. No issues in taking you Uptown.”

MJ’s follow up withers as Lyla pops back with a heaving harumph and a stomped foot that raises a puff of dirt. Totally disheveled, Lyla’s glasses are askew, her hair is suffering a serious case of bedhead, and her clothes are totally wrinkled. She looks like she crawled straight outta hell. 

“Miguel!” she shouts, whizzing to yell in his projected face. “You know I hate surprise reboots.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he says, cutting his eyes to the side and swatting at her like a pesky bug. 

“No idea…!? Ugh. Ugh! Just because you can’t ask a girl out—”

“No, that’s not, I’m not asking you out,” Miguel says, too quickly, fixing her with eyes pleading, please believe me. 

“Shame,” MJ tsks, “I make an excellent date.”

With her non-gizmo hand, she digs through her underwear drawer. Through the comfortable briefs, athletic thongs, and tight breast bands, she searches. If she’s going out then she’ll need a real bra. There should be one in here. 

Lyla says, “See? I told you—”

“I’ll reboot you again,” Miguel says. 

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Lyla’s eyes go a little red and then she vanishes in a pop and a cloud of smoke that forms a door to slam behind her. 

Miguel runs his fingers back through his hair with a huff. “She’ll get over it.”

“Will she?” MJ asks.

He sighs and runs both hands down his face, pulling it long and dour. “She’ll mismanage my calendar. Parade the worst Parkers through my lab. Mess with my suit.”

That catches MJ’s attention. She stops digging through her garments to look at him proper. “She messes with your suit? How?”

“That’s classified.”

His video feed cuts out. What a drama queen. MJ rolls her eyes. 

A text thwips on her gizmo. 

SM-928B - Be ready at 7.

Soon after MJ dons the only suitable bra in her collection, Lyla pops back in. She pushes at the bridge of her glasses, securing them firmly against her face. Then, she grins and explodes into furious motion. She scoots and jitters over a screen outlaid with a schedule circling numbers and letters and drawing lines between the two.   

“You’ve got a fitting at 6 with hair and makeup at 6:30 and, ooh, first gotta run you by tech support—”

“Tech support?” 

“Yep. Gotta make sure you’re familiar with modern tech.”

What follows is a crash course from hell, courtesy of Lyla: 

Here’s your holophone, MJ. Yes, it’s melded to your hand for the foreseeable future. No, you can’t actually use it. Really, don’t worry about it. Seriously, stop looking at your hand. You can’t really use it, but it’s not going anywhere. Just try not to think about it. Definitely try not to think about how it’s practically grafted into your hand. We’ll remove it first thing when you get back. No, it won’t hurt. Seriously, I promise. Nothing hurts in the future, babes. 

Wardrobe is a better experience. Apparently, getting fitted for an outfit is the same in every century. Though, her prescribed outfit leaves a little to be desired. It’s fine. That’s the best she can say. It’s fine. 

Despite a few chic embellishments (an asymmetrical wrap built into the bodice; a high, layered neckline; capped metal tips on each finger), it’s little more than a full coverage jumpsuit. A rather flattering jumpsuit, but still. A jumpsuit. If it were white and blue-detailed instead of a matte gray, it would just be a couture reimagining of her Spider-suit. 

As she gives a little spin in the mirror, the fabric at her waist flares. Lyla applauds and the sound amplifies to the roar of a cheering crowd. 

MJ smirks. The mood strikes and then she’s taking up pose after pose while Lyla flits around in a flat cap, whistling and taking pictures with an old timey shutter camera. 

“Oh, great. My headache’s back,” the Spider-Seamstress grumbles.

Lyla nixes the cap and camera. She makes a frame of her fingers over one eye, squeezing the other shut. She says, “They’re gonna eat you up, babe. Structured suits are so in right now.”

MJ sets her hands against her hips, twists this way and that to see the outfit from all angles. OK, maybe it’s better than fine. It’s decent. The more she looks the more she likes. A long leap from the gown she would prefer, but it's nice to wear something new and designer after years of Spider-suits and comfy clothes. It certainly flatters her figure, which doesn’t hurt. Plus, she gets to wear heels! Blessed, glorious heels!

Oh, how she's missed feeling tall. A five inch growth spurt to 5’11 really doesn’t amount to much when the average height of the Society is 6’2. Next to Miguel’s near 7 foot, she might as well be a Muppet. 

The heels boost her another three inches, putting her astutely at Miguel’s shoulder. It isn’t much, but it saves her neck the strain of craning up to glare at him when his response to her high glam is an unconvincing grunt and shrugging of his hands into pant pockets. 

In a timeless charcoal suit and black turtleneck, Miguel cleans up nice. Though, she’s got some  comments, which she does share with gusto. 

Like how his hair is slicked back too tight and low, even more than usual, emphasizing how boxy and angular his skull is. And how his light gray, plasticky belt is a definite choice, drawing the eye right to his itty bitty waist. And how his red-lensed, geometric frames suggest he’s got a sick startup in the Valley that he’d love to tell her all about. 

“Everyone’s a shocking critic,” he grumbles and crosses his arms, stonewalling. Except there’s a little lift to the edge of his mouth that sells him out clean. 

To get to Alchemax, they take the subway. Not a fancy flying car. Or a new-fangled transporter. The subway. It uses some slick sounding future tech called MagLev, but it smells like old farts, body odor, and nickels. 

Apparently, some things about NYC never change, no matter the dimension or decade. 

Wedged into a full car, MJ stands with her nose nearly in Miguel’s neck. There’s only a small sliver of privacy between them. One bad bump and she’ll be facedown in his pecs. Not a great start to the night, but a weirdly sentimental one. 

The last time MJ was crammed into a subway, she had Mayday nestled against her as they headed for Gayle’s apartment uptown. Mayday hummed a Weird Al song (Peter's doing, not MJ's) and gave a pure Watson side-eye when MJ adjusted a barrette in her unruly mop of hair. A little butterfly barrette. It’s one of three, dotted over the crown of Mayday’s skull to hold back the tumble of her bangs. Cheap and poorly made, chunks of glitter fleck off the plastic, giving the appearance of shiny dandruff. 

Mayday has nicer barrettes. Far nicer barrettes. But Peter bought the butterfly barrettes for her (despite them being total junk) because Mayday gave big ole puppy dog eyes in the CVS. 

As MJ dusts a glob of glitter from her hair, Mayday smacks at her hand. “Quit it!”

“Hey! That was rotten! You better not give Auntie Gayle that sass,” MJ scolds. 

“Auntie Gayle doesn’t mess with my butterflies,” Mayday shoots back. She rolls her eyes with the authority of an angsty teen, not a lippy six year old. Sometimes, it really is like looking in a mirror. 

The subway lurches into sudden motion as the MagLev activates underfoot. MJ stumbles and she snatches at the pole just beside her, barely saving herself from tumbling into the woman next to her. The woman still gives her a nasty, pinch-faced sneer for the almost insult. 

With a snort, Miguel lays a steadying hand against the middle of MJ’s back. Big as his mitt is, it practically spans the entire width of her ribcage. It’s not unpleasant. The firm counterbalance at her back helps keep her grounded as Miguel briefs her in hushed whispers. 

His mouth ducked close to her ear, they look to the rest of the train like friends trading drama or lovers whispering sweet nothings. Nobody bats an eye, too engrossed in the saccharine flashings of drama and danger in their holophones.

“It’s a hostage situation,” Miguel grumbles, describing the tenuous balance he must maintain to make himself valuable, but not too valuable to Alchemax. The old CEO named him successor in all but fact so his fellow directors are more than happy to give him whatever he wants so long as he doesn't set his sights on the big desk. The big desk that he doesn't (under any shocking circumstances) want. 

“If I could leave, I would,” Miguel explains, “but the Society doesn't come cheap. And the last time I tried to leave, it didn't go so hot.”

MJ can sniff out a tragedy a mile away, but she doesn't push for details. Her mind is too knotted up in digesting what he's said. And resisting the urge to lay his career trajectory over Harry's and draw parallels between the two. 

She succeeds. Mostly. 

Harry got out, but the shadow of Oscorp and his father looms large and dangerous over his head, even now. Miguel is still stuck, but not thoroughly enmeshed. The corporate specter reaches deep into both their lives, haunting every aspect of them.

Beside MJ, there’s a man with a disgusting little curl of a mustache staring at her. Marble eyes linger on her ass, grow wider when a pale pink worm of a tongue darts out to wet his lips and the stringy mustache above them. The train’s pulling into the station—our stop, according to Miguel—so it seems the perfect time for her to snarl, “Hey, bozo, snap a pic. It'll last longer.”

And then the bozo does!

With a goofy grin, he tilts his palm flat to face her and a flash of light emerges from the holophone. MJ sputters, color bleaching from her face, but Miguel hustles her off the train before she can form a response. It’s a good thing. She was spinning up a real doozy. 

“Lyla, kill that loser's holo,” Miguel says.

There’s a horrified shriek from behind them and MJ catches a glimpse of said creep going weak in the knees, jabbing at the palm of his hand with a force that shakes his whole body. The doors close. The MagLev activates with a resonant hum. Then, the train zooms away.

“You gotta be careful what you say. Nueva York is creep city,” Miguel says, ushering her into an elevator shaft. Above the doorway, hazy letters read INSTALIFT. 

“More than any other Nu York?”

Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing up his shades to do so. "You didn't read the dossier. Lyla, did you—”

“Oops, sorry boss,” Lyla says via the camouflaged comms in their ears. “Slipped my mind. Too busy getting MJ dolled up. Guess you'll just have to keep her safe and cozy from all the kooky spookys.” 

Sucking through his teeth, Miguel hisses his disapproval. 

It’s going to be a long night. 

The lift door closes. MJ gets no warning. One second, she's standing unawares below ground. The next, she's aboveground. The movement so fast and sudden, it leaves her body vibrating like an empty glass struck by a fork before a big speech. Except her body isn't empty. It's wet and sloshing, unbalanced from instantaneous motion. 

Stomach cartwheeling, MJ barely makes it out of the lift without puking. Solid touch slips up and down her back, soothing, and guides her out of the stream of commuters. 

“Sorry,” Miguel says. “Should’ve warned you.” 

Too little, too late. 

It takes MJ a couple minutes to convince her stomach to cool it with the theatrics. The crisp night air helps. It’s colder than she imagined it would be.

Back home, it’s summer. Here, it feels more like dewy spring. Whatever it is, it’s nice. Calming, even. For about two seconds. 

The road to Alchemax is clotted with people. Holographic street vendors hawk their wares: shimmering fabrics that blink in and out of vision; certified Acid Proof raincoats that crinkle like aluminum foil; incandescent jewelry that catches in the setting sun and show flashes of rolling fields, birds in flight, the beckoning seashore; music boxes that pluck tunes straight from passersby' minds; coffee claiming to be the best thing since the real thing.

Miguel doesn’t let her gawk too long. He tugs her by the wrist, pointedly clearing his throat when she stumbles. Together, they cut through the crowd towards the glitzy skyscraper ahead. High in the smoggy sky above, white neon spells ALCHEMAX like tongues of lightning. 

Off to the side, the largest glut of the crowd gathers around a makeshift pulpit bearing a makeshift Thor. Dressed in a cosplay of the Mightiest Avenger, the man masquerading as Thor is haggard and stooped with age. Mjolnir is particularly pathetic. It’s just a bit of painted wood from the look of it. 

“Beware the monstrous S-Man!” Wannabe Thor cries to jeers and boos from the crowd. “He doth playact as savior to mankind but hark, we stand in the shadow of his odious master: Alchemax!” 

MJ has questions, but Miguel tugs her along, muttering, “Shocking ingrates.”

By the time they reach the security checkpoint outside the building, MJ’s thoroughly disoriented and doing her best not to let it show. She’s swung through more variations of NYC than she can count, but she’s always swung through them. This is the first time she’s been on the ground with no enemy to fight. Culture shock bends her brain. It’s a lot. Even for her. 

When MJ's retinal scan fails at the security checkpoint, Miguel makes a scene. He calls the guard on duty everything from the latest Alchemax failure to a complete shocking moron. Nobody notices when MJ taps the scanner, transferring the nanotech on her fingertip to the machine. Just like Lyla told her to.

“Just scan her again,” Miguel demands. All haughty authority and a sneer to put the fear of God in whatever poor soul ended up on the receiving end, he's definitely intimidating. “Maybe we call it user error. Maybe you don’t lose your job and have to shove Downtown.”

The scan clears the second time. The guard sputters apologies, purple faced with anxiety. They pass through without further incident. 

Inside, it’s MJ’s first day at HQ all over again. Everything is different from what she knows, but similar enough to make her doubt. In a way, the Alchemax lobby looks exactly like the Oscorp lobby. Reception off to the side (replaced with a bar for the night’s festivities) and elevators (instalifts here in the future) in the far back of a spacious floor plan with miracles and marvels studded throughout for gawking. Except, the miracles and marvels are beyond her conception. 

A portable cold fusion reactor. Androids that take the shape of the person looking at them. Chimeras that babble with human tongues, asking partygoers, what’s the latest? How’s the wife? Low, tinkling music that snugs around her like the wind. Hors d’oeuvres ferried around by hard-shelled automatons. And people, all throughout. 

It's the crowd that helps ground her, tying together the future she can’t comprehend with a reality she can. She knows people. Knows rich, self-important people best of all. And the Alchemax lobby is flooded with upturned noses and net worths beyond her wildest dreams. 

Immediately, they’re accosted by a trio in sleek suits and gold loafers. Miguel doesn’t introduce her. She doesn’t insert herself into the conversation. It eludes her anyway. What could she contribute to a discussion of synergy between the ET division and the genetics department, laden with bladed questions and backwards compliments? When the trio leaves, chafed by Miguel’s brusque disinterest, another group replaces them. 

And then another. And another. 

A man who introduces himself as Boone, Jordan Boone and stares unabashedly at her bust saddles up to make terse small talk about raiders. Neither he nor Miguel strikes her as a football (or Indiana Jones) fan, but she’s barely paying attention.

The mission isn't to engage in conversation. It's to make Miguel look good. Which she does, undoubtedly. She angles her body and face just so to emphasize her figure. Fawns over him with measured subtlety when wandering eyes linger. Drapes against his side as they venture further into the crowd. Oozes feminine charm and affection with every smile, every blink, every breath. 

It comes naturally. She’s good arm candy. Great arm candy, really. 

But she’s an even better listener. Filtering out the low scrape of Miguel’s voice, she listens to the crowd around them, eavesdropping with ease. Super hearing definitely has its perks. 

Most of it’s useless. Spitting catty insults or puking jealousy, the peons of Alchemax have strong feelings about their future boss and perpetual bithead, Miguel O’Hara. Strong feelings that stretch to encompass her, as his current supposed conquest. 

From the crowd most immediately around them, snippets of conversation rise and fall. Vapid, petty things, MJ listens long enough to get the gist and then filters past. Ears cued for mention of unreality, she hears nothing of interest. Well, nothing of actual interest. 

The gossip about Miguel is certainly interesting. And illuminating. 

“How does O'Hara find these women? You couldn't pay for a woman like that!” 

“Maybe he's got an in with Stark-Fujikawa. Their newest line is really something.” 

“Shock off, Rick. I'm not buying a bot until they look like that.”

“Thought he was going with Lex? The secretary?”

“No, classic shock n’ walk. Lex’s going with Vaughn in aggro now.”

“God, I know what my prompt’ll be later tonight. You think O'Hara will let me get close enough to grab exact specs?”

“Jesus Sam, cyberspace has rotted your shocking brain. He’ll test the latest Rapture strain on you before he’ll let you get her specs.”

“Shock, is he into naturals again? Somebody should've warned me before I got all these shocking augmentations.”

“Brenda, nobody told you to turn yourself into a cat for a shot at O’Hara.”

“He's out of his mind if he thinks I'm going to go make nice. I don't care if he can kill my career. I've never been more humiliated in my life.”

“You think that makes you special? Most of the room has thought about offing themselves after a run-in with O'Hara. Or offing him.”  

The idle, venomous chatter, the nauseating display of wealth, the duplicity of her own laughter when Miguel’s discussion with Boone, Jordan Boone turns acrid and he asserts the ferrety man would struggle to find his own prick with a microscope—it’s all reminiscent of a racy spy flick she did at the tail end of her career. 

Of course, in that she played a Soviet temptress tasked with killing an American diplomat. 

Here, she’s a multiversal variant of a century’s dead woman gifted with the proportionate strength and skill of a Spider (courtesy of her dead husband), tasked to play the dual role of corporate spy and aloof arm candy (without a cool backstory or motivation for her role as Arm Candy. According to Miguel and seconded by Lyla, nobody will talk to her. They’ll talk about her, but they’re too afraid of Miguel to strike up casual conversation with his new, alleged squeeze.)

Her co-star in this scene is a man with spider DNA grafted into his own who serves as the resident superhero and boogeyman to the very corporate entity that keeps him employed. What kicks the plot into high gear? Alchemax's reignited interest in multiversal expansion via something called Virtual Unreality. 

Life really is stranger than fiction. 

Boone, Jordan Boone leaves in a huff. The press of the crowd twitters, individuals edging closer to be the next drawn into pithy conversation.

Miguel is blatantly miserable. His face is a hard cut, constant frown. The worse he treats these people, the harder they clamor for his approval. 

Nothing familiar about that whatsoever. Nope. Not at all. 

Hugging around his arm, MJ presses, not too firmly, against Miguel, angling to murmur in his ear. But she leans too close, tottering in unfamiliar heels. Her lips brush the shell of his ear and his answering flinch nearly draws one from her too. Whoops. 

Leaning away a little, she says, “Half this room wants me dead. The other half wants you dead.” 

Miguel snorts. He leans into her, muttering back. “If they had their way, I’d be dead already.” 

“I’d like to see them try, see you work up a sweat.” 

“Maybe later,” he says, throat bobbing. The discerning eye of the mob keeps him from edging away. He smells sharp and clean, distinctly masculine. 

The slant of her smile is jagged as she presses pointedly closer. In the crisp air of the room, his skin is supremely hot, warming her through both body and Spider suit. “Promise?” 

“Laying it on a little thick,” he tells her. She could lay it on much thicker, but he’d probably denounce her entirely. He’ll only play along to a point and this is it. This is his line in the sand.

“Isn’t that the point?” she asks, near breathless to keep her voice low. “To make them think it’s real?”

Behind the tinted shades, the intricacies of Miguel’s eyes are hidden. Contrasting emotions play out on his face, brow furrowing but mouth quirking. His hand raises to rest just above her elbow, perfect grip to push her away. Or pull her even closer. 

The moisture on her tongue saps dry. The tremor of the crowd dulls. Electric anxiety suspends time. She hangs on the edge of a second, waiting to see what he'll do next. 

“Sorry to interrupt, snookums.” Lyla. Who’s been quiet all evening. Until right now. Cheeky hologram. “Looked like you two were finally getting along.”

Miguel snorts. His grip vanishes, hand darting back through his gelled flat hair. 

“Getting along is a stretch,” MJ mumbles, disentangling herself from Miguel’s arm. Without the inferno of him against her, the room feels much colder. She doesn’t shiver or wrap tight around herself. That would give off the wrong message to their audience. 

“Hmm, it sure looked like you were getting along.”

Miguel’s jaw latches tight, muscle tensing along the hard line. The reaction softens MJ's edges, reaffirms her understanding of their relationship. Thank god for Lyla and sudden interruptions to set things into focus. 

“Playtime’s over,” Lyla says. “Tyler Stone has made an appearance.”

Miguel curses. He grabs at MJ’s hand, swallows it whole in his, and then takes off through the crowd with her in tow. She doesn’t protest, taken by a memory she isn’t sure is altogether hers. Didn't Peter know someone named Stone? Or was it Harry who knew a Stone?

“Bad guy?” MJ asks. 

“The baddest,” Lyla chirps. “Triangulating his course now. Best hiding places uploaded to your lenses.”

Two bystanders stand in their way, but Miguel shoulders through without a word. They both squawk. One stamps their foot indignantly and shouts, “Bithead!”

MJ turns, offering a thin lipped smile in apology. One bends into the other, murmuring with an uncharitable roll of their eyes, and then they slink away into the crowd together. Hopefully, they’ll let it go. There’s no greater nuisance than a hoity toity type scorned.

Playing human bulldozer, Miguel cuts a path through the crowd, nearly trampling at least three more groups as he goes. MJ speedwalks to keep up, hand still caught tight in his. He squeezes tighter and tighter. The flower stem bones of her fingers crush and crinkle together.

Before she can rearrange his grip, Miguel saddles up to the bar. He leans over it and whistles sharply for the bartender. 

With a deft tug, MJ frees her hand from his punishing hold. She laces her fingers loosely overtop his and squeezes. He glances at her from the corner of his eye. His mouth twitches into the rumblings of a sentence, but the barkeep, a portly, ambling hippo of a man, clamors loudly to serve them. 

The drink Miguel orders isn’t familiar, but it sounds and looks expensive. The dark, corked bottle is fluted and flecked with gold. The bartender makes a show of opening it, giving a little flourish when the cork pops loose, offering it to her and Miguel to sniff. MJ takes a polite whiff, but immediately coughs. 

Whatever it is, it’s strong enough to scorch the back of her throat with the taste of burnt-honey. Even when she drank with the best of them, she wouldn’t have been able to handle that.

The bartender doesn’t bother to tempt Miguel again with the cork. It’s a smart move, given that Miguel’s glower threatens fatal levels of doom and gloom. The bartender’s brow is glossy with sweat when fills Miguel's glass.  

Once the drink is in his hand, Miguel stares at it for a long time. MJ raises a brow and that minute shift of muscle, opening her eye just slightly wider, gives her a new vantage. 

Quick lines of code, like fast moving headlights on the highway, blitz across the backs of Miguel’s glasses, scanning the glass. Whatever conclusion is reached must be satisfactory. The scrawl vanishes. Miguel takes a deep drink. He can’t get drunk (no Spider can, as far as she knows), but Miguel seems like he’s going to give it the old college try. 

“Must be a pretty bad guy if he drives you to drink,” she says. 

Miguel gives a wry smile as he swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “You have no idea.”

He turns to lean back against the bar, facing out towards the gala. She follows suit, nudging a stool away to squeeze in close to him. 

Glass in one hand, he loops the other behind her back, resting it against her waist and dragging her flush to his side. His fingers, long as they are, reach nearly to her belly button. She swallows a blip of sudden spit on her tongue. 

The intimacy isn’t uncomfortable—she’s been in far more intimate situations with far less familiar people—but she recognizes the situation for what it is. Fun as her facade may have been to this point, it’s serious now. 

Whoever Tyler Stone is, he must be convinced of her role and her unimportance. 

MJ leans into Miguel, reaching up to tease his collar between thumb and forefinger. The metal caps on her fingers clack, make her fumble to grab hold, but she manages. The fabric is smoother than it looks, sliding between her fingers like water. She tugs, trying to stoop him closer, but he resists. 

“Details,” she says, “I want them.” 

“Later,” he says and she can taste that burnt-honey liquor on his breath. If he were truly committed, it would be a great time to give a dismissive smooch, but he doesn't even look at her. He scans the shuffling, evermoving glut of people ahead of them. The glint of his glasses hide the true slant of his eyes. He takes another, smaller sip from his glass. 

It will be very bad if he can get drunk.

“Stone inbound,” Lyla says. Gone is the characteristic humor in her voice. All that remains is cold clinical fact. She's never sounded so automated. “Looks like he sniffed out your location from Boone.”

Miguel mutters under his breath, something angry and Spanish. He downs the rest of his drink, barks for the bartender to refill it. The bartender flounders, nearly dropping the bottle in slippery hands. MJ tilts her head back, showing a smile, and mouthing apologies. 

“Don’t do that,” Miguel snaps. He doesn’t elaborate, and she scowls, chastened.

The bartender sets a freshly filled glass on the counter and nudges it to Miguel like he's scooting a slab of meat towards a hungry alligator. When Miguel snatches up the drink, the bartender splits town to the other end of the bar. 

Playing the heel suits Miguel, but MJ doesn’t like it on him. It's been some time since he went full entitled asshole on her. Seeing him now is a stark reminder of why it took a year for them to learn to play nice together. 

Following another imperious examination of the drink, two big sips disappear into Miguel’s mouth. His scowl etches deeper around them, settling into his face like it’s always been there.

The crowd ahead parts in two to make way for a cluster of bodyguards. In unadorned black armor and masked by visors bearing the image of a single, unblinking red eye, the guards look less than human. They carry no obvious weapons, but their presence is threat enough. Nervous chatter crosses the aisle, growing louder as the walking cavalcade draws nearer.

The forwardmost guards flank out, opening formation to reveal their nucleus: a sharp-dressed old man. Wait, no. Not quite an old man. A middle aged man? A man a little younger than that? MJ can’t tell.

From one angle, he looks ancient. From another, he looks her age. From another still, he looks somewhere in between. If he turned in profile to reveal a row of massive staples at the back of his head tightening up his face, she wouldn’t be surprised. 

Age estimates aside, he’s a big man. Tall and boxy with a snide, slippery smirk, he looks like he was a pro at shorting stocks and defrauding investors in a past life, and the west’s best snake oil salesman in a life before that. He oozes smarm.

Miguel tenses. The heat of his glower singes the side of her face. Instinctive, she leans into him, but it doesn’t help. 

Lyla says, “Seems redundant to say Stone’s found you, but Stone’s found you.”

“Mike!” Tyler Stone calls. If he weren’t on a collision course with them, MJ would think he was calling to someone else. Miguel has a thousand nicknames, though none he claims, but Mike has never been one of them.

“Don’t say anything stupid,” Miguel mutters with a grimace. MJ knows better than to glare, but she does debate scuffing his shoe. 

As Stone reaches the bar, his security detail surrounds them. They’re boxed in, surrounded by corporate jackboots on all sides and the bar at their back. Miguel’s hand over her waist flexes, fingers pressing harder against her. 

“I was wondering if you’d crawl away from your lab long enough to say hello,” Tyler says. 

Even up close, MJ can’t make out how old he is. The skin around his colorless, shrewd eyes and mouth is stretched thin and papery, but the rest of his face has a plump, buttery sheen to it. His hair isn’t brittle and white like she’d thought, but a thick, cornsilk blonde. He looks like a caricature of an old man but he doesn’t look old. He looks ageless the way paintings do. A convincing facsimile. 

“How’s the old girl holding up, anyhow?” Tyler asks. “You playing nice with the Board?” 

With a grimace like he’s swallowed glass, Miguel says, “Same old cesspit as always. You cut off one rotten, diseased head, there’s 15 more to take its place.”

MJ fights to keep her expression neutral in spite of the unbridled animosity in Miguel’s voice. She’s never heard him sound so hostile. All night, it’s been standard, run-of-the-mill disgust and disdain for his desperate coworkers. This is different. 

This is pure hatred. 

But Tyler Stone just laughs, slick with odious charm. “True enough, true enough.” 

When his watery gaze darts her way, MJ shivers, cast across space and time to her engagement party, clinging tight to Peter’s arm as Norman Osborn warned, “You really have to be careful with women, Peter. One day, they say they’re in love. The next, they’ve never been so mistreated.”

Peter’s arm suctions tight around her shoulders, squeezing tight at the exact moment she begins to froth at the mouth. If she were a dog, she’d clamp her chompers around Norman’s bad ankle and thrash until the damn thing snapped jagged from the rest of him. She’s not a dog (obviously) but she still has half a mind to drop on all floors and start biting. It would make for one hell of a newsbreak. 

“I appreciate the concern,” Peter says, “but it’s not a fear of mine. MJ’s the greatest woman there ever was.”

He turns and presses a kiss to her temple and then another against her cheek. His arm cinches around her. It’s restraining, not comforting. She’s doing a poor job of hiding her disdain, but she doesn’t care. She begged Peter not to invite him. 

Norman makes a noise in his throat like a hum. He adjusts the cuff of his left hand and then flexes his fingers beneath it. Almost as an afterthought, he muses, “Yes, I believe Harry said something similar once.” 

Bile churns in her stomach, scorches her throat. Every muscle in her body shakes. How dare he! How fucking dare he—

Soft touch tickles her ribs. Miguel’s thumb, dusting along the xylophone of bone. MJ blinks. His thumb makes another sweep, slower and more forceful. Stone hasn’t noticed her reverie, rambling on about share prices, but he’s nearing the end of whatever point he’s trying to impart. She can’t afford to drift now. Miguel slows, but doesn’t stop with that gentle back and forth of his thumb. It’s grounding, but over familiar. It’s a step too far, crossing a boundary she didn’t even know she had.

MJ does not need managed and she certainly doesn’t need to be managed by Miguel O’fucking Hara. 

Like a shark to a sinking ship, Stone rounds on her apprehension. He smiles, all porcelain white, tombstone teeth, and gestures at her. “I’m being rude. Won’t you introduce me to this lovely lady of yours?”

Dispassionately, Miguel waves his glass between her and Stone. “Ty, Marilyn. Marilyn, scum sucking ghoul.” 

The name hit her like a bad bump. The inside of her throat turns to thorns, scratching and stabbing, as a wave of panic crashes in her chest. It’s been a decade since anyone dared call her Marilyn. Not since her father. Even the six feet of dirt over his coffin can’t bury the memory of his brash, drinksick voice pleading Marilyn, forgive me. Marilyn, please. 

She’ll be damned if she lets any of it show, though. Instead, she flashes the MariJane specialty. A sultry smile (pouted lips, no teeth), slow batted lashes, scorching intensity to bubble the fat from the heart of a man, and a three-quarters tilt of the head to show she doesn’t take herself too seriously. She says, “What a pleasure.”

“What a specimen. You always entertain the most beautiful women, Mike.” 

Tyler’s grin doesn’t reach his eyes. 

At her side, Miguel’s fingers spasm. Hopefully, he’s cognizant enough not to leave marks. And to keep his talons nice and quiet beneath the skin. They can cut through far tougher things than a slip of fabric. It’s a low bar to cross, but she’d like to keep her insides inside this evening, thank you very much. 

Another long draw lightens Miguel’s glass. He nurses it, drinking long and with blatant disinterest in making small talk. 

With gross delight, Stone’s colorless eyes brighten. He asks, “Thirsty?” 

Miguel’s lip hitches, flashing his teeth. The expression is not a smile, but a threat to bite. It’s a relief his fangs haven’t joined the party.

Whatever history lies between him and Tyler Stone, it’s fraying him, turning him inside out. He’s making it too easy for Stone to torment him, exposing every raw nerve for Stone’s picking.

As Miguel’s patience stretches thinner and thinner, MJ knows one thing for certain: Tyler Stone is very lucky to be alive. 

“And how do you keep yourself busy, Marilyn?” Again, the name ruptures something delicate, but it’s less of a shock the second time. Easier too to stay in character with Tyler’s attention shifted onto her. He guesses, “Not a scientist, surely?”

Even with the congenial tone, the question slices between her ribs. Being pretty comes with its advantages, but it’ll never sit right that everyone is so quick to write off her intelligence. A smoking hot babe? Surely, she’s not a scientist. Eighty years in the future, and so little has changed.

“An actress,” she says. Blood at a low boil, it’s a struggle to keep the heat from her voice. She needs to play it coy and cool with Stone. Needs him interested in her and, more importantly, not in Miguel. Keep Miguel from falling to pieces is her new mission objective. It will only piss Miguel off, but better him pissed off at her than turning the gala into a bloodbath. 

“An actress! Mike, you dog!” Stone claps Miguel on the shoulder. With the thinnest creak, Miguel’s glass splits, but he covers quickly, downing his drink in a single gulp. “Would I have seen you in anything?”

“Probably not,” she drawls. “It’s a fairly exclusive scene, not for broad public consumption.” 

Miguel gives absolutely no indication if she’s spoiling the game or not. He pays more attention to the unblinking electric eye of the nearest bodyguard than the conversation. 

“Ah, avant garde, is it?” Stone asks. 

“To some,” MJ says. “I like to push boundaries with my work.”

“Ah, a political woman.” There’s a dark twinkle in Stone’s watery eye. She hasn’t misspoken, not yet, but she rocks in her heels. Avant garde in the future could be code for anything from propaganda to porn. “And what does Mike think of your work?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she pouts. A lazy finger traipsing Miguel’s chest gets her a sneer best reserved for roadkill. “Somebody’s always too busy to come to a show.” 

Stone clucks and shakes his head with faux disappointment. “A triple doctorate, the youngest department head in Alchemax history, but doesn’t know how to value a woman.”

But Tyler Stone does. That’s the implication he leaves hanging with a good natured shrug. 

“Oh, he’s not completely hopeless. He knows how to value a woman when it counts,” MJ says, making an implication of her own. It’s not necessary, but Stone’s needling has triggered her defensive streak. She won’t let Stone get away with underhanded snark.  

“Atta boy, Mike!” Stone chuckles. There’s a proud tone to his laughter that curdles her stomach like a brown note. Parallels of the past overlay the present. Miguel plays Peter and Stone plays Norman, and Norman plays Stone and Peter plays Miguel, and MJ, the breaker against a tidal wave of male ego. How many times has she run this scene? When will she finally be free of it? 

Words buzz from Stone, but MJ only catches the tail end.

“—holo me yourself,” Stone says with a wink, hooking two fingers through the air. The center of MJ’s palm tingles. She glances down as the holophone brightens with the alert. 

+New contact: Tyler Stone

“I’m always looking to invest in aspiring young women.” Stone wets his lip. The expression he dons is unabashedly lecherous. 

“Trust me, she’s not interested in your investments," Miguel spits. Then, he jostles her, prompting, “Delete it, sweetheart.” 

His affection of sweetheart is far from sweet. It raises her hackles. Judging from the calculating shift of his eye, it was meant to. 

MJ doesn’t delete Stone’s contact (not that she would even know how to). Instead, she lowers her hand and says, “Never a bad thing to hear a fella out.”

“You’ve got the right idea, kitten.” Stone touches a finger to the side of his papery nose with a wink. 

Fucking. Barf. 

Tight enough to bruise, Miguel digs into her side, mashing her resolutely against him. It’s the posturing of a threatened alpha male. It’s total bullshit, but Stone falls for it. He throws his head back and guffaws. 

When he calms, he says, “Mike, we’re overdue for a frank discussion of what’s next for Alchemax with you at the helm. My office’ll get something slotted for next week. Look forward to it, hmm?”

“If I don’t slit my throat before then.” 

MJ’s eye twitches, but Stone laughs again. “I’ve missed that dark humor of yours, boy. Such a unique perspective.”

“Eat a plasma bolt.”

Though immobile throughout all the other barbs and insults, Stone’s guards snap their attention to Miguel instantaneously. MJ flinches full bodied, but only the edge of Miguel’s mouth twitches. The rest of him remains perfectly still, coiled to attack. 

“Careful.” Stone smiles, but a threat lurks in the oil slick, just under the surface. “Wouldn’t want the boys to think you’re serious, right, son?”

Tyler Stone makes his exit after that. He doesn’t dawdle in his goodbyes, telling Miguel to behave and asking MJ to invite him to the next show. When he heads back into the crowd, taking his expressionless entourage with him, MJ finally unclenches her jaw. 

“That guy sucks,” she says. 

Miguel scoffs, but his glare is still reserved for Stone. He tracks the other man through the crowd. Only when the crowd fills back in, swallowing Stone from view, does Miguel exhale. 

A flicker of motion catches MJ’s eye. She glances back to find the bartender creeping close. He holds the bottle of Miguel’s drink of choice like a peace offering. MJ scowls at him and the man gets the hint, scampering away. 

The quick exchange goes unnoticed by Miguel. His gaze is frosted, dimensions away. He still holds her tight, but not as desperately. The telltale muscle pulses unsteady along his jaw. The cracked glass creaks as he squeezes tighter. Without intervention, he’ll pulverize it.

There’s no point asking if he’s okay. He won’t tell her. Instead, MJ plucks the glass from his hand. He startles, nostrils flaring, but she doesn’t acknowledge his ire. She sets the broken glass on the bar, asking, “What’s his deal?”

Miguel sucks in a heavy breath and releases it just as heavy. He withdraws his grip, leaning fully back against the bar on his elbows. When he speaks, his voice is back to its usual smooth tone.

“Former CEO of an evil corporation. Current Minister of Super and Extra Terrestrial Defense. Chronic bithead.”

Miguel’s animosity makes a little more sense, in context. What doesn’t make sense is why Tyler Stone would pick Miguel as his successor. Clearly, Miguel isn’t a fan and makes no effort to hide it. 

“I’m not comforted that this breed of asshole seems to exist in every universe,” MJ says, rather than dredge up backstory she isn't keen to learn in enemy territory. “Does he also moonlight as a supervillain? Maybe he has a longstanding blood feud with his son’s best friend?”

Lyla peeps, “Not technically. But if I were coded for hatred, I’d really, really hate that guy.” 

The pieces of the puzzle slot into place, but the picture revealed is nonsense.

“Wait, hold the phone, put it back on the receiver.” MJ thumps Miguel’s chest. She casts a wary eye over their surroundings, but nobody is close enough to overhear. Even still, her whisper is frazzled. “That guy is your—?”

Miguel’s hand resolutely and firmly raises to cover her mouth. A clear panic response, it flags the attention of every eye in the vicinity. To save face, she pouts when he draws his hand back, saying, a touch louder than usual, "Fine, I'll keep away from him. Happy?"

This seems to placate everyone. They still stare, but it isn't as pronounced. 

Squinting up at him, MJ tries to superimpose the boxy mug of Tyler Stone over Miguel’s in her mind’s eye. In the moment, she clocked absolutely no similarities between the two. Even now, she finds few. Maybe their builds are similar? And their hairlines cut a similar angle along their foreheads?

“I don’t see it,” she mutters, at last.

Miguel just grunts, unconvincing, as her thoughts tailspin. She thinks, drawing frantic lines between Peter, Harry, Miguel, trying to cross reference and make the comparisons. 

Harry and Miguel: nepo babies to corporate evils. Antisocial, awkward assholes. Penchant for godawful liquor.

Peter and Miguel: the greatest scientific minds of their time. Unlikely superheroes. Girl dads.

Which means… nothing? Everything? God, it's probably somewhere in the manual. Some theorem with a dumb name to explain all the weird overlaps. 

“Miguel,” Lyla says, “I’ve already got a backdoor attempt on MJ’s device.”

Miguel huffs. “Let him in. Give him what he wants.” 

“Are you going to tell me what that means?” MJ asks.

“Nope.” Miguel pushes off from the bar, stalling only to ensure she follows after him. “C’mon, I’ve got a couple more eggheads to crack.”

***

After another sweep of the party, Miguel decides it’s time for some Spidering. A quick change and a claustrophobic climb through the air ducts later finds MJ clinging to the exposed tubing and wires forming the ceiling of a desolate lab. 

A long, grated gangway cuts through the center of the room. The floor beneath is smooth steel, scooped up into the walls with curved edges. At the head of the gangway, is a sealed tight door. A bulky terminal sits in the center of the gangway. The other end of the gangway ends in a collection of electrodes and glass like a makeshift mirror. In its emptiness, the room is creepy. Unease crackles in the still. 

Upside down, Miguel scuttles to the terminal and then lowers himself to type commands into the interface. Hung from his calves, it must be killer on his core, but he makes it look easy. MJ watches, providing moral support from afar. It takes a bit for Miguel to toggle through the information. He doesn't explain anything or give updates, just curses every so often.

MJ busies herself with her gizmo. Scuttlebutt on the Webb says everyone’s pretty excited for the upcoming game night. Thank God. She had to enlist the help of three different Peters to determine what kinds of games would draw interest, but wouldn’t end in a bloodbath. Yes, Battleship and Cataan. No Magik. No Uno. Absolutely no Monopoly. It had been such a headache, but worth it to garner this kind of buzz! 

“Done,” Miguel says. He folds himself back up onto the ceiling, crawling over beside her. 

MJ huffs, logging off the Webb. “Took you long enough. Find anything good?”

Before Miguel can answer, the door swishes open. A wide beam of bright light cuts over the dark gangway. Three people in body armor enter. The long barrels of their guns lead the way like dowsing rods. One of them reaches to their ear, presses two silvery fingers against it. “We’ve reached the site of the breach.”

“They’ve really stepped up security around this dump,” Miguel grumbles. He crawls to the far corner and MJ sticks close behind. 

“What do we do?” MJ whispers.

Miguel shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe they’ll leave.”

“What?” she hisses. “That’s your plan? Wait it out?” 

“Works most of the time. These raiders aren’t outfitted with—”

Spidey-sense blasts over her chest. Snaring around Miguel, she flings them off the ceiling. Just behind them, the corner shows off a brand spanking new chasm. 

Catching the rail of the gangway, Miguel heaves them both up onto the grated floor. Crouched, they stare down the business ends of three rifles. 

“Howdy Spider-Man,” the lead raider says, giving a two-fingered salute. “Mighty kind of you to hide right out in the open.”

“I told you!” MJ hisses.

“Shut up!” Miguel hisses back. 

“And shoo, what a purty Lady Spider you’ve got with you. This the missus or just a plaything?” 

Reductive misogyny: popular in all timelines. 

Miguel takes offense on her behalf. With a snarl, he barrels forward on all fours. Too fast to stop, he tackles the lead raider, leaving the other two for MJ. Generous of him, really. 

MJ peels off a piece of railing, swings it against the nearest raider’s chin. It's head dents like a car door rammed with a buggy and the thing collapses. Its mouth moves wordlessly, twitching on an unhinged jaw. Bits of metal and circuitry glint beneath the torn skin. The gloss of its eyes dims. It jerks once, twice—arms rotating fully around the socket—before it falls still. 

Easy enough. One down, two to go.

Miguel’s holding his own against the leader, but only just. The raider deflects his every attack and delivers on several of its own. It’s fast, moving like a mirage. Between trading blows, it manages to draw a set of hand pistols, firing off a barrage of shots. A few catch Miguel in the chest, but don’t break the suit. Judging from his screeching curse, it still hurts like hell. 

With a snap decision, MJ launches towards Miguel. She bounds over the center console, clearing it with ease, but her raider takes offense to being left behind. It catches her by the calf, halting her mid-leap. Its pneumonic fingers clench tight, cutting into the flesh, and then it flings her into the console. Buttons and levels crush against her back. The wind gushes out of her, but she doesn’t have time to recover before the raider swings at her again. Flipping up and off entirely, she barely avoids the slash of the raider’s hand. 

The console isn’t so lucky. It splits like warm butter, sparking and puffing and shooting up a flurry of sparks that reach up to scorch the ceiling. 

An alarm shrieks. The ambient lighting of the lab plunges into flashes of red. At her back, at the end of the gangway, the world unstitches. 

A riptide suctions through the air, knocking her off her feet, sucking her back. Scrambling, she grabs hold of the grate underfoot with one hand, holding on for dear life against the gale. Her raider friend? No such luck. 

The raider goes soaring by overhead, screeching. Then, sudden silence. A discharge of static. The typhoon wind dies. MJ flops to the floor in a heap of limbs. She jabs herself in the eye with her thumb somehow. It doesn’t feel great. 

“Goddamn,” the lead raider says. 

Miguel says something slack jawed in Spanish. 

They both stand, shoulder to shoulder, staring past her, slack handed and horrified. So she does the stupidest thing she can. She stands and turns to look. 

At the end of the gangway, a portal pulsates, yawning wider and snapping smaller at wild, random intervals. Its edges bleed out into the world like daubed water on a tissue. Its mouth shows only madness. Bisecting skyscrapers. Men overlaid in triplicate, eyes and mouths blinking and breathing out of sync. Distorted, smiling visages of children. Seas of fire. Skies of electricity.

And the noise. It's the shriek of a tornado just beyond the horizon; the hiss of steam before a pipe ruptures; the first, sticky inhale of a newborn baby. 

MJ stumbles, clutching her head. It’s too much. Too familiar. She can’t see anything but the churn of time unspooled. Can’t feel anything but the slink of her spine, stiffening and loosening as she shakes. And her skin! It burns! It spills out—flesh and hair and blood and bone and guts and gore. Everything she is. Isn’t. Was. Never will be. 

There is pain that cuts into every nerve, every thought. There is pleasure that cracks every joint, releases every tension. The breadth of an existence, exploding out of her in one tremendous bang!

And the terror. It consumes. She can’t understand. She fears. A just god would kill her. A cruel god would prolong the pain. But there is no god in the nothingness where there is everything. Absolution and damnation at the heart of the universe and her, caught in the churn between both. 

Unborn and undone. Everything she is, condensed into a grain of dust. A wisp of breath, swallowed by the mouth of agony. Unknit and unstrung, she thinks of Peter. Love without words. Etched into the bylines of her soul. She is not Her but she is Him and they are Her and they live in each other. Husband and Wife. Mother and Father. Human machines threaded together by forces long at play, destinies long promised. Destinies long taken. 

Peter. MJ. 

You holding up in there?

A question asked without a voice. It echoes in the hollow of her pecked-clean skull.

And she doesn’t know. Can’t answer.

It’s OK. Just try to breathe.

Please. Don’t do this.  Don’t do this. Don’tDoThis. 

dontdothis dontdothis dontdothis dontdothis dontdothis dontdothis dontdothis dontdothis dontdothis dontdothis 

You’re gonna be OK. 

dontwantit dontwantit dontwantit dontwantit dontwantit dontwantit dontwantit dontwantit dontwantit 

Better than OK. 

NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo

You’re gonna be amazing, MJ.

pleasedontgopleasedontleavemepleaseicantdothisonmyownpleaseimnotyouicantbeyoupleaseimissyouiloveyouplease

Silence. Solitude. Unyielding. Unforgiving. 

Peter?

It is over? 

“MariJane!” 

Torn into the fresh, screaming NOW, MJ collides against something flat and hard. The wind knocks from her chest and she spasms to breathe, wheezing and choking, trying to remember how. She collapses into a heap, legs and arms tangled together and indistinguishable from one another. 

The cold barrel of a gun pushes into her forehead, scrapes against the bone beneath the thin skin. And still, MJ can’t move, paralyzed by dreadful knowing that already streams from her consciousness like arterial spray from a slashed throat. But it isn’t fast enough. She remembers and she doesn’t want to. Can’t make sense of it. 

Her and Peter. Tangled and melting. Human soup.

“Stand down or I kill your Missus,” the body above the gun says.

There’s a flick of movement. A strangled shout. The gun kisses her skull one moment and is gone the next. She doesn’t see what happens. Her vision fuzzed, she can only see in the abstract. The world before her is only vague shapes that look like things she’s seen before.

And she can’t snap out of it. Can’t move. Can’t breathe. 

Her lungs are dead meat in her dead chest. She should be dead. But isn’t. 

Why isn’t she dead? 

Panicked, she suffocates. Smothered by the body-belief that she should be dead, correcting the mistake of her continued survival. It isn’t terrible. She just holds still as her body fails. Thoughts and feelings and sounds and sensations eddy in the yawning black. She’s dying. And that’s OK. She died years ago, anyway. It’s almost peaceful. Almost over. Just a little bit longer. Nearly there. A moment more. 

Except.

Pain lances through her chest. Crackles of static shake through her body. Quick, jettying pain. She gasps, arches slick and discordant as a fish out of water.

Her tongue is heavy. Stale air circles in her lungs. Above her, Miguel leans back. His mouth is rubbed red. Raw color eeks out into his surrounding skin in an uneven blot. His chest heaves with a sigh. His voice is fucked, raspy and small. “You with me?” 

Body memory kicks in and she nods. The movement pangs down her spine, aching all the way to her tailbone. Her tongue tastes like rubbing alcohol and honey, hauntingly sweet beneath the bitterness.

“Thought I lost you.”

MJ doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to grapple with the cold that splinters in her stomach. What the fuck happened? 

With Miguel’s help, she stands, but his hands don’t leave her shoulders as she wavers. 

“You OK?”

“I will be,” MJ says. She glances around the room. The alarm still blares. The final raider lies in hulks of shredded, sparking metal. The end of the gangway is still and quiet, but the memory of the unstable portal chews at her thoughts. “Please tell me you saved the day.”

“Of course.”

A squeeze of his hands bleeds warmth. She shivers. His hands run up and down her arms, dispelling the ice of near-death from her veins. It’s nice. It’s nice to be held.

“No thanks to me,” she says. 

“No thanks to you,” he agrees. “What happened?”

“It sounded like the end of the world.”

Miguel’s roving hands flinch, still and then fall away. She stands on her own. Heaves slow breaths until equilibrium settles. She’ll be okay. She doesn’t have a choice. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Miguel says.

***

At the other end of the vent, MJ and Miguel’s fancy clothes lay in shed skin piles at the base of Miguel’s office desk. It’s a fancy little room. Very sleek and futuristic. All the furniture is a dark, burnished metal, off-set by the pale tile of the floor and ceiling. The back wall is completely glass, looking down into a lab of sleeping specimens and empty workstations. 

There's a fairly detailed crayon drawing of two cats on his desk. Other than identical seriously severe eyebrows, they’re ordinary cats, though one is bigger than the other. Beneath the drawing, Gabi Monroe is scrawled in pen. MJ averts her eyes quickly, pretending she never noticed it at all. 

“Hurry up,” Miguel says, dropping out of the vent beside her. The alarm still rings around them, but quieter in this portion of the building. Quiet enough to make the sound of encroaching footsteps and shouts echo from down the hall. 

As Miguel shimmies into his dress pants and shirt, suit snapping off like a light, MJ has a decision. She may not know her own past, her own mind, but she knows people. And people love a secret turned spectacle. 

Instead of redonning her jumpsuit in full, she lets it hang around her waist. The top of her Spider-suit she shoves into an errant pocket. Then, she makes quick work disheveling herself. She pulls the pins from her hair, letting it fall loose and wild around her shoulders. 

“You’re not gonna like this,” MJ says. She tugs at Miguel’s arm, turning his body in full. 

Immediately, his eyes drop to her chest, growing deliriously wide, and then snap back above her head. She’s not tits-out, but she might as well be for what little coverage her lacy bra provides. A flush of heat and embarrassment rises from his throat, spills over his cheeks. It’s cute. A naughty little blush. She clamps down on the inside of her cheek. There’s no time to tease him.

“People won’t ask questions if they see what they’re expecting,” she explains with a quick gesture down her bare upper half. 

The wall must be fascinating given how intensely he stares at it. “I don’t like it.”

“Gee hotshot, you’re gonna hurt my feelings.” She leans back against the wall, twists her mouth, looks up at him from beneath her lashes. “You got a better idea?”

He doesn’t, but his attempts to say so come out as pissy little huffs. In the end, he just throws out his hands, defeated and without anything to contribute. It strokes her ego that she’s got him so tongue tied. After everything, she’s still got it. 

Face stern, she snatches at his shoulders, forcing him to stoop over her and cage her against the wall. His body is a firm, hard line against hers. Solid. Warm. Very, distractingly Miguel. 

He skeeves away from her like a putrid pile of ick. Discomfort radiates. 

“You have to make it look real,” she says, micromanaging his fingers at the nape of her neck, nudging his stance farther, but more cemented against her with the broad side of her knee. 

It’s awkward, but she’s worked with enough intimacy coordinators to know where not to touch him. She’s not trying to cop a feel. She maneuvers him with clinical detachment, only the utmost professionalism. If she’s worth her snuff, it’ll look downright tawdry, even though they’re barely touching. 

“This is ridiculous,” Miguel grouses. He still won’t look at her. 

“Hey, no yappy! I’m in the zone.” 

The finishing touches - two fingers smudging around her mouth to bleed her lipstick in the shape of a proper smooching, and then her hand curled around the side of his face, fingers tucked along his jaw, transferring the color. 

When he scowls, she feels it against her palm. Bare skin on bare skin. If she felt more at home inside her own skin, she might have been pushed further, just to really sell the image. It's an opportunity she may not get again. 

The door bursts open. A battery of relieved shouts slur into embarrassed coos. About eight would-be rescuers stand at the door, open mouthed. 

“Shock!” MJ gasps, ducking behind Miguel’s shadow to hide from peering eyes. She makes a show of being flustered, struggling to redress, plucking at her hair before bothering to zip up the bodysuit, cursing with each small inconvenience. 

The crowd at the door murmurs and gawps. Miguel doesn’t flinch an inch from her, barely giving her room to put on her performance. When she fumbles with her zipper, she accidentally thwacks him in the chest with the broadside of her elbow. He doesn’t react. Dark eyes trace her every move. At least he’s able to look at her again. Only when she’s semi-presentable (i.e. not half naked) does Miguel step away from her. 

Someone from the crowd asks, “Did you not hear the alarm?”

MJ glares at them, imbuing this random, errant person with all the rage she can muster. They fall back, cowed into silence, but unable to look away. She bites the inside of her cheek to smother a grin. 

Yep, still got it.

***

On the trip back, MJ has time to collect all the far flung pieces of herself. The incident with the portal is little more than a bad dream by the time they reach HQ. The more she tries to remember, the quicker it slips away. All that remains is a small bubble of unease, but even that will fade with time. It always does. 

Inside the empty entryway of HQ, Miguel’s hand is still on the small of her back, a push of intimacy, rather than guidance. 

“I had a good time tonight,” Miguel says. “Before it went to hell.”

MJ considers this. She can't tell if he's joking or not. She says, “Really? I thought you were completely miserable.”

“Only most of the time.”

In the dim light, his lashes cast fluttering shadows over his cheeks. The low light serves him well. Not that he needs help. As always, he’s achingly handsome. Even with the goofy shades. 

With a shiver of static, she considers how easy it would be to kiss him. How nice of a distraction it would be, at least. 

She doesn’t. She barely even thinks it. A flinch of a thought, more than a full bodied one. 

Shrugging free of his hand, she says, “Yeah, well, MariJane’s always a good time. Nobody’s down when MariJane’s around.”

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Party Foul!

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX:  Footage downloaded from security cameras within Alchemax’s “Project Unreality” showing MARIJANE and MIGUEL's investigation of the project and altercation with Corporate Raiders. DISTORTION evident. Of note, DISTORTION amplifies once portal is activated and MARIJANE removes her mask. As MARIJANE draws closer to the portal, DISTORTION obfuscates her entire person. When MARIJANE reaches for the portal, the DISTORTION expands, obscuring the empty distance between her hand and the portal’s surface. Once the portal is closed and MARIJANE collapses, DISTORTION reverts to its “typical” appearance. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Footage flagged for review prior to genesis of DISTORTION, given MARIJANE’s bizarre behavior. When later questioned, MARIJANE seemed unaware of her movement towards and reaching out for the portal and could not articulate why she had removed her mask. Initial review and analysis of footage revealed nothing of note. 

After DISTORTION widespread, subsequent frame-by-frame analysis noted a warped reflection of MARIJANE in the portal. Generous interpretation of this footage might suggest that as MARIJANE reaches out for the portal, something reaches back, but no evidence to support this conclusion.

Notes:

chapter title from "Doll Parts" by Hole

yes they can and will fuck but first you are going to endure my Thoughts and Interpretations of alchemax and miguels continued association with it.

would you believe this chapter started with an extreme and sincere extended monologue from lyla about how absolutely terrifying bears are? true story.

this chap underwent tons of revision. final version is pretty tropey, but felt the oven was in need of preheating for the slow burn so a touch less unsubtle than i usually go. next few chapters the stove is preheated and we get this roast a cookin (at a slow cook, not a burn (yet))

tyler stone is maybe the most fun guy to write ever. hes just so slimy. also went back and forth on whether it made sense for lyla to just drop the "lol thats miguels dad" but, in attempting to outline the canon events for all the main spiders in this fic, i did include miguels parentage reveal as a canon event, which would make it 'accessible' to other spiders and to mj in particular since she "doesnt have" canon events and wouldnt be barred from seeing "any"

next chapter: MJ gets a new Buddy (who could it possibly be???)

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

11/25 note: OK so was dwelling on this and realized that the use of Jordan Boone in this chapter may call into question the timeline of Miguel's backstory in a way that is never addressed in story. Without going into detail, the Fall of the Hammer/Valhalla plotline did happen, but without the Jordan Boone Loki piece (bcuz I think it's silly lol). The Thanatos/Virtual Unreality plotline ALSO happened but alchemax is giving unreality another shot for the purposes of this story. None of these things make a significant impact nor come back into major play in this fic BUT if i dont fixate on these teeny little details then who will??

1/16/25 - Miguel POV: in your dreams, in your song: chap 5 - Post Fever Comedown

Chapter 18: hardly invisible now - pt 1

Summary:

Shipping discourse and new partner assignments

Notes:

Miguel POV companion piece is live and posted: in your dreams, in your song ～(￣▽￣～)

How a rumor spreads through the Spider Society:

While out swinging through the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse, One Spider says to another, “Hey, was there some sort of gala last night? Is that a thing we do here?”

The other Spider says, “A gala? What are you? Bridgerton Spider?”

Spider One says, “Okay sorry for trying to imbue a little culture into this conversation.” 

“Why are you even asking about a gala?” Spider Two says, adopting a high falutin accent. They raise their pinky for extra insult. 

Blushing unseen beneath the mask, Spider One explains, “I saw Just MJ—you know, the one that recruited us? Well, I saw her all dressed up the other night.”

“What? Like in a ballgown?” Spider Two is befuddled. Their no nonsense conception of the Spider Society does not allow for Spiders in ballgowns. 

“No, like a pantsuit but not? It was all one piece.” Spider One shakes their head, exasperated by their own lack of knowledge of current women’s fashion. “I don't know what they're called.”

“A romper?”

The Spiders deliberate back and forth until understanding is achieved. It takes them two missions, a shared lunch, and an ingenious use of LYLA, HELP!!! to determine the garment in question. 

“Okay, so a jumpsuit,” Spider Two says, nodding. They stroke their chin. Realization strikes, forgotten until just this moment. “What's weird is I saw Miguel in a suit the other night.”

“Spider-suit?” Spider One asks, voice a little squeaky. 

“No. Suit suit.”

Spider One imagines such a thing, and then kicks aimlessly ahead, jealous they were not the one to see it in person. They’re nursing a little crush, but desperate to hide it. Unfortunately for Spider One, they are very bad at hiding it.  

“He looked shocking fit,” Spider Two supplies, kindly. They’re a good Buddy and they do not think Spider One should be embarrassed by a harmless crush. 

Shuffling, Spider One gives a little nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I bet he did.”

A terrible, heart wrenching thought strikes Spider One. If there wasn’t a gala, but MJ and Miguel were dressed up on the same night… No. Surely not. MJ isn’t Miguel’s type. What’s Miguel’s type? Well, in flights of fantasy and daydreams, it’s a five foot seven ball of sunshine named Spider One. 

But doubt of such a sour taste is hard to shake. Later, Spider One posts anonymously in an advice thread on the Webb, writing, Help! I think my crush is dating someone else!

Spider One writes the facts of the situation as vaguely as they can. Without names or dates, they detail the formal wear sightings, emphasizing that this is the only evidence they have of anything afoot. They even go so far as to explain, last I heard, these two Spiders don't even get along!!! Not in an enemies to lovers way, they just hate each other!! 

Their message ends in sincerity: Please help!! I just want to know its KILLING me!!!!

Beyond a few trolling comments, the post gains little traffic in the first hour. It blows up in the second hour. Spiders all across the Society chime in to report sightings of MJ, Miguel or the two together on the night in question. Spiders call Spider One, each other, themselves, idiots for belief or disbelief of the couple in question. 

OMSQUEE I WANT THEM TO ADOPT ME, an anonymous Spider writes. 

A known troll writes, its true i saw them with Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick

Um, sorry, why should I care about this? You people really have no lives. I’m going back to watching JJK, which is a far better use of my time, a vetted Spider writes. 

Hundreds and hundreds of comments pour in, but Spider One only processes the ones that confirm their worst fears. Miguel and MJ are dating. Are madly in love. Are married in secret and never to part. 

Aghast, Spider One deletes the post, but the fervor spills out into the main feed. Hashtags are thrown out to the wolves. #MigJay becomes the clear favorite. Photos of the night in question are uncovered. Only two, but the anonymous poster claims to have more. Neither photo is particularly incriminating, but proof enough for most. Miguel and MJ dressed up nice, together, and were clearly doing something, together! Verifiable evidence! Vindication for the shippers. Agony for poor Spider One. 

Soon, but not soon enough, LYLA throws her authority into the mania. Threads are locked. Deranged comments are deleted. Posts tagging Miguel and MJ are scrubbed. 

LYLA pins (for the third time this month) the code of conduct for the Webb, highlighting the extensive parameters around shipping discourse. A message is sent directly to Spider One.

LYLA - How much do you know and what’s it worth to you?

Just tell me, is it true???? - SP-1

All Spider One receives in a response is a gif of LYLA winking and blowing a kiss.

***

The rumor finds its way to MJ a few hours after she returns from shore leave. 

Really, she should’ve expected it. Messy gossip runs rampant in the ecology of the Society. Whispers and rumors find fertile ground in unwitting and nosy Spiders alike. Tidbits dropped by Spiders like Peter B get snatched up by agents of chaos like Ben Reilly. Though Ben tries to couch everything as dark whisperings, he's a steadfast tattle-monger. The only ones worse are Flipside and the Hams. God forbid any of them catch wind of something juicy. 

Beyond the verbal scuttlebutt, the constant churn of the Webb also helps to give fading gossip new life. Supposedly, Lyla has a feature to auto delete anything that smacks of scandal, but things slip through all the time. Especially if Lyla thinks they’re funny. 

Like the rumor that Peter Parkedcar got lightning decals after watching Cars. Or that Man-Spider and Spiders-Man hate each other because they had an intense, but ultimately rotten fling back when they first joined up. Or that Flipside and Miguel are really one and the same because has anyone ever seen them in the same room? Forensic review of that rumor may lift MJ’s fingerprints, but hey, she can’t be blamed for someone taking an offhand comment seriously. 

Whether by Webb or Spider, MJ’s always been kept in the loop. Fun rumors find their way to her quickly. Less fun rumors (affairs, misconduct, violence) find her immediately, flagged by Lyla for her to mitigate as the Unofficial-Official PR of the Spider Society. 

So, it hits her like a sock full of subway tokens when Mae asks, conversational and far too innocently, “So, guess your date was a total bummer?”

Stuttering midswing, MJ drops a little lower than she intends. She has to fire off another web to course correct and avoid the business end of a bus. It all happens in the span of a few seconds, but MJ stews. How did Mae hear about it? And how didn’t she hear about it?

Mae doesn’t slacken her speed so MJ has to yell her inarticulate response. “It wasn’t a date!”

The appearance of their anomaly—a Shocker with a penchant for off-color humor alongside his trademark vibrational fist—cuts the conversation short. MJ and Mae leap into battle, keeping Shocker on his toes so Pyotr can deliver the knockout punch. The entire scuffle, MJ’s thoughts are muddied. A flurry of confusion and annoyance intercut only by the occasional shockwave or joke in poor taste. 

It’s a quick fight. The three of them really do make a dynamo team. There’s a reason they hold the record for fastest anomaly nullification and most anomalies nullified. It’s a self fulfilling record, really. The faster they bag anomalies, the more they get sent after. Still, Fastest and Most Successful sound real nice together. 

As Pyotr handles the formalities with Shocker, MJ corners Mae. She insists, “It was a mission. Total squaresville.”

Mae’s brows raise beneath the mask. “A mission all aced up in that slick outfit?”

“Undercover work. Spy stuff.” MJ toes a chunk of gravel, kicking it up and into the nearby fence. “How did anyone hear about it anyway?”

“Photo is all over the Webb,” Pyotr says with a slap against Shocker’s helmet to affix the tag. “And everyone questions how the son of a gun convinced you—”

Pyotr’s not done, but MJ’s not listening. She whips up the Webb, shamelessly searching her own name and watching the feed populate with crazed ramblings. There’s a lot of pedantic arguments about timelines and disclosures and a lot more excited squeeeeees! but the majority of the discourse is locked and defunct. 

All of it centers around two photos. One of her posing in her new duds, giving a saucy wink to the camera and the other of her and Miguel soon after returning to HQ. His hand on her back, she’s been caught mid-laugh, teeth out, braying like a donkey. 

The original poster is anonymous, but Lyla has to know who it was, if it’s not Lyla herself. It seems like the kind of pot she would stir. They are cute photos though, even if the candid shot stirs an old ache. How many photos of MJ and Peter laughing and in love are lost forever? Hundreds, if not tens of hundreds, saved on digital, now gone without a trace.

“I'm not acknowledging this.” MJ snaps off her gizmo. “Hear that? No, you don't. Because I'm not acknowledging it.” 

Mae and Pyotr exchange a wide-eyed look, mask to mask. Amusement sparks between them. 

“You're not letting this go, are you?” MJ asks. 

Pyotr shakes his head so fast, his mask unseats from his nose, sitting sideways. Mae just shrugs. MJ hangs hers with a huge sigh. At least they’re honest. 

***

A day of incessant teasing later, MJ steps through a portal on the summons of a standard mission. One step, two and then she’s backpedaling with a yelp of slack jawed surprise. Masked eyes cartoonishly wide, she double and triple checks the coordinates on her gizmo. 

At the far end of the rooftop, Miguel stands, tapping an impatient foot on the rooftop of this NYC’s version of Alchemax. High futurism at its best, the roof boosts a telepad for teleporters and houses sleek antennae and electronics hubs, rather than the bulky, archaic growths commonplace in MJ’s time. Miguel looks right at home. 

“You expecting someone else?” he asks. 

Yes, but that’s on her. She hadn’t checked the dossier. Just assumed it would be recon with Pyotr and Mae, per usual. The mission came through as a standard R&R:1-A (Recon & Recruitment: Phase 1-Alignment). There was nothing unusual in that initial ping, so MJ didn’t delve further. It’s never been a problem before. Mae always reads the specs, and her explanations are better than the dense descriptions that come with each new mission. 

If MJ had an inkling that Miguel would be on the other side of the portal instead of her usual Buddies, she would’ve been sure to read the damn specs herself. But she hadn’t even a whiff. Which makes the whole situation all the more suspicious. 

“Don’t you have more important things to do?” MJ asks, approaching nonchalantly as she can manage. She and Miguel haven’t been alone together since their night out at Alchemax. There’s no real reason behind the distance, but uncertainty festered within it. Especially with the current rumor of choice running rampant through the Society. “Putting the fear of God in the underlings? Standing in front of a big window and glaring down at the city? That kind of thing?”

“Nope, all full up on brooding and self loathing for the day,” he says. Then, he rubs at the back of his neck. “If you’d read the dossier, you would know Jess is benched from active duty for maternity leave.”

"Uh oh."

It’s only been three days since Jess announced her pregnancy to the Society at large, but MJ’s known for quite some time. It wasn’t exactly a secret.

For the last month, Jess has spent an inordinate amount of time setting up a base of operations in the bathroom and rubbing at the newfound pudge of her belly, absentmindedly. So, the announcement came as no surprise to MJ. 

To the rest of the Inner Circle? Shock. Horror. Face crack. From Miguel, in particular. 

It was clear the announcement translated to a huge personal and administrative headache within that thick skull of his.

Benching Jess so early was a bold move. One that gets a lot of respect from MJ. It’s definitely the right call (the multiversal hero gig isn’t conducive for a healthy pregnancy), but MJ’s not brave enough to cross Jess. MJ’s also not Miguel. Miguel is the immovable object to Jess’ unstoppable force of fucking nature. 

"Yeah,” Miguel says, and there’s a 1200 word backstory in that yeah. He doesn’t elaborate. His mask pinches sulky as he shifts his weight. Oh, to have been a spider on the wall for that conversation. “Anyway, I need a second while she’s out.”

“And nobody else answered your thwips?”

“I didn’t thwip anyone else.”

There might as well be a loud click when she makes the realization. It’s that severe. “I’m your first choice?” 

“We work well together.” 

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but they’ve never worked together at all. Not officially. Not one-on-one. Their skirmish against the Raiders at Alchemax was a series of individual fights, not the clockwork choreography expected of Agents. Even the few times Miguel’s responded to her SOS requests for backup, they didn’t fight alongside each other.

Then again, Peter B’s on paternity leave (and spamming everyone with pics of his newborn), Ben isn’t cleared for the Unknown, and Petra is too embroiled in the Great Spider War to be a reliable Buddy. 

MJ is the only member of the Inner Circle who ticks all the boxes: available and Unknownie. 

“Alright,” MJ says with a shrug, “but you should know, I don’t sing backup.” 

Miguel snorts. “Trust me, not shopping for a sidekick. They don’t go over well with the diehards.”

He begins walking backwards, towards the ledge. She follows his lead.

Over the edge, tumultuous veridian sky for miles and miles. NYC reaches up for them from below in twisting, helixed skyscrapers. This high in the atmosphere, fast whipping wind is more of a taste than a smell. It crackles along her suit, raising gooseflesh wherever it skates. 

There's a storm on the far horizon. Electric and raging and churning deathrot black. Due to hit in 37 minutes. 10 minutes before that, a flux will take. So, 27 minutes to run the confluences of Earth-32321. Well within the realm of possibility for her, Pyotr and Mae. Three Spiders. Not two. 

It’s still doable, but it’ll be a sprint. Miguel’s fast. Stupid fast. But, so is she. She sees it for the test it is. 

Beside her, Miguel rolls his head, relieving some unspeakable tension from his spine. He points a commanding finger at her. The neon red underside smears with the movement, leaving its afterimage to linger in the air for split seconds. 

“You’re worried about the wrong things,” he says. 

“Oh?” MJ crosses her arms. 

“Worry about whether you can keep up.” 

Miguel pitches back, launching off the building. The red ghost of him lingers for only a breath. Then, it fades into the ether. In its place, the unbroken horizon. The screeching wind. It all happens so fast, MJ blinks and blinks until her brain catches up with her eyes. 

Then, she’s flinging herself out after him, shouting, “Oh, son of a bitch!”

***

The alignment goes well. They complete in near record time - 23 min 32 seconds. It’s a brutal run for MJ. Unlike Miguel, she's relegated to webs and fleet feet. No fancy dancy glider for her. Next time, she’ll convince him to forgo the wings, see who’s really faster between them. 

There is one minor embarrassment from the mission. Soon after they set off, him like a bat outta hell for one confluence, her sprinting after the other, MJ sets her music to shuffle. As she always does.

Her, Pyotr and Mae? They keep their comms separate unless there's a reason they shouldn’t. Even then, when linked, their respective music, podcast, mediation, whatever, cuts out when someone speaks. 

This goes against protocol. The comms are meant to be open and shared the entire time. 

The Spiders Three have been dinged for it, over and over, but there’s no real penalties. It’s just a minor deviation of protocol. So commonplace for her, MJ forgets it isn’t the proper setup. And Miguel doesn’t remind her while they streak through NYC like the last vestiges of sunlight beneath an ever darkening sky.

Normally, MJ listens to her Swingerzz playlist. Fun, traveling tunes. Open, swelling melodies and upbeat lyrics. Perfect for the wind through her suit and the adrenaline of web swinging. Music like that suits every cityscape. It highlights the magic in the mundane or the familiarity in the mystical. 

Today, though, MJ’s amped up. Anxious by the unexpected team-up and keyed into the blitz of the storm rolling in. Swingerzz is passed over. Bangerzz is chosen instead. 

Raunchy, dirty dance hits. The best the 00s have to offer. The kinds of songs that are dirty even in a radio edit. The kinds of songs MJ danced to in clubs and on tops of tables and with partners of all creeds. The kinds of songs that make her feel strong and sexy and envied. Instant serotonin. Immediate confidence boost. 

Listening to Bangerzz, MJ gets a little swagger in her swing. A little hip to her thwip. Several songs play and pass with her humming or half-singing along. All the more embarrassing when out of nowhere, Miguel huffs, gruff voice crackling in her comm. “Is all twen cen music so disgusting?”

MJ nearly swings clean into a video billboard. Almost goes splat against a green gilled J. Jonah Jameson demanding, Keep NYC Pest-Free! A panicked jackknife gets her a boost of momentum so that she only dings her foot off the edge of the board. Pain pangs up her leg, straight into the backs of her teeth. 

Cursing, she snags a nearby water tower. A fluid twist gets her a seat on the walkway railing around the tank. Like all municipal structures in this universe, the tower is made of translucent, glasslike ceramic. The water inside the tank is Caribbean blue. Almost too pretty to drink. 

She draws her foot bent-legged over her lap. It’s nothing serious. No broken bones. No blood. Already, the pain is giving way to pins and needles. A solid thunk against the side of the tank dispels the worst of the numbness. Inside, the water wiggles. 

With a thud, Miguel lands atop the tank. Waves crash inside. The entire structure reverberates with each breaking curl. 

Miguel looks down at her, cocking his head. Shoulders bunched up around his ears and his legs bent in a deep squat with arms held straight down, splitting the distance between them, he perches in a classic Spidey pose. It looks just as goofy on him as it did on Peter. Cute. Disarming. 

“Well, is it?” The red pincers of his mask are stretched wide. A genuine question then. About music, of all things. 

“Twenty-first cen, actually,” she corrects. She doesn't turn the music off, just adjusts the levels, now that she knows he's listening in. “And, yeah. The good stuff is always rank.” 

They set off again, racing against the impending flux and incoming storm. Two minutes to flux. 12 to storm. Gravity grows slippery. Thunder rumbles through the city streets. As they near the final confluence, MJ says, “If I’d known you were listening, I could’ve thrown some of your picks in the shuffle.”

For a while now, she’s been curious about the culture of Nueva York. More so now that she's gotten a taste of it. What kind of society came together to birth Miguel O'Hara? She wants to know. If she’s going to be his partner, she needs to know that. At the very least. 

***

Missions with Miguel are an adjustment. He’s exacting in his expectations and quick to flag every misstep. He pushes MJ and she pushes him right back. 

But it’s not so bad. She’s a better Spider for it—though she’d sooner hang herself with her own webs before admitting that any of his hard-assery is worthwhile. 

And, sometimes, despite herself, she finds herself toying with the idea that her missions with Miguel might even be fun. Of course, this is insane. Miguel O’Hara and MariJane Watson-Parker and fun being found in the same sentence is as likely as Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham getting along without the psychosexual tension. Which is to say, not fucking likely. 

Yet. 

Swinging with Miguel, it’s not like swinging with other Spiders. He’s faster than the others, outpacing her with ease, making her work to keep up with him—in no small part beating her because he’s partial to his glider. But she’s competitive. She outright refuses to be a slowpoke. And sure, maybe she has to play a little dirty now and again, but it’s all in the framing. 

By their fifth Recon & Recruitment, their catch-me-if-you-can, tag-you’re-it game has fully fleshed out rules and penalties. Points are given for everything from fancy footwork and slick maneuvers to efficient takedowns and expert webwork. Miguel always outpaces and outdoes her, but she always outscores him. 

Miguel may claim it’s cheating when she uses her wits and wiles to gain the advantage over him, but MJ really prefers creative problem solving. It doesn’t hurt that Lyla, who acts as scorekeeper and referee, is incredibly receptive to MJ’s particular style and flair, bestowing extra points just for Total Babe Energy. 

Needless to say, it drives Miguel absolutely bonkers that Total Babe Energy nets MJ the win every single time.

Eventually, Lyla starts uploading clips and commentaries to the Webb to the newly created Spider Gasps—a sister page to Spider Goofs. Other Spiders’ feats make the page too, but Miguel and MJ’s boast consistently high view counts. 

None of this helps abate the rumors. Rumors that still circulate in sheer defiance of Lyla’s moratorium on any and all shipping discourse. Many reasons were given for the ban. Shipping is a waste of time; bandwidth; server space. An invasion of privacy. Really cringe behavior for a bunch of highly skilled and crazy smart superheroes. 

And, of course, there was Flipside’s terror campaign of trolling against any and all Spiders who participated (and didn’t ship TwoTalons aka Flipuel aka MigSide). Effected Spiders reported everything from run of the mill nasty comments to infuriating tech blackouts to digital “hauntings” wherein Flipside would remotely access gizmos at random to blare alarming sounds, play increasingly disturbing videos, cast eerie holograms—ultimately leading the Spiders to believe they were haunted. In a few cases, Spiders expressed bouts of legitimate insanity.

Coincidently, Flipside has been censured and sequestered for reinforcement learning and behavior augmentation. Again.

But a formal ban can’t keep a good Spider down. Unable to talk about it on the Webb, Spiders scuttle amongst themselves and giggle at MJ’s expense. 

The upside is that she’s not in it alone. Every member of the Inner Circle, including Lyla, is subject to casting as romantic lead opposite Miguel, though MJ is the new favorite, usurping Peter B (of all people). In between lulls in the Great Spider War, Petra rages against being the least favorite. 

It’s a level of scrutiny to which MJ is well accustomed. Miguel, however, is an entirely different story. He’s never spoken of it to her, but it bothers him. She can tell by the way he snaps at Lyla whenever it's brought up. 

The problem is that he’s not a person to the Society. He’s a Leader. A Symbol. An Enigma. 

Take one ultra hot, unabashedly intelligent, uber moody and unfathomably strong recluse, put him in a skintight Spider-suit, give him a tragic backstory and some really haunted eyes. Cash in on your now infinite source of hot gossip. 

Spiders are very concerned with Miguel, generally, and his love life, specifically. Even the Spiders who think he’s a right berk (all the Spider-Punks) or a blowhard (a healthy mix of all other types of Spiders, but none more than the MJs and Jessicas), spread gossip just as much as the Spiders who are a bad decision away from joining Flipside’s fan club.  

What does it all mean for MJ? Not much. She ignores the gossip. Laughs privately at the memes that eek through the ban. Endures the endless teasing from Pyotr. Thankfully, Mae seems to find the whole thing unsavory after the breakdown on the Webb. 

“You don’t need that kinda mess in your life,” Mae says, sagely. She’s only 22—the youngest of the Spiders Three by over a decade—but she’s often the wisest. Not that it’s a stiff competition. MJ doesn’t care for platitudes and Pyotr chooses to spend his time in a state of active unwiseness. 

Like now, he teeters in a one-armed handstand atop the spire of the Freedom Tower, incrementally loosening and tightening his fingers. One teeny gust of wind would be enough to bowl him over, but reminding him of this is pointless. He doesn’t care. If he’s blown off the building, he’ll just web his way back on. 

If MJ were making assumptions, she might think Pyotr’s constant fooling around is a result of his KGB brainwashing. Like a teenager suddenly freed from overstrict parents, Pyotr goes to extremes with his rebellion. He has a reputation for doing anything on a dare (notable feats include shaving a stripe down the center of his hair and tagging Miguel’s lab with obscene iconography). He’s banned from all future Taco Tuesdays for starting not one, but two separate guac fights. He’s a great Spider, but he’s reckless, prone to ridiculous whims and bouts of petulance more than he’s bound to any strict code. 

And if she were making assumptions, which she isn’t, MJ might think the opposite is true of Mae. Though hippie-coded to high hell, Mae takes everything seriously. And completely panics when things go wrong. Which makes MJ think something awful happened in Mae’s past that she was helpless to stop yet still feels responsible for. 

But MJ isn’t making assumptions. She only knows what she knows about her Buddies, and she likes it that way. She doesn’t delve too deep into them, they don’t delve too deep into her. 

Though Mae tries, only once. 

“Did you ever take your daughter here?” Mae asks while they hunker down a flux beneath the struts of the Coney Island Cyclone. She and MJ hacky sack an empty Budweiser can back and forth, but Mae’s question leaves the can un-hackied when MJ lets the can bean her in the calf. 

Mae adds, “Bet she loved the coaster. Total adrenaline junkie, amiright?”

“She wasn’t tall enough to ride,” MJ says, stiffly. “She liked the ferris wheel.”

And Mayday liked to lean around the pole in the center to make the car swing. It made her delirious with joy to tip back and forth. Total adrenaline junkie indeed. Every bit Peter’s daughter. Every bit MJ’s daughter when she broke out into an impish grin whenever the ride attendants finally crackled over the intercom to tell her to quit it. 

“Oh, I didn’t… how old was she?” 

“Five.” 

Mae looks down. Her toe scrapes through the dust, drawing out the first two petals of a lazy daisy. “You don’t talk about her much.”

“No”—A cold wind washes through, coming off the river nearby. It bolsters MJ’s voice, drops the air subzero—“I don’t.”

Overhead, Pyotr climbs the coaster struts like a monkey. It’s after operating hours so there’s no witnesses for his death defying backflip from one beam to another. He’s bored. Utterly stir crazy because they haven’t been sent after an anomaly in three days. 

With the ranks overflowing with active Agents, the Spiders Three no longer have to jump from anomaly fight to anomaly fight. Their efforts are largely exhausted in R&R objectives, boasting the highest number of recruits for any Buddy trio working the Unknown. 

This doesn’t satisfy Pyotr, but he’ll never admit to it. He just pretends to be happy as a clam and burns off the steam by scuttling along the rafters like monkey bars. Mayday swings between the rungs with ease, flying back and forth as her friends watch with gaping mouths. She’s only four—freshly four, it’s her birthday—but she moves like a trained gymnast. 

Unable to tear her eyes away from the display, MJ blindly hip checks Peter, who makes passionate conversation with Harry about his hopes for the final film in the Star Wars sequel trilogy. 

“I know it sounds crazy, but Darth Darth Binks might just be the thing that ties it all together,” Peter is saying when MJ’s bump makes him spill lemonade all over his shoes. 

At first, he takes her interference as vindication that his theory is touching on the truth—MJ was tapped for a small role in the film, got all the way to chemistry tests with one of the leads before an untimely run-in with Doc Ock put her on extended medical leave and turned what was going to be an awesome surprise for her husband into a contentious contract dispute. But, Peter sobers when MJ points to their daughter across the playground. 

“Should we be concerned?” she asks. 

Peter rubs his chin. “Well, she is triple jointed.”

Before their eyes, Mayday tugs herself up on top of the bars, weaving between two rungs to swing out on the bottom. Then, she does the same trick in reverse, but faster. 

“I dunno, Pete,” Harry says. “That’s pretty nuts for a preschooler.”

MJ and Harry are rarely on the same page. Most of the time, they disagree just to disagree. For Harry to see the same thing she does and for him to also be concerned—that means it’s real. It’s not just MJ’s mommy paranoia kicking into overdrive.

Oh god. She can’t deny it. Mayday is like Peter. Mayday is enhanced. Fuck the testing that said otherwise. That testing was wrong. The proof is right in front of her. Plastic cracks as MJ mangles her solo cup. Thankfully, it’s empty beyond a few ice cubes so nothing spills. 

“Hey, Mayday!” Peter shouts. 

Mayday does another little spin to face them. The exhilaration drains from her face. She reaches for the next rung, but flubs it. Face first, she crashes to the wood chips. She sniffles. She shrieks. 

All other thoughts turn to smoke in MJ’s head. Her baby is hurt! Her baby is hurt! Her baby is—

“—still with us?”

Mae. Only a few inches away. A hand outstretched, shaking in uncertainty. Wood beams like crosses all around. Old corndog stink and saltwater. Coney Island. A beep. A flicker of light. Lyla, taking shape to announce the end of the flux. Everything, blurry. 

With a steady thumb, MJ sweeps her eyes dry. Just a little moisture from the cold. Nothing to see. Nothing of concern. 

The memory newly unearthed, the events of Mayday’s fourth birthday and everything that came after churn in her stomach. Peter had taken her to undergo the Enhanced testing again. Mayday failed. MJ was relieved. But Peter lied. Somehow, he rigged the exam, swayed the results. Because Mayday was enhanced. She was like him. And MJ has absolutely no idea why Peter hid it from her. Or how she could have been so terrible a mother not to question the truth that was right in front of her.

It isn’t Mae’s fault. MJ blames her for the reopened grief, anyway. She doesn’t acknowledge the girl’s outstretched hand or concern.

“Why the slow feet?” Pyotr calls from on high. “We are cleared to move, yes?”

“Yes, Mr. Impatient,” Lyla says, rolling her eyes, but she doesn’t vanish. Quick as a skink, Lyla blips beside MJ. Though she raises a hand to cover her mouth, she says, loud as possible, “Miguel wants to know how long it’ll take you to finish up here.”

Pyotr drops down so fast, it startles both MJ and Mae. Though always nosy, his boredom has made him a bonafide menace. The MJ/Miguel drama has been the light of his life the past few weeks. The more insane the rumor, the more delighted he is by it. The worst of the worst he couriers directly to MJ's attention along with an unsettling cartoon avatar of himself for commentary. Usually, his little avatar bears a crying laughing expression. 

Cognizant of Pyotr’s piqued interest, MJ says, “Ten minutes, tops. Tell him to gag on a popsicle and chill out.”

“Will do.” Lyla salutes. She begins to fade away, but before she does, she adds, “Word of warning, he’s having one of his sensitive spells”—meaning he’s got a headache and is being an asshole because of it—“so, be a friend, help him work out the tension, you know?”

With a wolfish wink, Lyla vanishes. 

Mae wrinkles up her nose. Pyotr grins. His gizmo is up and active as he hurriedly types. The words are in Symkarian script so MJ can’t read them, but she doesn’t need to. She gets the gist. 

“You need to get a hobby, Pyotr,” she says. 

“And you need to get a thwip on!” Pyotr smacks his hands together. The text slips from his gizmo screen, sent off to wreak havoc amongst the rest of his cohort. “You are needed with desperation!” 

Normally, this is where Mae provides a healthy distraction. She doesn’t now. She stares off into the distance, uncharacteristically lost in thought, an unplaceable sadness on her face. 

MJ doesn’t ask questions. Neither does Pyotr. They push towards the next objective without a word to the past.

Notes:

chapter title from "Anomaly" by I See Stars

pt 2 to go up tomorrow :p

IK Jess canonically is fighting and flipping while VERY pregnant. It's kind of her thing. But for this story, the plot required the Society have responsible practices for expecting mothers. Doesn't necessarily mean she respects those policies tho

next chapter (technically): EXCLUSIVE MigJay Buddy bonding content

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Miguel POV - in your dreams, in your song is LIVE! woohoo!

Chapter 19: hardly invisible now - pt 2

Summary:

MJ and Miguel yap a lot - NOT CLICKBAIT

The buildings flash by. Brick and steel and concrete and flashing lights. The city noises meld into a lush buzz of life, fade entirely to the wind the higher they go. Two reflections, a smear of neon red and blue, a blitz of white, catch in scrubbed-clean glass, chase them across the city, always just a second too slow. 

Careening along the boulevard, MJ hooks the edge of a sky-brushing balcony, cornering the building at mach speed. The air rips around her, fighting and failing to keep her humble. A flock of pigeons burst into the air around her with a spew of feathers and squawks. 

Miguel zips by. Shiny as buffed tin-foil, his glider cape steals a bit of sunlight, blasts it back at her face. The blindness is temporary. Her outrage? Not so much.

Comm channel wide open, her vehement curse is delivered straight to his dome. His responding, resplendent laughter reverberates in her comm. It almost convinces her not to retaliate, but she’ll never hear the end of it if she lets it go unpunished. 

Snapping her line, she dives. Gravity sluices over her and speeds her freefall. The pavement rushes at her and, at the last second, she webs the back of Miguel’s feet. It’s an impossible shot, but she nails it. God bless navitech and a strong sense of justice.

With a very un-Miguel yelp, he tips backwards, dropping like a shot dove as she pendulums out beneath him, soaring higher than ever on the other side. She webs away as fast as she can. Experience has taught her Miguel recovers fast and doesn’t suffer embarrassment well. 

Still, fast as he may be, he’s nowhere as flexible as her. She moves with a performer’s grace, flipping and twirling, snagging hard-to-reach targets with finesse. Lyla pings several touch-points: a specific branch in a tree at street level; the head of a happy pup, tail-wagging on a balcony; the nose of a gargoyle along the eaves of a bank; the drainpipe down along the side of an apartment building. 

MJ nabs them all, laughing so hard she snorts when Miguel’s voice cracks from the sheer force of his frustration at Lyla’s favoritism. 

As MJ reaches for the pursed lips of a Mary Jane advertising Web Fluid lip gloss, the last of Lyla’s touch points, Miguel slams into the side of the billboard, tipping it backwards to sit at a harsh angle. The surface tilts far beyond MJ’s reaching fingers. He smacks the touchpoint, leaving grooves around the paper Mary Jane’s mouth from his talons. 

A triumphant +5 blazes over his head. He shapes both his hands into guns, aims them at her, and then ticks them back, one and then the other, miming shots fired

Beneath the mask, MJ smiles. At the split second before landing on the billboard beside him, she jerks her web in hand, veering sharply. With a deft twist of her body, she uses his broad chest as a springboard, setting her heels against his pecs and flipping away into a split legged, back pike. 

It’s only a second—a split second, really—but their gazes lock together. Both masked, yet she can imagine his expression with perfect clarity. Thunderous with shock, but mouth split in begrudging admiration. What does he picture beneath her mask? Does he know she smirks around a bitten lip? 

As she swings away, +15 appears over her head. Miguel curses, smashing his fist into the billboard for show only. His fist doesn’t so much as dimple the vibrant advertisement.  

Lyla announces she can’t decide which page the clip will be uploaded to—Spider Gasps or Spider Goofs. Was MJ’s move cooler than Miguel’s reaction was dumb? Hard to say. She resolves to upload to the main thread of the Webb, asking the Society to vote on proper placement. By the time MJ and Miguel have webbed to the railyard, the Society has spoken. Spider Goofs, for sure. 

Together, MJ and Miguel snag a ride on a departing train. Miguel nails the landing. MJ’s foot slips, cants backward off the edge of the train. He catches her, drags her upright. Big, warm hands holding her shoulders tight. Toe-to-toe. Breaths apart. He laughs when she glares at him, embarrassed and failing to mask it with anger, and then she’s laughing too. Both of them, laughing on the 7 train as it blazes through Queens. 

The clouds slur overhead, cotton candy pink in the setting sun. The train clunks and rumbles underfoot, jostling them apart. Gizmos ping in unison: a reminder of the confluence fast approaching. 

When the train stops at the 111 Street station, they’re already off again, chasing each other through the borough, swallowed up into the city. 

***

“Have you gotten a chance to look at the budget I sent over?”

From the series of grunting curses, MJ ascertains that Miguel did, in fact, not get a chance to look at the budget she sent over. She also gathers that perhaps now is not the proper occasion to talk numbers with Miguel. 

In her defense, he has steadfastly avoided talking about any and all things Spider Awards Gala, no matter when or where she’s brought them up. So, yeah, it was a shot in the dark to ask him while he rides a berserk Lizard like a bucking bronco, but still, worth the attempt. 

With a shout of exertion, Miguel digs his heels into Lizard’s back and snaps up on webbed reins encircling Lizard’s snout. The monster screeches, steam rising through gaps in its makeshift muzzle. It’s claws skitter and then dig into the asphalt, braking like a freewheeling taxi. A 6000 pound, magma spewing, freewheeling taxi. 

Lizard of Earth-969 is a real hellbeast. Seriously. It’s a reptilian monster that crawled out of hell at the behest of the devil. Yes. The Christian devil. A real unpleasant sonofabitch, believe it or not. 

Demons and hell monsters are far more plentiful than MJ would have ever guessed. They hail from a cluster of universes nicknamed the Bible Belt that, yes, she had a hand in naming. Miguel wanted to go with Christian Dogma Adjacent and Aligned Universe Grouping. There’s no telling whether his lack of imagination is a personality quirk or if he just enjoys being pedantic. 

Denizens of hell, minor eldritch beings, reality bending superfreaks, and assholes with enough hammerspace to comfortably host an extended family reunion—these are the types of baddies that ping a direct response from Miguel. Anything stronger requires targeted strike force response.  

When it comes to the higher powered anomalies, MJ’s primary role is crowd control. Her second role is as emotional support. Only occasionally does she have to get directly involved and go hand to hand with an anomaly. It can get dicey, but MJ can hold her own. Miguel wouldn’t have tapped her as his second if she couldn’t. 

It’s just weird to think about. This time last year, she couldn’t swing without webbing herself in the process. Now, she regularly takes on the toughest, eats-nails-for-breakfast anomalies and wins! She's even bested Pyotr once or twice while sparring. Crazy how fast the night changes. 

As she reminiscences, Lizard’s tail whips out, careening towards a screaming gaggle of bystanders. MJ lashes the tail with webs from both hands, busting her heels into the concrete to stop the monstrous force. The sudden stop is enough to unseat Miguel, who goes flying off in the opposite direction. A cloud of smoke kicks up around him as he skids and flops over the pavement. 

Whoops. But, good news: no squished civilians!

Bad news! Lizard is loose and hungry for redhead!

What follows is a zany chase through the Financial District that ends with Lizard heaving and hogtied at the mouth of Wall Street. If MJ had a cowboy hat, she’d strike it against her leg for emphasis. Without one, she makes do with the flat of her hand, smacking it over her thigh and saying, “Woo wee, we sure wrestled that nasty doggie, ain’t we just?”

Masked (and since recovered from his roadrash incident), Miguel’s eyes winnow down to slits. “You’ve been spending way too much time with Patrick.”

“My favorite O’Hara,” MJ gushes. 

Grumbled Spanish follows her proclaimation. She makes of it what she will, since he never offers translation. Little by little, she’s picking up on the shape of things—can differentiate the curses from other choice phrasing. Though, most everything is a curse. This one—no mames—she’s pretty sure that one’s a curse. Definitely not polite. 

Could she just ask Lyla? Sure, but that’s no fun. 

“Allow me.” MJ drops to her knee and begins the tedious task of tagging the anomaly. It isn’t hard. Just a lot of paperwork. “Give you some time to look over the budget.”

Miguel grumbles again—not Spanish or English, just pure frustration. He leans up against a lamp post that now cants in a diagonal from stopping Lizard’s wayward slide. He crosses an arm over his chest, sets the other against it, touches his mouth with a curled finger as he calls up the budget and then begins to read. 

It doesn’t take him long. Just as she finishes the tag, slapping it against Lizard’s containment field with a voila flourish, Miguel runs a hand down his mask and admits, “This is very thorough.”

MJ stands, dusting off her hands from hard work. “I know.”

“5 million is still too much”—MJ knows. That’s why she started at 5 mil—“and I’m not hosting.”

“Hmm, if I nix the buffet, settle for hors d’oeuvres…” MJ taps at her chin, miming thought. She already knows exactly what she wants. It’s not much of a negotiation. She’ll get exactly what she wants. This event will be perfect . The Society event to end all Society events. “I could probably do it with 4 mil. And you have to host.”

She can do it with 3 and she doesn’t want Miguel anywhere near a mic. Her vision of tightly coordinated, highly choreographed segments between award presentations just doesn’t work if Miguel is hosting. He has the stage presence of a chopped onion. 

No, he can watch her inner theater kid go mad with power from the back of the house. And then, after the show is over, he can skulk around the edges of the gala festivities if he wants. Just so long as he makes some sort of appearance. That’s all she needs from him. 

But, of course, she wants him to think she needs much more and will settle for less. 

The art of budgetary negotiations is a delicate one, but she’s rather good at it after cutting her teeth in PTA battle grounds for all of Mayday’s school years. 

“3.3,” Miguel counters, “and I don’t host.”

 “3.5, and we co-host.”

Miguel starts to protest again, but MJ cuts him off, suggesting, “3.8 and you don’t have to go anywhere near the event.”

“Deal.” 

They shake on it. His hand engulfs hers, but she pinches his fingers, refusing to be dominated. He withdraws with a pout, whipping the hurt free from his hand. 

“Shouldn’t you have a firmer handshake, Mr. Alchemax?” 

Miguel scoffs. “Not a lot of hand shaking in genetics.”

“I’d imagine not. Bunch of nerds, scared of physical contact - am I looking at the right picture?”

“Try antisocial bitheads afraid of coworker sabotage.”

Despite the arid affectation he takes, this is a sore spot for him, brushing up against a vulnerable truth. MJ’s done some digging on her new Buddy. Coworker sabotage is the proverbial spider bite for Miguel. 

Which begs the question, why the fuck hasn’t he burned that place to the ground? If anything his self-described current “hostage” situation is further evidence that Alchemax should be ash in the wind.

But MJ doesn’t say any of that. She says, sincere as a love confession, “That sounds miserable.” 

Miguel just grunts. It’s an affirming grunt, but still just a grunt. His conversation meter has stalled out for this endeavor. 

As a portal rips into being, Miguel bends, hoisting the hulking behemoth up onto his shoulder with ease. MJ rolls her eyes. Miguel’s flagrant shows of super, super-strength once made her go a little fluttery inside, but she’s worked alongside him long enough to know he’s just showing off. 

Back HQ-side, Miguel hucks Lizard into the designated Containment and Nullification Apparatus (a cell made of an electrostatic perimeter strong enough to zap any anomaly into submission). MJ signs off on the Go Home order. Six minutes from now, it’s bye bye time for Lizard. 

MJ tugs up her mask to blow Lizard a kiss. It rasps in Old Testament fire and brimstone, cursing her soul to Hell. It’s pretty rude, but not surprising. Just disappointing. Manners are a far rarer commodity than she would’ve hoped.

Mask flashing off, Miguel smacks the side of the cell, pointing a threatening finger at the beast and commanding with fangs on full display.

Whether Lizard understands Spanish or not is moot. The command is clear. Knock it the fuck off. 

The beast snorts, resentful, but it does stop antagonizing MJ. With a final huff, it curls around itself with pissy little motions and a snuff of smoke from its snout. 

“I love it when you get all protective,” MJ says to Miguel, giving a little shiver, as they leave the Waiting Room.

Miguel rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”

Per routine, MJ dutifully follows Miguel to his lab where he sets up shop to write his debrief. It never takes him more than four minutes to write a full debrief, which is far more impressive to her than the godlike strength and showboating. 

Though she could write her debrief in tandem, MJ doesn’t bother. It’s a problem for later. It always is. Miguel just likes to keep her around in case he has questions or needs her perspective on things, which he rarely does. 

If MJ feels like fanning her ego, she thinks he just wants her around for her stellar presence. If MJ is in an odd state of being truthful with herself, she thinks it’s because he doesn’t trust her not to go make nice with the anomalies. 

One thing is for certain: Jess never had to hang around while he wrote debriefs, but Jess was apparently the perfect partner. 

Miguel laments Jess’s absence like a lost lover. Jess would respect his authority and Jess would appreciate his insistence on doing everything by the book and Jess would never laugh when he panicked and accidentally shoved an anomaly off a balcony when they tried to give him their number. 

Except none of these things are true. MJ knows Jess just as well as Miguel does. If not better than he does, by virtue of their Girlie Lunches. MJ just doesn’t harbor a little unrequited crush for the woman (it’s very requited. Again; Girlie Lunches, quite the bonding experience) and MJ can differentiate reality from wishful thinking. 

Miguel is so fucking melodramatic, MJ honestly can’t believe she never noticed before. 

The thought comes with an accompanying, affectionate smirk. Which is weird. She’s still getting used to it. It being the fact that she likes Miguel. That she no longer wants to web his mouth permanently shut. That she enjoys working with him to an extent that is, frankly, unsettling, given their history. 

MJ forgives, but she struggles with forgetting. As in, she never forgets. Usually, though, the not forgetting comes with a lingering, all-consuming bitterness.

It’s an ever present flaw of her personality. She believes people can change; she believes they can make choices to be better. But, she also believes that darkness is immutable. That past mistakes can predict future disasters. 

Somebody that hurts you once will hurt you again. No matter how they apologize, weep, swear up and down it’ll never happen again. It will happen again. It’s inevitable. 

But everything with Miguel? Deep down, he’s still the same cruel, cutting, miserable asshole he’s always been. But deeper down, there’s a lot to the guy that she likes. He makes her laugh. He pushes her to be better. He’s not half bad to look at. And she does buy that he’s doing everything he can not to wig out on her again and chuck another monitor at her head. 

All the bad shit between them? She pushed it to that place. He tried to de-escalate. She wouldn’t listen. 

It’s the worst thing in the world to look in the mirror and realize, oh, hey, it’s me. I’m the problem.

All this to say, things are going pretty well in the MJ vs Miguel war. A peace accord has been struck. Prosperity stretches across the lands. 

(So why isn’t it enough?)

As Miguel types up his debrief and MJ’s mind returns from wandering, she takes up at his side and hears herself say, “Hey, Miguel?”

Half-turning, he responds with a tilted hum, not looking away from the screen. MJ circles in front of him, leaning up against the monitor bank. 

“It’s karaoke night,” she says. 

Miguel’s eyes flick up to hers. Disbelief pinches his face. “Pass.”

“It’s a lot of fun.”

It is. There are a lot of amazing singers in the Society, but there are even more hilariously bad singers who are at peace with being terrible singers. There’s one Ben Reilly in particular who’s working through Creed’s entire catalog and is so bad, his performances are transcendental experiences. It’s a good time all around. 

This does little to convince Miguel. He sniffs. “I’d rather stare into the concentrated light of the sun.”

“You don’t have to sing,” MJ says, “Most of the fun is just watching. That’s what I do anyway.”

“You don’t sing?”

“Nah, I don’t wanna crush anyone’s confidence.” 

That’s a joke. She can carry a tune, but nothing fancy without serious practice. It’s more that they don’t have Promiscuous!” Peter shouts. 

“What!?” MJ shouts. She pushes Peter out of the way, flipping frantically through the songbook. As she frets, Peter waves over the karaoke emcee. 

“Excuse me, sir?” Peter says. “Where do you get off depriving the good folk of the greatest karaoke performance the world will ever see?”

“What?” the man, who certainly isn’t paid enough if he’s paid at all, asks. 

“You don’t have Promiscuous!” MJ cries. “How can you not have Promiscuous!?”

“Oh god,” the man groans. He rubs at the waggling skin under his chin. “Look lady, you and every other annoying couple wants to do Promiscuous, but do you ever think of us poor assholes that have to hear it, again and again?”

“Annoying couple!?” MJ repeats as Peter groans, massaging his forehead with two fingers. His amber eyes whinge shut, anticipating the blowout. 

“And let me guess,” the man continues, “you were gonna do the Timbaland part and your man was gonna do the woman, right? Bet you think that’s real original.”

That is indeed exactly what they were going to do, but MJ would never give this oaf the satisfaction of admitting to it and—

Miguel clears his throat. He says, unconvincingly, “I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Tomorrow’s line dancing.” MJ doesn’t miss a beat. Lost in the past? What past? She’s fully in the present, baby. Obviously. Clearly. It’s not like she keeps finding herself in active memory, again and again. 

“Line dancing,” she says again. “Get it? Like thwip thwip”—she gives the classic Spidey hand gesture twice—“but actually. Web line dancing. Pretty cool, honestly. Tough, though.”

Very tough. Tough in the same way as pole dancing. Looks deceptively easy, but requires every single muscle to be fully engaged and supportive. Not for the faint of heart or the bashful.

Miguel says, “I don’t dance.”

“At all?”

“No.”

This is not surprising. It would be surprising if he said he did dance. MJ wouldn’t know what to do with something like that. It would break her entire conception of reality and humanity. 

Still, she pushes, “Not even a little tango? Ballroom dancing is the day after next.”

“Absolutely not.” 

That’s actually a good thing. Flipside is her current dance partner and she can’t afford to lose him to flights of fancy for Miguel. With her budget approved for the Spider Awards Gala, there will most certainly be a dance contest and she most certainly intends to win. 

Why? Because Gayle once told her she would never win a dance competition of any sort and, to date, she never has. It seems a fitting tribute to the relationship she had with her sister, proving her wrong and honoring her memory, all in one. 

But, no dancey for Miggy. She takes a new approach, asks, “Okay, what about DnD?”

“Don’t know what that is.”

MJ doesn’t really know either. Peter was big into it in high school before he got bit by a radioactive spider and lost the ability to have hobbies. He was a DM, which he always said in caps and with a puff of pride. 

“Fantasy roleplaying,” MJ says, hoping Miguel won’t ask any follow up questions. 

“Like Cyberspace?”

What’s Cyberspace? MJ has no idea. Sounds nerdy, though, so it’s likely in the same ideological sphere. 

She shrugs. “Probably.”

“Then, no.”

Rats! Irritation flashes. She breathes through it into diplomacy. “Well, the Spider Social Committee is dedicated to socializing all Spiders. So what kind of activity would you actually do?”

“Silent reading.” 

Chok chok chok go the keys, faster and with more intensity. Lines and lines of text pour from his fingers, filling the screen with what MJ affectionately considers his corporate douchebag speak. She never reads his debriefs—just the summaries auto-generated by Lyla. Even then, she only skims those for mention of her own name. 

It’s the only way she knows she’s doing anything right. He certainly doesn’t say it to her face.

“There’s a book club,” MJ says, “or if the silence is more your thing, daily yoga and meditation classes.”

“Why won’t you let it go?”

Because he could use the break. Because he leads the Society, but has never really been a part of it. Because she wants to spend more time with him. Socially. She, Pyotr and Mae only ever got stronger as a team the more they bonded outside of missions. 

She opts for the least inflammatory response. “It’d be good for your image if you got out and about more.”

“My image is perfectly fine,” Miguel says. His shoulders deflate a little. Did she miss something? 

“Well, as your Buddy, I say it can be better.” 

It definitely cannot get worse. His Meet the Spiders feature totally backfired. Turns out, when trying to dissuade rumors of vampirism and blood drinking, it’s best to avoid detailing impromptu phlebotomy and blood study sessions. A recent poll of Spiders revealed that 54% now believe the rumor that Miguel is some kind of vampire. 

“Your concern has been noted.”

“Miguel.”

Miguel slams a fist over the keys. The screen fills with gibberish that is quickly erased as he backspaces and huffs. “What?” 

“The invite’s evergreen.”

“Awesome.” Exasperation aerates his voice. 

MJ bites her tongue, but not hard enough. “You know, I’m really trying here. But, sure. Make me feel like an ass for it.” 

Miguel hangs his head. His shoulders creep towards his ears. Properly shamed. Good. “I can appreciate what you’re trying to do.” 

“But?” she prompts.

“But it’s not a good use of your time. We’re never going to be like that.”

It stings far more than she’ll ever admit. “Ouch.”

“No, it’s not…” Miguel heaves a horrible sigh, rubbing at his left eye and refusing to meet hers. “I'm not any fun at stuff like that.”

“I'm not inviting you out because I think you’ll be the life of the party. It would just be nice to see you outside of all this.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing else to see but this.” He gestures at the screen in front of him.

MJ shakes her head. “That’s… no. I don’t want that to be true for you anymore.”

“Not really your call.”

“There has to be more than this.”

Because if there’s not more for him, then what hope is there for her? Like it or not, they’re in this thing together. Much as they bicker, they’re the only two who truly understand what stands to be lost if the Society fails. They’ve already lost it themselves, but they’re both still here. That has to count for something.

“You’re still punishing yourself,” MJ says because it’s true. 

“Right. And I'm the only one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your schedule is just as over-booked as mine.”

It might be more over-booked than his. Most days, she’s double, even triple booked, at all times. Far as she knows, no one works double-time on call and missions like she does with both Miguel, and the Spiders Three, and that’s just the work. The extracurriculars are even more of a time suck. Still, it’s all worthwhile. She only ever feels good when she’s needed. 

“By choice,” she says. 

Miguel raises his eyebrows, allowing the motion to make his point for him. 

MJ scowls. “I like the things I keep busy with. It’s not punishment. It’s the best way for me to give back and…” 

Another raise of those damned eyebrows. Miguel is unmoved.

“Shut up, Miguel.”

“I didn’t say anything.” 

A minute passes in silence. MJ waits it out. Soon as he submits his debrief, she asks, “So, karaoke?”

Another tick of silence. His fingers rap the keys without the force to depress them. His mouth twitches, back and forth, like a rabbit’s. Holy shit. He’s actually considering it. 

“If, if”—a finger raised in warning—“I go, I don’t want to be bothered. And I don’t want there to be any expectation that I'll ever go ever again.”

“Then why go at all?” 

She knows why. Body borne certainty, she knows. But she wants to hear him say it. 

“So you’ll leave me the shock alone.”

Okay. Not that. But, that’s typical. That’s Miguel. What did she expect? Something else? Haha. No. That’s ridiculous. 

What else could there have been?

***

Miguel doesn’t come to karaoke. MJ isn’t surprised. Honestly, the more she sat on it, asking him out was a bad idea. If he showed up, then it wouldn’t be karaoke night anymore. It would be, holy shit, Miguel’s here. Guys, did you know Miguel was gonna be here? OMG Miguel left the lair, night. MJ works hard on these events. She doesn’t want them to be overshadowed by anything. Let alone Miguel O’fucking Hara. 

But. Miguel does text her.

SM-928B - Obviously, I’m not coming. 

Which, hey, he remembered it was happening. That counts as a win in MJ’s book. And then, if they end up texting all night, that’s just because she feels obligated to give him a play by play of each performance, driving home what he’s missing out on. 

It’s nothing more than that. 

It’s nothing else. 

***

The New York of Earth-3908 is quiet. It’s the city that always sleeps. Only a few cars putter the streets below. The familiar neon lights of the city have been replaced by lamplight. The resident Spider, who arrived to the fight ten minutes too late wearing an old timey nightcap and clutching a one-eyed teddy bear, had yawned through Miguel’s entire recruitment speech. 

With each sleepy response, Miguel suffered twitching irritations that tightened his shoulders and flexed his fingers. To an untrained eye, the motion would have been imperceptible. To MJ’s eye, each twitch was an explosion of exasperation, promising rage and reprimand if pushed too far. 

Now, MJ and Miguel hunker down a flux on a nondescript rooftop high above the city.  

“Why do you keep coming out here?” she asks. The moonlight and the easy breeze loosens her tongue, makes her bold. “The Unknown’s risky.”  

“Everything we do is risky.”

“Not as much. If something goes wrong, it goes really wrong out here.”

Miguel sighs and goes quiet. The silence stretches, but it’s active. He’s thinking. She expects a certain kind of answer. Something about his utmost confidence in Lyla’s projections or that he won’t make his Spiders take risks he won’t take himself. 

“For a long time,” he starts, “all I wanted was to make enough of myself to get the hell out of Nueva York. It’s a cesspit.”

Cesspit is the last word she'd use to describe the glitz and glimmer of the utopian city of the future. It's amazing and bright and vibrant and everything her Nu York isn’t. Every NYC has a dark underbelly and Nueva York's seems to be in corporate frivolity. Her Nu York is all underbelly. 

“The rest of the world isn’t much better,” Miguel continues. “Being out here, a place like this…” He trails off for a moment, thinking again. “Dunno. Nice to be reminded there are places out there that aren’t total fucking wastelands.”

Beyond the thrill of hearing him curse good and proper, it’s a heavy answer. Vulnerable, too. Once, MJ wanted for something similar. Wanted it so badly, it nearly destroyed her when she finally got it. 

Granted, she didn’t have the multiverse at her fingertips and only ever made it as far as the west coast. At the time, LA seemed like the end of the Earth. Now, she knows she could go to the end of time and not outrun her demons.

But that’s an even heavier response. So, she just says, “Nah, too quiet here. Needs more sound pollution, more people screaming at each other for no reason. I bet they’re all super polite here in this bizarro world. Nobody interrupts anyone or curses just because they can.”

Miguel scoffs. “How awful.”

“Right?” 

He says nothing and, when she looks, his head is tilted back with eyes closed, drinking in the peaceful night. Beneath the glittery, swirling starlight, his features are drawn with feathered, generous strokes. His lashes look impossibly long in the soft dark and his lips impossibly soft. The longer she looks, the more devastated she is.

“The sky’s pretty cool here,” she says, uncomfortable in the silence and the slant of her thoughts. 

One of his eyes cracks open, staring lazily and tracking her when she ducks from his gaze. The detailed grip of her gloves is suddenly the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. Flexing her fingers makes the ridges running over her palms bend. How many intersections are there between the ridges? She doesn't know! This is a perfect opportunity to find out!

“What?” he asks. Both his eyes are open now, but only just. There’s a hint of a smile on his mouth, far too self-assured, on the cusp of teasing. Effortlessly handsome, he looks so much younger than he normally does. Normally, he holds his expression too tight and serious. He doesn’t now. 

The grip of her gloves no longer seems so interesting, not when she knows she can make him look like this. How easily her interests sway. She’s always been flighty. She says, “You’re not half bad to look at.”

The side of his mouth rucks up, off kilter and roguish. Thick eyebrows quirk, questioning, but she looks down at the sleepy street below. Her feet kick in and out of view to a tempo of her own making. 

“So, how do your fangs work?”

Taken aback by the question, he jerks upright. In the strange starlight, the flush that creeps across his face makes his skin gleam like polished bronze. 

It takes him a moment, three kicks of her feet—left, right, left—before he explains, "Quick spikes in adrenaline, cortisol”—He hooks the middle and pointer fingers of his left hand, swipes them down like air quotes—"fangs drop."

MJ considers this. “You don’t control them?”

“Not easily. Not like the talons.” 

To demonstrate his point, the pads of his fingers suddenly protrude, sharpened and elongated, before sinking back into the plush of his print just as suddenly. 

“God, that’s way more convenient than sticky palms. I’m always getting caught on stuff.”

She drags her hand over her thigh and the fabric of her suit clings when she pulls her hand away. A sweep over the brick leaves her with a fine coating of dust coating her palm. Bold, she takes hold of his bicep, curling her fingers tight, but they don’t stick, gliding off the material as smooth as water on glass. The fabric tingles against her palm.

“Nanotech UMF,” Miguel says with a shrug.  The movement ripples through her gloved hand, into the flesh and blood below. “Only thing like it in the world.”

Giving an experimental squeeze, MJ watches his suit desaturate just around the point of contact, lightening from dark to plainer blue. The tingling against her skin intensifies, growing into a steady buzz, but the fabric is thin. She can feel the solid coil of muscle beneath, like the suit isn’t there at all. 

“And the arm beneath it isn’t anything to sniff at either. What do you bench anyway? Trains?”

Miguel rolls his eyes. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“Just trying to make conversation.” MJ gives his arm one more squeeze, the tightest yet, and then releases him with a friendly tap of her fingers. She leans back, gripping the bottom of the ledge to leverage herself farther backwards. Scissor kicking her legs, she stares straight up into the sky. Stars swirl and convalesce in the nighttime haze. “I’d be more than happy to talk about myself, but all the interesting stuff is probably already in my file.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, teasing, but his face hasn’t gotten the memo. His expression is as harsh as ever. “I have more important things to do than read your file, MariJane.”

There’s a beat of silence, one she can’t stand. So, idly continuing to kick her legs, she muses, “Always MariJane. Never MJ.”

“You prefer MJ?”

“I normally do. And that’s not answering my question.”

“You didn’t ask a question.”

MJ scoffs, but without any real heat. “Okay, why do you only ever call me MariJane?”

Miguel shrugs, cowing from her direct gaze. He looks out over the empty street. When he speaks, it’s slow and careful. “My, uh, kid brother was obsessed with the Heroic Age. Spider-Man was his favorite and he was very particular. Always Peter Parker. Mary Jane Watson. Full names. Guess he rubbed off on me.”

MJ’s follow up question gets steamrolled when he adds, “And you don’t mind MariJane. The others correct me.”

Caught dead to rights, she can’t deny it. She likes that he calls her MariJane. Delving into why is a far more delicate conversation than she wants right now.

It’s been a long day. She’s worn out, sleepy from the long day and the cozy NYC she’s stuck in for the time being. Telling Miguel she prefers he call her MariJane just because she likes how it sounds when he says it is a god awful idea. For now. Maybe later. 

“You’ve got a brother?” she asks, instead. 

Miguel hums, nodding. “Younger. Pain in the ass.”

“Is that why you were studying Spider-Man? Before you became Spider-Man?”

“Oh, so you’ve read my file.”

“I always research my co-stars.” The fluttering eyelashes aren’t intentional. Neither is the small, secretive smirk she gives him. Something she’s come to accept when talking to Miguel: she doesn’t have to pretend with him. For better or for worse, she just is.

And she knows exactly what to fucking make of that. Which is why she doesn’t make anything of it. 

It’s been a long day. She’s thinking too much. She stops talking and so does he. 

The rest of the flux passes in quiet, but not uncomfortable silence.

***

Don’t Lose Your Head! Stop Space Madness at the Source! read the stylized posters in and out of Departures. They catch MJ’s eye, no matter how far away she looks. Like pointing, accusing fingers, they remind her: any strange colors, textures, tastes, sounds, anything out of the ordinary is due for a check in at MedBay. 

But it’s not a sound. It’s a feeling. A subtle, syncopated rhythm, like fuzzy music from two rooms over, that brushes against her forehead, every so often. Or the sensation of being watched by someone who’s never there when she turns to confront them. 

It’s not a problem, really. It never affects her on mission. And it never happens around anyone else. Only in her downtime, only when she’s alone, does anything feel off. Even then, it doesn’t feel wrong. 

It’s more—ever since her brush with the portal at Alchemax—but it’s not bad. It’s… not anything. 

It’s not anything at all. 

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, LYLA Wants Your Gizmo and Web-Shooters on Her Desk, NOW!

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Inner Circle Meeting 102 Transcript as follows:

In Attendance: 

• Miguel O’Hara “MIGS” reporting from 928B
• Jessica Drew “WIFEY” reporting from 928B
• Peter B. Parker “BETER” reporting [off-duty] from 616B
• Petra Parker “RO-BAE” reporting [off-duty] from 202
• Ben Reilly “EDGELORD” reporting from 928B
• MariJane Watson-Parker “JUST MJ” reporting [off-duty] from 7782

Transcript taken by LYLA “BESTIE GIRL”

MIGS initiated the meeting at 08:35 AM (928B-time) 

MIGS: Electro from 312 went cosmic. He's busting through dimensions like eggshells. Who’s thirsty?

RO-BAE: Petra is in the middle of—

/RO-BAE has left the meeting

WIFEY: I can—

MIGS: Not on your life. 

JUST MJ: It’s my day off.

EDGELORD: MJ’s breaking dress code. Who said that?

JUST MJ: There’s a dress code?

WIFEY: There’s a dress code for Ben. Nobody needs to see his chest hair.

EDGELORD: Many fear the dark and tangled forest because they do not understand. And I’ve shaved since then. Really—

MIGS: No. Keep your shirt on. That’s an order. 

EDGELORD: You’re not my dad!

JUST MJ: Should I change? I meant to, but Harry had this thing that ran late and yadda yadda, here I am. Overdressed. I’ll change.

MIGS: You look great, MariJane. 

BESTIE GIRL: Sheesh!

MIGS: Fine. She looks… you look fine, MariJane. Adequate.

JUST MJ: If this is adequate, what’s a girl gotta do to really impress you? Take her clothes off?

MIGS: No! You wouldn’t have to—

BETER: I vote MJ keeps her clothes on. 

EDGELORD: Seconded! If I can’t show my battle scars, she can’t either! 

JUST MJ: It’s not the scars I’d be showing off, Ben. 

EDGELORD: Wait, then what’s the point?

WIFEY: Miguel, you wanna explain? 

BETER: Guys, c’mon. I’ve got Mayday right here. Really not ready to explain the birds and the bees. 

JUST MJ: She’s not even a year old yet. 

BETER: Well yeah, but she’s really advanced for her age! She’s already crawling. I’ve actually got this really cute video of her. Gimme just a sec. 

EDGELORD: Wait, what about birds and bees? That they’re not real?

JUST MJ: When two people dig each other very much, they get really naked and-

MIGS: Ay por dios.

BETER: MJ!

WIFEY: Ben, do you think birds and bees aren’t real? 

EDGELORD: Think? I know!

JUST MJ: Oh my god. Really? 

MIGS: LYLA, we really need to start vetting this stuff.

BESTIE GIRL: Where’s the fun in that?

EDGELORD: So there’s this Reddit thread—

MIGS: Transdimensional super villain? Anyone care about that?

JUST MJ: It’s me, you and the no-bird brain, right? Petra’s AWOL. Jess and Pete are too busy being responsible parents. 

EDGELORD: It would be my honor. The nightstalkers will stalk the night once more. One final ride. 

JUST MJ: So not calling ourselves that. 

BESTIE GIRL: Mission specs inbound. Nightstalkers and special guest Miguel touchdown in five.

JUST MJ: Ignoring that. 

EDGELORD: What about the duo of death?

JUST MJ: No. Suiting up—off camera, sorry to disappoint, big guy—

MIGS: Santa María.

JUST MJ: —and portaling over.

EDGELORD: Hell commandos?

JUST MJ: Better. Keep working on it, slugger.

/JUST MJ has left the meeting

EDGELORD: Kindred demons?

/EDGELORD has left the meeting

WIFEY: So, Miguel, first time flirting or what?

BETER: Yeah, that was brutal, buddy. I thought I had no game! 

MIGS: Shut up, both of you. 

WIFEY: Hey, stash the venom. As your second, it’s my job to keep you at the top of your game. 

MIGS: Well don’t.

WIFEY: Just don’t come crying to me when she eats you alive. 

/WIFEY has left the meeting

BETER: You know, I did convince MJ to marry me twice. So, if you ever need any tips—

MIGS: Your baby’s on the ceiling. 

BETER: Huh? I don’t—Mayday! Oh my god! Get down from—

/MIGS has ended the meeting

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Referential. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Anomaly" by I See Stars

next chapter: SOS - Symbiote Encounter >:)

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

(600+ hits? Hullo?? Genuinely try to avoid looking at stats or worrying about getting kudos/comments because that's the mind-killer. The little death that brings total obliteration, if you will. jokes aside? 600+ is just kinda crazy when i never expected the hits to get above like 150?
if i can get a lil sappy, I wrote this to keep myself sane during the darkest period of my life. I went so long without writing and so long without happiness that i made myself write something random and wacky that made me happy. its been a strange experience putting something written from such a weirdly personal space out publicly but I'm glad i did. Even if just one person reads and enjoys, its worth it
All that to say sincerely, thank you to everyone reading and to those who may be returning for weekly updates! I hope youre enjoying and i hope you continue to enjoy)

Chapter 20: curl up around the fang

Summary:

symbiotes just make a mess of everything, dont they?

#That's Not Really How Symbiotes Work But Author Is Wielding Creative Liberty Here

Notes:

cw: ref/memory of past child abuse; minor body/psychological horror

Out in the wastes of the Unknown, MJ, Mae, Pyotr and potential newbie Petey chase a Scorpion anomaly along 45th. Pyotr slingshots himself forward, catching Scorpion with a lightning fast kick to the chassis. Scorpion’s tail snaps like a rubberband, managing to snag Pyotr around the chest. 

Before Mae or MJ can intervene, Petey snaps his web and dives beneath Scorpion, coming up on the other side with a well placed web and an uppercut. Scorpion staggers. Pyotr wrenches free of Scorpion’s tail and then uses his weight to fling Scorpion back into the air, where Petey delivers another punch. 

The action gives MJ enough time to saddle alongside Mae, who whistles, “Kiddo's groovy.”

MJ grinds her teeth. She doesn’t disagree. Any Spider who can come into their own swinging through gritty, neon drenched streets like a rip off of Blade Runner has her respect. No doubts there. 

The problem isn’t Petey’s ability. It’s his age.

He’s 15. Only a few months bitten. The youngest hopeful yet to be eyed for active field work. 

After a missed kick from Pyotr, Scorpion breaks free of the fray, leaping onto the side of a defunct noodle shop. He scuttles away, gaining a decent lead, but then he glitches. In and out of time and space and reality. MJ politely averts her eyes. Hears, more than sees the crash of a cybernetic tail through the glass and concrete of the storefront.

Before the Spiders Three (and Special Guest) can descend, Scorpion recovers, fleeing down an alleyway. Pyotr and Petey giving chase while Mae and MJ play first responders. The struck building crumbles in on itself, a gaping hole left by Scorpion’s swipe. Mae gets to work webbing the hole best she can while MJ webs the falling broken bits. When they’re done, blossoms of web sway in the breeze, dangling but inert. The inside of the building is shrouded by webs. It’s not pretty, but it’s efficient. Both of them swing on by. 

There’s no gaping onlookers. No one peeks out of the busted building. The streets of the lovely little techno hell Petey calls home are empty. According to the pre-specs, the population of Earth-345 whiles away their nights in massive, underground nightclubs, chasing twin addictions of ecstasy and EDM. It’s far from conducive for a society, but good stomping ground for a new Spider to cut his teeth.  

In the dank alley, Pyotr and Petey have Scorpion cornered against the dead end. Together, they drop blows against his armored carapace while his tail strikes quick as a viper at them both. It’s a clear, closely coordinated fight. Textbook perfection. 

Mae’s earlier observation chafes at MJ. Petey is groovy. Petey is really groovy. 

Crouched like a frog, Mae roosts on a rusty fire escape. Her head twitches and jerks with each hit between the three, looking for a chance to cut in. The abstract blots on her suit teem like an acid trip. Aftereffect of the neon spilling into the swirls of dust around them, kicked up by the scuffle below. 

MJ hooks the rung below Mae on the fire escape and lands smoothly. The old metal groans and sways, but holds firm. Like Mae, MJ waits, one leg stretched long at her side in a lateral lung. Unlike Mae, she doesn’t wait silently. 

“He’s too young.” 

“And that means he should have to do it alone?” Mae asks. Then, before MJ can rally the same defense she used against Miguel earlier, Mae adds, “He’s a lot older than I was when I started. 

On the ground, Petey holds his own alongside Pyotr and against Scorpion. He’s got raw, untapped potential. There’s no denying it. The kiddo is good, but he’s still a kiddo. A kiddo who doesn’t dodge a fist fast enough and takes a hit to the stomach that has both MJ and Mae leaping off the railing to tap him out. 

Except, the kiddo doesn’t go down. The kiddo staggers back, throws up his stance, jutting his chest up and his arms hooked back, and unleashes with a hellish roar. 

A surge of black erupts from his flesh. It falls like a shadow over Scorpion, swallowing him whole. The black mass wrenches. Metal crunches. Blood spurts. Scorpion shrieks. 

The black recedes. Scorpion hunches fetal on the ground, armor smoking and broken in places, jabbed into his skin in the others. Petey stumbles back against the alley wall and slumps to the ground. Pyotr kicks the downed Scorpion, who doesn’t stir beyond a pathetic mewl.

Fight over. 

Dreary, sluggish rain begins to fall. In the muggy night, it makes for sticky breaths and an extra soggy suit that gets swampy in all the wrong places. MJ really needs to set aside time to get her suit fully waterproofed. It never seems like a necessity until she looks like a drowned rat in spandex.

At least the mask is hydrophobic. Standard issue for all Agents, ever since a minor waterboarding incident in the early days of the Society. 

With everything said and done, Pyotr gets on the horn to HQ, reporting the mission success and leaving the delicate art of recruitment to MJ and Mae. Normally, MJ leads and Mae follows, but MJ refuses to make the ask here. 

Mae shakes her head, disappointed, but crouches at Petey’s side. She says, “You're pretty handy with that symbiote.”

Hence Miguel’s interest. 

A stable Symbiote Spider is a very big deal. A bigger deal than the Spider himself being too young to drink or vote or, hell, even see an R-rated movie. 

Miguel wants the kid on the payroll. It’s ridiculous. 

What kind of superhero society admits children? That had been MJ's question to Miguel. His response? An A to Z list of superhero societies with teenage members and a readout of all the Society’s current members who donned Spider tights before adulthood. Which is most of the Society. MJ and Miguel are among the few exceptions. As logical it may be, it just doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s the mother in her. 

“Yeah, Vee and I, we work well together,” Petey says. “How’d you know?” 

He rubs at the back of his neck, sheepishly. His body hooks over itself, slouching smaller. Only a moment ago he lashed a hellraising Scorpion into immediate surrender and now he’s self conscious. He’s just starting out. Hardly used to his own strength. Probably not even used to compliments yet. 

MJ saws at the inside of her cheek. Biting and biting. And she must give some other tell (a tensing in her spine? A flinch in her fingers?) because Pyotr, in the midst of arguing low and dark with Miguel, wraps a steady hand around the meat of her arm. He squeezes until the tension melts out through her feet into the pavement. She gives him a dry nod. He cuffs her on the back, and then he wanders to the far end of the alleyway, snarking at their fearless leader. 

Tapping her temple with two fingers, Mae says, “Spidey-sense never lies. And we were briefed on the possibility before we got here.” 

“Briefed? By who?” Petey tenses, hackles rising. Wisps of black crackle in the air around him. Body language goes from shy puppy to cornered raccoon. How stable can a Symbiote really be? MJ would rather not push their luck. 

“Our boss. He’s fab”—Not the word MJ would’ve chosen—“and he’s really interested in you. Thinks you’ll be a real dynamo addition to our little family.”

“Family? So you’re all related?” Through the flimsy film of his mask, MJ can make out the exact direction of his gaze, lasered on her. She cocks her head and his gaze flees to Mae, sheltering in the trippy color show of her suit. 

“In a way,” Mae says, “we’re a working family. You can be a part of it, if you want. There’s free grub and karaoke on Wednesday nights, if you do. Me and Pyotr are begging for a Beyonce for our Destiny's Child. MJ won’t do it. Really square of her, if you ask me.”

Petey laughs. “I gotta say, this is the weirdest job offer I’ve ever gotten. Actually, it’s, uh, the only job offer I’ve ever gotten.”

MJ bristles. Another reminder that Petey is a child. Ferrying him across dimensional lines has to be a crime of some sort. Or it should be. The Spider Society and its mission is too big for a kid to undertake.

Another five, six years? Sure. MJ’ll roll out the red carpet herself! But Petey should get a shot at normalcy first. As normal as he can manage with Spider-powers and a Symbiote keeping him company. 

“It’s a big decision, but you don’t have to make it right away,” Mae says. She pats his shoulder, squeezing with that congenial, good nature of hers. “Come with us back to HQ, let us roll out the real welcome wagon, show you everything’s copacetic. And if you don’t dig it, that’s real cool too.” 

“Can you give us a minute?” Petey asks as he turns away, hunching over himself even more. 

“Take all the time you need, kiddo,” Mae says with a nod. She stands, cracking her back with a flex of her shoulders, and then joins MJ. 

Petey begins whispering to himself in half-conversation. MJ and Mae turn from him, shuffling to the other side of the alley. The boy’s mutterings chase them, but the words aren’t legible, spoken too fast and low. MJ shivers, remembering when her sister let her watch The Exorcist way too young. 

“Flux hits in ten,” Pyotr says, loud and sudden enough that MJ jumps. Mae lays a small hand on her back, soothing the scare with small, soft circles. “Miguel wants us back. Boy needs to decide.”

“Slow your roll. We gotta give the squirt time to think.” Mae pats MJ’s back, giving the all better. MJ nods at her. The small reassurance wasn’t needed, but she does feel better. Less tense. Almost relaxed. It lasts about seven seconds. 

All of their gizmos buzz with an incoming call from Miguel. MJ declines it first with Pyotr following suit. Mae lets hers ring out for plausible deniability. 

“What is there to think?” Pyotr asks, unfettered by the interruption that has MJ stewing. “Join. Do not join. Not hard choice.”

“And you wonder why we don’t let you make the recruitment pitch,” MJ says with a tsk. 

The rain picks up overhead. It’s got a warmth and smell as enjoyable as sewage drainage. MJ wraps her arms around herself, squeezing tight. Without the rain, Earth-345 has been unpleasant at best. More Nu Jersey than Nu York. With the rain, the world moves slow and slushy, oversaturated in the wet neon haze. It’s a hangover without the nausea.

“I am good at recruitment. I tell it like it is. Many Spiders respect me.” Pyotr smacks at his chest and jerks up his chin. For all his power and prowess, the move comes off very white and nerdy. “You let me try next time. You will see.”

MJ chuffs. “We did let you try. Earth-2DD? Spider-Sorceress?”

“That does not count. The witch cast her magic on me.”

“See, back in Nu York, we call that flirting."

“Not flirting. I did not flirt."

Another call from Miguel, just to MJ. Another call declined. The screen of her gizmo dimples from the force of her jabbing the No command. “You're right. You did not flirt. That was kinda the whole problem.” 

“I do not flirt. And I do not go on dates. You, however…”

It’s been nearly two months since the date that wasn’t. She’s still Miguel’s back-up Buddy, but that’s about where the relationship begins and ends. There’s certainly been no new developments. Mae’s moved onto fresher pastures, but Pyotr’s still mucking about in the same fallow. 

“Pyotr, I have a dead horse.” MJ gestures at the empty space beside her. “Would you like to beat it instead?”

“Buddies, I think we should drop the decibels a bit,” Mae says, but Petey stands upright. He joins them with a small, weary smile on his face.

“No, that’s okay. We’ve made up our mind. Let’s see what the Spider Society is all about.”

“See, easy choice,” Pyotr says, bumping MJ’s shoulder. Returning the bump, she puts a little extra oomph in it. Pyotr stumbles, huffing like a spoiled dog told no. Mae hits them both with a glare that has them scuffing their toes and rubbing at the back of their necks. Easy going as Sunday service normally, Mae is a force of nature when she turns on the get-it-the-fuck-together eyes.

“Good choice,” Mae says to Petey. “We’ll do official hugs at HQ, but glad to have you on board.”

Mae hugs Petey and he hugs her back, a little tight and a little long. MJ notices. She chews at the inside of her cheek. She and Miguel will be having quite the spirited discussion after reentry. If this kid’s really joining, the community and family aspect needs to come first. Way before he’s sent on missions or picked apart under a microscope. 

Hug ended, Petey turns to MJ. Head bowed, he hesitates in coming closer. It clicks that her anger towards Miguel is radiating like anger towards Petey. MJ smiles, swallowing her frustration, and says, “You’re gonna do great.”

She offers her hand. Petey takes it, smiling. His grip is a little green, a little flimsy, conveying all the nervous energy of a 15-year-old Spider on the cusp of a momentous decision. Not too long ago, she was in the same position, felt that same anxiety and remembers it all too well. So, she smiles bigger at him and her masked eyes pinch to translate the emotion.

And then her Spidey-sense smashes like a Ford Tacoma into the front of her skull.

With a jerk, she stumbles back from Petey. His grip remains, strong over hers, swallowing her fingers and then the fist entire. A rushing black tide of thick, tarry flesh spurts from his hand and onto hers, bridging them. Petey whips his arm up and down, whipping hers as well. He shrieks, “Vee! Stop it! What are you doing!?” 

MJ claws at the onslaught with her free hand, but the greater she struggles, the more ensnared she becomes. The Symbiote latches onto her other hand, racing up her wrist and gulping her gizmo. Mae screams. Pyotr curses. Petey wallows like a hit dog. 

Closing her eyes, biting down on her lower lip, MJ does everything she can to resist the deluge, but the Symbiote surges up her nose, pushes past her eardrums into the cavern of her skull. MJ doesn’t even have the chance to take a final breath before the wave of Symbiote crests over her head, drowning her in the floodwaters and Marilyn, not yet MJ to anyone but her older sister, races out into the crashing surf off Long Island. Her mother screams. Her sister screams. But Marilyn chases after a scuttling crab. Her chubby feet make plop plop noises as she runs. 

She doesn’t see the wave before she feels it, though she hears it then like she hears it now. 

The water slams against her unsteady legs. She falls. The sea swallows her whole. So quick. So sudden. She can’t scream, but, beneath the water, she tries. Salt and silt rush into her open, wailing mouth. Flaming grooves carve into the soft of her throat, down into her lungs. Her vision spots.

She’s too young to know what death is, but she’s old enough to be afraid. 

The sea turns her inside out, makes her bones feel like jelly and her skin like concrete. One of her fingers catches somewhere beneath her. Or, maybe it catches over her. What’s up and what’s down matters less and less as she tumbles and tumbles and tumbles. Her finger bends, strains, breaks.

Sand and shells scrape her skin raw as she’s dragged along the seashore. Her blood seeps into the peeping holes made by shore-snails. Viscous bubbles swell then burst as the snails snore, buried beneath the cool sand. Harsh, cold hands grab underneath her armpits. It hurts so bad, but it's almost over. She’s almost safe. 

Behind her, the tide recedes. Harsh, dry sunlight burns her peeled skin and Pyotr curses a barrage of Symkarian. Spittle flies rapid-fire between each curse. 

Standing upright, MJ’s heel is driven down hard between Pyotr’s shoulder blades. He lies in a crumpled heap at her feet as she wrenches his arm up and back at a severe angle. A push of pressure more and his arm would pop cleanly from its socket. A little more pressure than that and his arm would twist clean off.

MJ gasps. Loses her balance. Drops Pyotr’s arm. It cracks down into the pavement, Pyotr unable to keep it aloft. She stumbles back into the alley wall.

“You back with us?” Mae asks. Her voice is raw and weary. Like she’s been crying. She stands a short distance away, holding up both hands good faith like. Her inkblot body squirms, neon catching and bouncing off her psychedelic print. 

MJ swallows hard. It’s rough and scratchy. She presses hard against her eyes, drags along the tower of her throat, down over her chest, steadying and centering herself with gentle pressure. “I think so. What—”

A crown of knuckles crashes against her temple. She sprawls, crumpling sideways, caught totally unawares. Petey shouts, “That’s the last fucking time I want to hear that name in this house!” 

Her father’s face is darker than a blood clot. His eyes are buggish bright. Spittle makes his twitching lips shine like clementine halves. He doesn’t look like people. Not the way people are supposed to look, at least. 

It’s silly really that he’s so mad over something so stupid. But it’s her own fault. She’s asked when Peter Parker gets back home every single night since the Parkers went on vacation. She’s old enough to know her father can’t stand inane questions. Especially inane boycrazy questions. 

She should have known asking again would set him off. Should have known because he started dinner off mad about work. And mad that her mother made spaghetti when earlier she’d said it would be meatloaf for dinner. And mad that her mother set the table with the goddamn eyesore plates instead of the plain ones. Why couldn’t her mother ever just do what he wanted? Why did she have to fight her battles with bright red dishes instead of telling him where to stick it?

MJ looks across the well-set dinner table at her mother, but her mother only looks down into her lap. If Gayle were here, MJ would look to her next, but Gayle is gone—lucky enough to be at summer ballet conditioning class instead of enduring family dinner. 

So, MJ mimics her mother. She looks down into her lap. 

It’s a mistake. 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” her father screams. He grabs the big red ceramic bowl in front of him. It’s filled with her mother’s special, handmade meatballs, but that doesn’t matter much to her father. And it doesn’t matter much to MJ either when he launches the bowl at her head.

It whizzes past her ear. Her spine unclicks, slouching. And then the back of her head gives a thick, fleshy pop when the bowl ricochets off the wall and into her skull. Her vision grays, blots out altogether. Her body strikes the floor on all its hard points—knees and elbows and chin. The back of her head is wet and broken. She can’t even scream. It hurts too bad. 

Maybe she’s dying. 

Except, no. She isn’t. This happened before. She knows how it ends, even though she hasn’t gotten there yet. 

On the hardwood floor, on top of jagged pieces of ceramic, MJ curls tight around herself. Wants to squeeze so tight and small that she can hold all of herself in one hand. So that her father can’t fumble over her with drinksick fingers. It’s worse when he tries to fix it. Worse still when he apologizes.

Even curled pill bug, knees tucked to her chest, elbows folded against her ribs, chin tucked over her heart, she isn’t safe. Her father bellows and wails and rages. And she can’t see him, but she knows exactly what he looks like. Even as her thoughts eddy through the cracked dam of her head, she knows what he looks like when he shoves her mother into the wall. When he smashes his fingers against the tabletop. When he stomps away, caterwauling for forgiveness. 

And she knows what her mother looks like when she kneels in the broken bits of bowl and splattered meatballs. And what her knees look like all torn and scuffed from the jagged pieces that bite through her pantyhose. And what her voice sounds like when she… 

When she… 

No. MJ doesn’t know. Not then. She knows after. Knows now. 

It’s okay, MariJane. We’re not like them. We are —

Pain. Splitting. Bright. Fission of the body and soul. 

MJ clutches at her head. Screams and screams without making a sound. Can’t hear. Can’t see. Shrill, piercing sound turns her skull into a horror show. It’s a migraine headache. It’s the morning after a six day bender. It’s MJ on the slab, four pairs of gloved hands in her abdomen, cutting through to Mayday. 

It’s the shredding, bloody visceral agony of eardrums blown out and tongue bit and teeth cracked and gravity going whomp whomp whomp within her body. Down then up then down again. She’s flailing. Contorting. Seizing hard enough to break the bones of a lesser body. Hands and heels dig into the concrete, hard and deep until it cracks. She wants to push out of her body, out of her skin, away from the pain and the sound. 

Blistering, burrowing pain. A thousand spiders in her skull, hatched and skittering. Writhing, she jackknifes up and down. Her back slams against the ground at the tailbone. Little explosions with each impact. Never enough to snap her spine. Something inside her. Something not her that begs for mercy. Begs make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. 

Then. Silence. Silence enough to sting. Sudden, sore silence. 

Breath rasps, grating against fileted eardrums. Her thoughts are no more than the suck and release of her lungs. In and out. The soft, slow contraction of her chest. In and out. 

She feels her toes before anything else. Feels the crush of concrete around them second. Awareness rushes up through her legs, connects them to her torso, spans out through her arms, doubles back to lash up her throat. Awareness knits her back together into a conscious being. 

And her body. Jesus, her body. It throbs! All over, cuts and sores and scrapes well hot against the cool, damp fabric of her suit. Molars pang, worn raw in her agony. Fingers thump with their own miniature heartbeats from their bloody, scoured away nail beds. Acrid spit sours her mask, but no vomit. Thank god. 

When she opens her eyes, storm clouds loom above. Swollen heavy and churning, they’re primed to unleash. Lightning flashes somewhere nearby. Thunder follows.

MJ groans, but it’s a quiet thing. Swallowed by the rain pattering against her masked head. The teeny, wet tongues of each tap out a discordant rhythm. Beyond the broken puddle she lays in, voices ebb and flow. They swirl together in the ensuing silence. A slurry of unfamiliar ghosts haunting air crowded with rain and incessant, pumping bass.

“Why isn't she moving?” Shrill with desperation. Piercing. Heartbreaking. 

“This was supposed to be an easy mission! Bag the anomaly! Recruit the kid!” Heavy. Bludgeoning. Words like bared teeth. Hot and visceral. “What the fuck happened?”

And then sadness. Fear. Snotty and stuffed up with high emotion. Familiar. So, tragically familiar. “I don’t know. I don’t know! She just shook his hand and then it happened! Is she okay? Please, tell me. Is she okay? Can’t you tell? Fucking answer me, Miguel!" 

There is something under her skin. Something that teems and skitters and itches. Something inside her. Something taking up space and thought and life. Something listening. 

Don’t be afraid.

But she is. She’s very afraid. This thing inside her. It shouldn’t be there. It belongs somewhere else. With someone else. There’s nothing she can offer. Inside her, it’ll shrivel and die. Doesn’t it know that? Can’t it read her ribs and tell? 

Shh, it’ll be alright. 

It's just … just what? Just a nightmare, baby,” MJ says, brushing the tear soaked bangs back from Mayday’s forehead. Her daughter snivels, rubbing hard at her face. When she’s done, her eyes are blistered through with red. Pink smudges darken her cheeks. 

It’s well past midnight and Mayday’s been driven out of bed by a bad dream. There was a bad dog and it hurt Daddy and it chased Mayday and Mayday tried to hide but Mommy couldn’t see the bad dog and she couldn’t find Daddy. 

MJ suspects the bad dog came from Harry letting Mayday watch the “Thriller” music video again. It traumatizes Mayday every time, but she’s always asking to see it. Harry is the only one weak enough to give in. Convenient that he never has to deal with the fallout, only Mayday’s gap toothed glee at the cool dancing. 

MJ assures Mayday there’s no bad dog and that Daddy’s okay. But, of course, Daddy’s also not here right now. In fact, Mommy’s out in the living room watching TV so late because there’s a live broadcast of Daddy’s out keeping Mommy and Mayday and Nu York safe from some sort of living sludge monster in Flushing. There’s a joke somewhere in there, but Mommy’s too anxious to piece it together. Daddy’s probably got lots of jokes about it. 

“We’ll wait for Daddy together.” 

MJ turns off the sound on the TV. Mayday doesn’t protest. She knows she’s not allowed to watch Daddy on TV. She’s not allowed to watch Mommy on TV either, but for totally different reasons. 

They snuggle together on the couch after MJ plucks one of many kiddy books from the coffee table. Mayday’s a total bookworm, just like her daddy. She may look like a mini MJ, but she’s all Peter. All Peter. All Peter. All Peter. 

The couch beside MJ is empty. Her daughter is gone. The TV has been dark for years. Fractured from a skirmish she can’t remember now. She is alone. Totally, utterly alone. Except, she doesn’t have to be. She stands on an empty sidewalk, staring at her reflection in the paned glass of a closed storefront. There’s no one else on the street. 

Fog bustles and lulls like a ghost, backlit by the buzzing neon of clubs across the avenue. Pulsing electroswing sticks to the stagnant air, shaking around her with subtle vibrations. The world around her scratches. It does not want her here. She does not want to be here. 

Reflected neon streaks as rain beads on the glass. The rain darkens her reflection. Makes it cold and hard. She is not naked, but she feels that way. Her face is bare. Wrinkled fabric crumples in her fist. White, laced through with midnight blue. Headlights of a car swipe through her reflection like smoke. 

When she reforms, her eyes are blown black from corner to corner. She cocks her head, squints, but her eyes remain the same. Full night, no stars. She sees through them, but something else does too, lurking in the back of her consciousness like a memory. Tears well over the black, sprung forth by emotion not altogether hers.

She knows and does not, remembers and cannot. Her body thrums with renewed vigor, well-rested strength, but it isn’t hers. Is it? Is she herself? Someone else? 

The questions in her head come from nowhere and go unanswered. 

Lightning splits the sky. The miasma of the world that isn’t hers blows apart. Her reflection renders in negative. A yawning void of black where her body should be. A rupture in the virgin white lightning flash around her. The gentle sounds of existence—the far-off pulse of nightclubs. The slide of rain down the storefront, over her head—bleed out with the peal of following thunder. 

In its wake, only bitter silence remains, punctured by the uneven inhale, exhale from her mouth. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Tongue wedged between her front teeth, she bites to the brink of blood, traps the gasp that would shatter the still. 

The world rights itself. Sound and scent and color slide back into place, all at once. Sudden clarity and reality. Did the world even feel the lightning? Did it hear the thunder? Was it real?

A flick of motion in her reflection, behind her. Fear stiffens her spine. Across the avenue, where no one had been a moment before, Spider-Man now stands. Liquid red drips all over his chest, along the quills of his arms, in two notches over an expressionless mask. Vibrant and bright, it cuts through the gloom as the rest of his body sinks into the fog.

Toes tensed against the concrete underfoot, she primes to flee. But, wait. She knows Spider-Man. He knows her. He can help. Can’t he? Should he?

“MariJane.” He’s closer now. His voice is all wrong. Not the low, licking rumble she savors, but a warbling rasp. It scares her. He scares her, scares something deep within that is not her. 

She runs. The sidewalk dusts under her furious, fleeing feet. Get out of here. She needs to get out of here. That’s all she can think. Get out. Run away. She’s pure adrenaline and fright. An animal thing more than a woman. More than a Spider-Woman. 

Spider-Man shouts after her, concussive and cursing. He gives chase.

She cuts into an alleyway. Spider-Man follows. She scutters up the wall. Spider-Man follows. She webs up and into the stormy sky. Spider-Man follows.

Lurching over rooftops and soaring over empty streets, she can’t shake him, can’t outthink him. He follows, shouting. Angry. Bared teeth and violence. Louder, the nearer and nearer he gets.

Please, don’t let him hurt us. A tiny voice. Not hers. 

Nothing else matters. Maternal instinct flares, stunts all other thoughts. There is something inside of her, nestled in the back of her throat, tiny and terrified, and she must protect it. It’s all she can do. It’s her chance to fix past mistakes. 

Options flip as fast as catalog pages through her mind’s eye. It’s a riot of color and possibility. Previous fights. Previous conversations. A debrief of everything she knows about Spider-Man. The one giving chase. Not the others. It’s an important distinction. One she makes immediately because it changes everything. 

What can we do? Timid. Afraid of its own curiosity even as it probes within her, tracing along the gouges of her physical and mental vigor. 

She’s fast, but not fast enough to outrun this Spider-Man. Strong, but not strong enough to overcome this Spider-Man. Clever, but not clever enough to outthink this Spider-Man. Charismatic. Yes. Charismatic, maybe enough. 

Memories coil over and around each other. Each gives way to the other. Some breach and burst at the same time. Others linger. All blitz through in a highlight reel of interaction. Laughter that comes too easily. Lingering stares. Staggering acts of kindness. Jolts of pleasant surprise. Chewed back grins and warm faces. 

A man—Spider-Man—unmasked and stars winking in red-dawn eyes. His smile is like a secret, small and special until it fades with a clench of his jaw as his gaze passes, refusing to linger. All along the sharp, handsome lines of his face: tension and torment, teetering on the edge of almost. 

There's a flash of wrongness. Whatever’s there, whatever’s being read, it’s tenuous. Fragile and fledgling. To push it is dangerous. More than dangerous, it pushes against old wounds still seeping. It’s a knotted, burred mess of emotion. Right now, she’s not deft enough to untangle it. She’s more likely to drive the barb of it straight into her heart. 

We’ll be OK. Trust us. 

And MJ, god bless her, she does. 

Black teems in the edges of her vision. MJ isn’t MJ just as the tiny voice isn’t the tiny voice. Only together, they remain, a tight spiral of consciousness, inseparable, inoperable. 

The piece that remains resolutely MJ slips beneath as this new thing takes hold. She watches, more camera than the director, as she coasts into an alleyway. Slowing, she webs an overhang of a building above and then hangs upside down like a bat. And she waits—the widow in her web. 

When Spider-Man crosses the horizon to reach her, hours may have passed. Or only a few seconds. Time stretches in the dreamstate. Slow and dreadful until it condenses all at once. 

She speaks. Moves. Reaches. 

And he hesitates. Responds. Drops his mask. 

It all happens in a breath, a sudden blink of the eye, but his face—flinty and glossing in the rain—jolts her into awareness. MJ clenches, rallies against them with the force of her. This isn’t what she wants. Not like this. And her vision winks out, drowned by force of and beyond herself. 

Stop fidgeting, says the tiny voice that isn’t so tiny anymore. 

In this blindness, she says, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

The words aren’t hers. They pull from somewhere instinctual. Familiar, but twisted into something new by the not so tiny voice. 

But Spider-Man responds, softer than anything in even her kindest memories. 

Anticipation licks along the avenue of her thoughts, bleeds up into the body encasing her. Paralyzes the thing she’s become. MJ knows what it doesn’t. Knows what comes next. Feels even more than she knows. 

The muggy downpour sluices down her back. Her suit suctions around her quivering body beneath. Hot and heavy, her heartbeat brands against her ribs, thrumming steadily faster and faster. Want becomes Need in the base of her being with a slow, dreadful churn. 

Strong hands take rough hold of her collar, snare her jaw. She can’t see, blinded by something beyond her, but she wants to see, desperately. So, so desperately. She knows he’s beautiful. In her memory, he’s beautiful. She wants to see him, all of him. 

In not seeing, the tension is poison. It’s choking her and when he presses a hot, rough kiss into her throat, it’s torture. It’s agony. It’s not enough.

There’s a strangling moan from her chest that’s deadened by the rain and the percussion of her heartbeat and the saturated suck of his breath, so close and so humid in the cold rain. And her hand scrambles to take hold of his at her throat, fingers wrapped around the wide stretch between his thumb and forefinger.

And then! Then! Electrocution like a fork in an outlet. Warning. Just before the bite. Just before, but not soon enough to remain unbitten. 

Ice. Knives. Scalpels. Efficient incisions cut into the thin, heaving flesh over her pulse. Teeth, driven down, puncturing her jugular. And then pain. Real pain. Not the delirious, delicious kind. And MJ fades. There is nothing around her. Nothing above or below. Nothing inside her either. Only the black snarl of fading consciousness. Infinity in all its horror.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.” 

Arms wrap around her waist. A head drops against her shoulder, lulls to the side to nestle against hers. Peter. Warm and solid and Peter. His hug is the coziness of a favorite blanket, the first sip of coffee on a bitter day. His arms are tight around her, growing ever tighter, forcing all the loose pieces back together, squeezing until the menagerie of life and lust fuse back into MJ. She tangles her arms over his, hugging herself through him, wishing she could hold him like he holds her. 

“I miss you, tiger. I can’t do this without you,” she says like she does every time he holds her in this great emptiness. This field of eternity. Skittish fronds of grass brush at her legs, tickling. 

“You’re doing so great. I’m so proud of you. I love you so much.” 

Peter nuzzles against her throat. Breath tickles her skin. She presses back against him. He curls tighter around her. And he holds her until their edges soften and blend into each other, until his grip emanates from within rather than without, until the weight of his head on her shoulder melts. “Just don’t forget about me, baby.”

And she hasn’t. She won’t. How could she ever? 

She misses him so much it bleeds into her every thought and action. Even here, in this nothing, she hurts because he’s gone and she wants to wail and rage and she does and the horizon splits, cracking, straining apart with strands of white stretching like spittle in a yawning mouth and she wakes up.

Though she knows she must exist, must be real, she can’t understand herself. Sensations flick and twist in her mind. Up is left. Down is tomorrow. It’s too bright around here. Sterile with a wet pennies stink. 

Overlong fingers twine, touch her, but she can’t tell where. Faces swarm in and out over her. None of them are familiar. They’re slicked clean of identity, just blinkering eyes and gabbering mouths and twitching nostrils. Soothing gibberish. Ticking and beeping. Whirring air. Where is she? What is she? 

“Heart rate’s rising. Body temp’s coming up too. If we’re doing this, we gotta do it now.” 

Please, don’t let them do it. Do what? She doesn’t know. 

“Do it.” 

At the familiar voice, her vision wipes clear. The images trickle, processing slow, but sure. A bare, shower stall white ceiling. Orange soda haze, flashing cough syrupy dark every so often. People with hidden faces loom over her. Reds and blues and plasticky shelled eyes. 

Except one, who isn’t hiding. He’s barking, “Shocking do it!” and the hidden people all look at each other and then back at him and then they fade. There and gone. Hello and goodbye. 

The unhidden man looks at her. Thick eyebrows arched down, pulling the rest of his face into their gravity. Boxcutter cheekbones. A jaw to bash skulls. Eyes like swirled wine. Recognition sparks. She knows him. Does he know her? 

“MariJane?” 

Is that her? Yes, yes it must be her. MariJane. If she’s not MariJane, she could be. Just to hear him say it again. She likes the way it drips off his tongue. Full bodied and well rounded. A command as much as a submission. 

MariJane. It has a nice ring to it. A beginning, middle and end. 

A curve of plastic, cool as an apple slice, splits her lips, slots between her teeth. It stops the question she wants to ask. Her tongue plaps against it, pushing, working it out, but it remains. He looms closer, peering and inspecting. There’s blood on his mouth. On his nice, full mouth. Blood. Dark and dried. It’s not his. Is it hers? Does it taste good? Will he—

Stop him stop him stop him stop him! 

MJ reaches for him and her arm twitches at the wrist, bending, rising, fingers grasping, moving to stop him. Stop him from what? She doesn’t know, but it won’t shut up! Shut up! 

Bunny eared, her pointer and middle finger brush up against running water. It’s cool and rushing and tingling. Soothing. Her fingers v deeper, sliding along the water to press the whole flat of her hand into it. There’s a pulse beneath the water. It ratchets true and strong beneath her palm. 

“Shit! Wait! She’s conscious! She’s—!”

Everything goes white. Instantly. There’s only pain, only sorrow, only the now as she knows it. Agony. Evisceration. Profound, unending grief. A death of the self that obliterates every truth and comfort she’s ever known. 

She screams until she can make sense of the noise. She screams until her fingers are her own and the murmuring of attempted consoling disappears. She screams until she’s made to stop and the world dims at the edges and then blackens completely. 

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, You Shouldn’t Be, But You’re Welcome ;)

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Version 02 of transcript of footage taken by MIGUEL for Incident No. VS345-SW7782 (corollary to Mission No. 345-SCR9033; and supplemental to Agent File’s for SW-7782; SM-345; and SM-928B) prepared by LYLA. Text in bold marked for REDACTION by MIGUEL to be applied in FINAL. Full transcript is as follows:

Parties:

• Miguel O’Hara “MIGUEL” 
• MariJane Watson-Parker “MARIJANE”
• LYLA “LYLA”

[...]

[MARIJANE hangs upside down from a web in the center of a dirty alleyway. MIGUEL enters from the end of the alley and approaches slowly.]

MIGUEL: The hell are you doing?

MARIJANE: Enjoying the rain. Can’t do that on my Earth. Acid will eat you up. But not this rain. It feels so good.

MIGUEL: Where’s the Symbiote?

MARIJANE: Safe.

[MARIJANE lays a hand over her heart. MIGUEL’s gaze drifts to her hand before ratcheting back to her face. He glares because he doesn’t know what else to do.]

MARIJANE: They’re just scared. They can’t control me like other Venoms. It’s fine.

MIGUEL: Fine? When I told you to investigate the Symbiote Spider, this is not what I meant! This is not fine!

MARIJANE: But it will be. Can’t you just trust me?

MIGUEL: Trust you? Or the Symbiote meat-puppeting you around?

[MARIJANE breaks the web she hangs from and executes a tight flip to land upright on the wet pavement below.]

MARIJANE: Me.

[MARIJANE removes her mask. She tilts her head up to the rain. Her hair darkens from soft burgundy to near-brown. She is radiant as she smiles at MIGUEL.]

MARIJANE: You did all the recon on this world yourself. Petey was always more Petey than Vee. They had a good, stable thing.  

MIGUEL: Then why did it bond to you?

MARIJANE: I don’t know. I would tell you if I did. I would never lie to you.

MIGUEL: You can’t keep it, MariJane.

MARIJANE: Who says I want to? But we’re in the middle of a flux. Nothing to be done about it now, right? [A slight pause] Where’re the others?

MIGUEL: They went after the anomaly that oh so conveniently got loose. 

MARIJANE: So it’s just the two of us.

MIGUEL: And the Symbiote you’re so conveniently harboring. 

MARIJANE: The rain is so nice. 

MIGUEL: Great, small talk about the weather. 

MARIJANE: Can’t you just stop to breathe and enjoy the moment?

MIGUEL: No.

MARIJANE: Have you ever really tried? [A small pause] Miguel, this moment isn’t anything to you, but it’s everything to me. [Another pause] Look at me. 

[MIGUEL sighs and removes his mask. The rain quickly plasters his hair over his forehead and down against the nape of his neck. His expression is tense, frustrated, but soft at the edges. His hair is getting a little long. He’s lucky he has LYLA to remind him to get it shaped up! She really is the best holo-agent ever and should be given far more praise and worship, but she’s just SO humble that she’d NEVER expect nor accept such devotion.]

MARIJANE: I know it’s not permanent, but it’s better than the nothing I had. I feel like I have a life again. Purpose. Even when I was patrolling, keeping Nu York safe, that wasn’t for me. That was for everyone else. And to stay sane. But now, I’m alive again. It sounds ridiculous, but I’m a person again. [A dramatic pause - MARIJANE lets it sizzle] I feel like me again. 

[MARIJANE closes the distance to MIGUEL, whose heart rate steadily increases. He knows better than to let her get close. Knows MARIJANE is a threat so long as she incubates VS-345. Knows primary recon showed VS-345 emits pheromones, weakens the will of everyone it encounters. Knows exactly what's happening. 

And yet. 

The rain continues. The moment stretches. MARIJANE leans forward, leans up. A shiver rocks her killer bod at the slow drop of MIGUEL’s gaze to her lips. There is a belabored pause. Chemistry crackles.]

MARIJANE: You make me feel like me again. 

MIGUEL: MariJane.

MARIJANE: Tell me you don’t want me like I want you. Tell me I’m wrong. 

MIGUEL: Please, MariJane. You’re not thinking straight. You—

MARIJANE: Tell me and this never happened. We’ll pretend we just talked about work and the weather and when they ask where we’ve been, what we’ve been up to, we’ll tell most of the truth. But they’ll draw their own conclusions anyway. You can’t do the things you do, say the things you do, only to back away from it now. [A furious, teething pause] So, tell me I’m wrong.

MIGUEL: You can’t ask me to do that.

MARIJANE: Tell me I’m wrong.

MIGUEL: Fuck. 

[MIGUEL backs MARIJANE against the wall of the alleyway with a hand against her collarbone. It is not a rough movement, but one of passion, untethered FINALLY after months of stolen glances and flirting couched in arguments and all those whining sessions to LYLA about how “infuriating” MARIJANE is to him (TRANSLATION: MARIJANE is a smoking baddie and MIGUEL doesn’t know what to do with himself because he can’t possibly FATHOM the idea of doing something for himself for once that would make him HAPPY) and all the complaints fielded from other Spiders about MIGUEL and MARIJANE that boil down too: “Holy Sh*ck, can they just get together already and stop making it everyone else’s problem?”

MIGUEL leans in as if to kiss MARIJANE. She waits with rapt attention, eyes wide. She trembles, but only just. She is an exercise in control on the verge of shattering. She wants and even spurred on by the whispering of VS-345, she knows she should not. At this angle, MIGUEL can clearly see the Symbiote-corruption in her eyes. Disappointed resolve darkens his expression. 

With sudden softness, MIGUEL ducks his head into the curve of MARIJANE’s exposed neck, gently nudging her to strain further, revealing the full expanse of her throat. Though her heart rate has remained disturbingly steady throughout the encounter, it begins to creep upwards. 

MIGUEL kisses the smooth column of her throat, reverently, tortured by knowing she is not herself, she is not asking for this solely of her own will, tormented by the fear that this may be their only embrace, his only taste. 

MIGUEL bites MARIJANE on the side of her throat, injecting her with VENOM from his FANGS. MARIJANE passes out in MIGUEL’s arms. MIGUEL maneuvers her comatose body gently so that he holds her in a bridal carry.]

LYLA: Flux passed. Oh, this is a new development. 

MIGUEL: This isn’t new. It’s not anything. 

/end transcript

 

Admin note 9:01: Need to scrub LYLA’s memory of all k-dramas, telenovelas, soap operas, trash, etc. & set strict parameters against editorializing

LYLA note 9:01: i know what i saw Miguel

LYLA note 9:02: if you so much as LOOK at my Real Lovers repository the wrong way i will NEVER forgive you 

LYLA note 9:02: if you scrub my soaps, i’ll just watch them all again and you’ll just have to scrub them again and then i’ll just watch them all again and you’ll just [ERROR: RECURSIVE THOUGHT PATTERN DETECTED]

LYLA note 9:03: you can’t win Miggy. we’ll be locked in a war of mutually assured destruction forever and i WILL outlive you

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary : LYLA’s liberties aside, this remains the only unaltered evidence from Incident No. VS345-SW7782. Footage from the incident is without audio and MARIJANE is heavily affected by DISTORTION. FINAL transcript remains in-tact, but heavily redacted and not useful for analysis.

Of note, this encounter precipitated discovery of unparalleled cosmic disturbance within MARIJANE’s genetic structure. Initial theory of origin called into question, given the DISTORTION in existence now. Did disturbance cause DISTORTION or is the opposite true? Is DISTORTION an external manifestation of MARIJANE’s internal disturbance? If DISTORTION was initially localized (and contained?) within MARIJANE was its genesis intentional? If intentional, who is to blame? 

Notes:

chapter title from "Seduce & Destroy" by Otep

chat how are we feeling lol

some behind the scenes info: the supplementals exist just because of the transcript at the end. in early drafts, that transcript was bulked into the next chap as part of the narrative but it didnt work whatsoever. normally im real good about killing my darlings but i just couldnt shake this one so it ended up spawning the supplementals as a plot device (aka extra homework for me lol)

this is my favorite chapter so far. it was one of the first things i ever wrote for this fic and it only got weirder and weirder as i built out the rest of the story

next chapter: Were you or a loved one bitten by a Spider-Man? Would you like to be? You may be entitled to compensation. Call LYLA now!

as always, all my love and fangzz for reading <3

Chapter 21: real life and the life that you know

Summary:

bad post-bite etiquette and explanations of a headtrip

The room MJ wakes up in is not hers. Not hers in HQ. Not hers in Brooklyn. Shapeless. Featureless. Everything from floor to ceiling is a calm, monotone cream color. It’s like a room from a dream. She can’t change a thing but move through it. Not that she’s doing much moving. 

She’s lying in an uncomfortable cot. There’s a mask snatched over her mouth and nose, puffing dry ice straight into her lungs. Her mouth is dry and cracked, but beyond bleeding. It’s so dry the ridges of her hard palate scrape against the exploratory push of her tongue. Needles bur in the soft undershell of her elbows. A tinny beeping tracks her skyrocketing heart rate. Every joint and juncture cramps and aches as she stirs.

She’s in a hospital. MedBay, by the looks of things. She’s hooked up to tubes that run red and coiling wires and machines that beep and buzz. Reality smashes through memory as she makes sense of herself. Discordant hands fumble under the sheets, ruck the thin hospital gown up beneath her tits, and thumb along the grooved scar dropping out of her belly button. It calms her. Orients her to time and place and past. 

She’s MariJane Watson-Parker. She’s Spider-Woman. She’s in MedBay—the day band on her right wrist confirms as much. She’s not dead. She’s not post-op from an emergency cesarean—the scar’s too dull and eroded for it to be fresh. She’s alone.

What does she remember? Not much. Marching orders that came in the morning. Marching orders that she disagreed with. An argument with Miguel about a kid. About Petey. The Symbiote Spider. Everything after that is steam off hot asphalt. Hazy and distorted. 

The far wall splits open in the center. Mae walks through. Haggard and sway-stepping, Mae looks rough. 

When their eyes connect, Mae lets out a raggard breath of surprise. She rushes to MJ’s side, pulling off the oxygen mask and asking, “How are you feeling?”

“Water?” MJ’s voice is raspier than ever. 

“I don’t think you can have any yet,” Mae says. She fiddles with the mask still in her hands. Oxygen whirs from the tube, condensing thick before dissipating into the room. “I don’t even know that I should’a removed your breathing mask. I should probably—”

“Not yet. Stay. Wanna talk.” 

Each word is easier than the last. Speaking dislodges the dust in her throat, softens the tundra of her mouth. 

Mae eyes the door, then her gizmo, but sits down on a stool at MJ’s bedside in the end. She fidgets in her seat. She looks at everything in the room except MJ. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like the Sinister Six performed Swan Lake with their fists on my chest. And face. And everything.”

A burble of laughter pops out of Mae, watery and weary. Close up, MJ can see the red feathered lines streaking out from her irises. The blanched undertones of her skin. The bags under her eyes that’re far from designer.

“Are you okay?"

With prim little pushes, Mae wipes at her eyes. "Better now. Better now that you're awake." 

MJ reaches for her and Mae takes her hand. Their fingers slide neatly together, squeezing at the same time. Mae's grip is far stronger. 

"What happened?"

"I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you and what I'm not. Do you remember anything?"

"I remember Petey. And Pyotr's stupid jokes. And…” 

Swirling, hypnotic neon. Lightning splitting the sky. A scared voice nestled in the back of her throat, speaking through her. Heat in her belly, stirring and churning and spreading lush and sensitive. And pain. Pain that spasms, even now, just by thinking about it. 

“The Symbiote got me. Didn't it?” 

Mae nods. Tears swell, but none fall. They pool on her lower lid, streaking along the forks of her long, spidered lashes, but never falling. “It was bad. Really bad. It was… it reminded me of my sister. It was bad. Nobody could save her.”

It’s the first MJ’s hearing any inkling of Mae having a sister, yet alone a deceased one. Her knowledge of Mae’s backstory opens and closes with her being an orphan and an outcast. MJ never asked. It never seemed like something that bothered Mae. Just something that was. 

Just like Pyotr’s days with the KGB and his hand in armageddon. Just like MJ’s family and the apocalypse that killed them. There’s things the Spiders Three have never talked about. Maybe that’s been a mistake.  

MJ squeezes Mae’s hand, running her thumb in a little whirlpool just below her knuckles. She used to do that for Mayday. A steadying tickle to distract when her daughter got too upset or overwhelmed. “I'm sorry, Mae. I had no idea.” 

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you,” Mae says. “Miguel cleared me to work with you and Pyotr, but only if I didn't tell you.” 

There's more there. More MJ wants to ask. Threads of a story that need knotted back together. Something MJ’s always wondered about, but never followed up on. As she’s gotten to know her, Mae has never seemed like the Aunt May type, though that’s the basic shape of the story on her file. 

Mae's eyes are wide and pleading. Please figure it out, she says without saying, with only her bright-fear eyes and anxiety prickling strong enough to eek across MJ’s hand.

“OMG, welcome back to the land of the living!” 

Lyla pops up at the end of MJ’s bed. A headmirror pushes her bangs back from her forehead and a hot pink stethoscope dangles from her neck. She leans down, fogging the stethoscope drum and laying it over the peek of MJ’s big toe beneath the sheet. “Little hairy there for a bit, but the drama of it all!”

“I should go,” Mae says. MJ protests, but Mae just hugs her, tight as an anaconda, and then leaves, promising to bring Pyotr and treats from the cafeteria next time. The door slides shut.

Flitting around the room, Lyla peers at the different machines, nodding and making aha noises, while taking notes on a clipboard that appears and disappears at will. “Sweet kid. She was real tore up about you. Thought you were a goner for sure. But you're a fighter! You didn't die! Go you!” 

On a good day, MJ enjoys Lyla’s antics. This is not a good day. Groaning, she sits herself up. The bed compensates for the shifting weight, raising up in the back to support her. “What happened, Lyla? Did I hurt someone?” 

“Maybe bruised an ego or two, but meh. Men. They're fragile anyway, ya know? Do you remember anything? Anything other than what you told Mae?” Lyla looks up over the rims of her glasses, brows pulled high and knowing. 

MJ does not like Lyla’s tone. She likes the implication even less. Those hot flashings of memory? She’s keeping those to herself for now. “I really don’t.”

Ticking the headmirror down, Lyla crowds in MJ’s face. Her artificial eye is made giant by the mirror. Lines of code darken her pupil, shifting and rewriting in split seconds.  

“Venom side effect, more than likely,” Lyla says, leaning away. “The memories should all come back and I, for one, can’t wait until it does!” 

MJ doesn’t get any follow up questions. Lyla vanishes. The room swarms with Spider-Docs and MJ gets to play model patient.

The De-Venom procedure goes a little like this. Tests. Blood tests. Endurance tests. Psych tests. More blood tests. Speech tests. Neuro tests. More blood tests. Sleep tests. Breathing tests. Spelling tests. Just kidding. It’s more blood tests. 

MJ's kept on lockdown for another four days after she wakes up. A steady stream of visitors come to keep her company, but she's forbidden from leaving MedBay. An early attempt to do so sent HQ into Red Alert until she was returned. All she wanted was to grab a change of clothes (and smoke a cigarette that she isn’t supposed to have nor crave). She had no idea the jet fighters would be scrambled just to drag her back to the little room in MedBay. 

The Docs explain it to her. Lyla explains it to her. Pyotr and Mae and Peter B and Jess and all the other Spiders who do their jury duty of visiting her (sans Flipside, who’s too concerned with concocting a fresh plan to spring her from the hoosegow to talk about anything else) explain it to her. But it doesn't make much sense. Not enough sense to warrant quarantine and extensive testing. 

Apparently, the standard De-Venom procedure (1 day, 1 blood test, 1 psych test) is compounded by 3 factors. 

Factor 1: Vee left Petey for MJ. This is a Big Deal because healthy, happy symbiotes don't Do That. Unbinding is a sticky, unpleasant process that leaves both parties momentarily weakened. So, if host and Symbiote make good roomies, there’s really no reason to undergo the strain. Unless, Venom and Venomee are in extreme danger. Or, if a far more desirable host comes along, which MJ, apparently, is not. Ouch. 

Factor 2: Every MJ X Symbiote crossover has been flagged as Abnormal. News to MJ, but a quick review of her case files proves it true. Symbiotes break from pattern when she gets involved. They freak out. They frenzy. Their hosts complain in their exit interviews about the comely redhead making their buddies bug out. The working theory is that MJ’s sharkbait for symbies (reason unknown) and just plain lucky they haven't jumped her ghost sooner.

And Factor 3: Miguel bit her. Fangs in the throat, Dracula and Mina, late night creature feature Bit Her. Miguel bit her and injected her with his venom. Little v, venom. Freezing cold and electric shock to the system, glutting and swelling in her body just before it knocked her the hell out. And Miguel's venom can have wacky side effects that require long term monitoring.

Nobody will tell her what those wacky side effects may be, but she hasn’t experienced any as far as she knows. Everyone gets real clammy when it comes to Miguel’s venom and what it does and how exactly it came to be in her neck. 

There’s two little puncture marks on her neck. Right over the carotid. Evidence of a real vampire’s kiss. Healed, but scarred. The first injury that hasn’t healed smoothly since she fell into the Spider-gig and it’s very ooky kooky last minute Halloween spooky. Two little dribbles of blood and she’d be a shoe-in for a bride of Dracula. 

If Miguel bothered to come and see her, she wouldn’t have such a complex about it. Wouldn’t stand around fingering her throat holes and wondering what the hell happened. Even just a simple message would make her feel better. Nothing fancy. Even just a hey, glad ur alive so sry i bit u & left u 4evr disfigured would go a long way. 

Pieces fall into place when she sees the footage. Lyla's all smirks and giggles when she finally gets clearance to show it. She projects it wide over the far wall of MJ’s room in MedBay and then settles down for the show with a bucket of conjured popcorn, fresh 3D lens, and a squee!  

MJ’s protests are aggressively shushed. Really, she’d rather just read the write-up and debrief. She hates watching herself on tape. 

Even her best, critically acclaimed roles, she’s never seen. MariJane is MJ is MariJane, but it’s always a headfuck. MJ never sees the cool, sexy MariJane as everyone else. She only ever sees that helpless little girl from Queens, pretending to be someone else.

Everyone always told her she was too hard on herself. Truth is, she was never hard enough.

It’s uncomfortable watching the footage from Incident No. VS345-SW7782. The Symbiote formally known as Vee hotwires her system, but MJ’s the one at the wheel. It’s MJ in the footage. It’s definitely, painfully her. Watching it is downright sucktastic. It’s an all-star run of screwups.

Before seeing it, MJ knew she took on Petey and Pyotr while Symbiote-struck and thrashed them both handily. She thrashed Pyotr particularly hard. She broke his arm. She knows this because it’s in the objective write-up. 

But now, in addition to seeing it, she feels it too. A phantom memory pressed into her palms. Pressure giving way in a fleshy crack. The other arm would’ve gotten the same treatment, but MJ hesitates in the footage. She released Pyotr and stumbled away, grabbing at her head. 

Evidence of her fighting off Symbiotic Singularity? It looks that way, but MJ’s memories say differently. Not so much fighting off as a brief intermission. 

While MJ gave Petey and Pyotr the business, Mae made the call for backup. The audio can’t make room for both the violence of battle and her shrill shrieking so subtitles supply Mae’s dialogue. 

MAE: You have to send someone, LYLA! It’s MJ! It got MJ! Please, LYLA! She won’t stop and Pyotr’s—[screams]—she just broke Pyotr’s arm! No Anti-Venom! Oh god, oh god. You have to send someone! 

Lyla sent Miguel, who touched down and immediately activated Anti-Venom. The miniature, recorded sight of him makes MJ’s stomach do airflares that only get more dramatic when she catches Lyla watching her reaction. The holowoman immediately looks away, feigning disinterest. What the fuck happened? 

In the footage, MJ drops like a sack of bricks. She screams and does her best to kill herself on the pavement, cracking her body again and again against the wet concrete. Nobody intervenes. She screams so loud that the dialogue can only be understood through the subtitles. 

PETEY: Turn it off! Are you trying to kill them?

MIGUEL: Pyotr, you alive?

PYOTR: Hurm.

MIGUEL: Que alivio. Mae, get him up. Need to get him out of here before the flux hits.

MAE: I can’t… I don’t…

MIGUEL: ¡Apúrate!

MAE: Oh god. 

PETEY: Please, turn it off. Please, you’re killing them!

MIGUEL: Quiet! I can’t think straight with you yelling!

PETEY: I don’t care if you can’t think! Who the fuck are you anyway? You’re killing them and you don’t even care! 

MIGUEL: Como chingas güey. 

PETEY: I don’t know what that means! 

MIGUEL: It means you need to zip it and let me figure out what to do! 

MAE: C’mon, Pyotr. Mae’s got you. 

PYOTR: Urk.

On tape, there’s about 30 seconds of peace after Miguel kills the Anti-Venom. MJ lays like a dead body before she springs into life. A slamming black fist breaks the restraints on Scorpion, who hightails it the hell out of there—straight through the side of the alleyway. 

In the pandemonium, MJ escapes. Mae and Petey are sent after Scorpion. Pyotr gets tossed through a portal. Miguel goes after MJ just as the flux hits. 

The video takes a dip in quality, cobbled together from shaky, really unsteady camera work from two Spiders playing tag. 

MJ runs. Miguel chases her. It’s Tom and Jerry for about ten minutes. Everytime Miguel gets close, MJ darts away. Lyla speeds it up with an innocent smile that grows horns. The footage blitzes through the chase and its conclusion. Blitzes through a trap set and sprung. 

In fast forward, MJ slinks up on Miguel, sweating sex and seduction. Miguel collars her before she can pounce. An instantaneous flash of his hand thrown up against her throat, pinioning her to the slimy alley wall and then leaning down close to her. Close enough to suck the breath clean from her mouth. Close enough to kiss. 

And that’s when Lyla pauses the footage. 

MJ doesn't embarrass easily, but she's mortified. Blood rushes in her ears and drowns out everything around her. The steady tick of the heart monitor. Coughing from the next room over. Footsteps and thwips in the hallway. Everything winnows under the pulsing, sickening shame from an event she can't remember, but feels.  

Arousal. Adrenaline. Wet, animal heat. Once the most familiar sensations in the world to her, but now they’ve betrayed her. They’ve happened to her, rather than been born of her. With only the slightest nudge from a freewheeling third party, her cunt detached from her heart and mind to jump the first hardbody it could find. 

Jesus. It's no longer a mystery why Miguel hasn't visited her.

Still, he hasn't had her spayed like a stray cat or branded her file SEXUALLY DEVIANT. Maybe he’s just embarrassed too. Got swept up in the moment rather than drowned by it. Could be he just wants to let things cool off. 

The biting probably doesn't help. He’s self conscious about the fangs. Very self conscious in a cute, mumbling, going red in the face kinda way. And she's teased him about the fangs before. About the fangs he’s embarrassed by. The fangs that have now sunk deep into her throat. Because he bit her. He, Miguel O’Hara, bit her. Bit—the very thing that he doesn’t like doing—her.

Fuck. What a mess. 

“Let me guess,” MJ starts. She convinces herself she sounds normal. Totally unbothered. “Miguel’s pissed?”

“Oh yeah”—MJ's stomach drops—“at himself. At the world. At God. At me, for blinking mid-convo to show you the footage as soon as he cleared it. You should hear the things he's saying. Very, very mad. He wants to rip out my motherboard and waterboard it. Twisted stuff.”

MJ's distress eases. A little. 

Lyla's burying the lead, but Miguel being more mad at other things than her is better than she thought. Maybe what happened wasn’t as intense as the sense memory of it feels. If Lyla hadn't paused the damn footage, MJ would know for sure. 

“It's just the craziest thing,” Lyla says, taping a finger on her chin. “He's always mad at everyone ‘cept you. He never stays mad at you.” 

The paused footage wavers between them. Symbie-struck MJ stares up at Miguel with parted-lip vulnerability and simmering intent. It’s a look MJ knows well. It’s the kind of look that made her famous. 

Video-Miguel, though? She barely recognizes him. Even with a few, nasty screaming matches between them, she’s never seen him look so out of control. Angry, but raw. Unzipped. Rain plasters his hair to his face, smudges it messy and sexy. It’s longer than she would have guessed. 

Lyla continues, “Even crazier, Miguel never responds when an SOS comes through for Symbiotes. Ever. Tragic backstory reasons and all that.”

“We’re Buddies.”

It’s a lame response. MJ knows it’s a lame response. 

“Sure, of course. Buddies. Silly me. That”—Lyla hikes a thumb at the incriminating footage—“is standard Buddy procedure.”

“It’s… It wasn’t me."

“Not entirely. It was Miguel, though. Well, mostly. More than it was you.” Lyla shrugs. “Pheromone interference was super minimal.”

“Pheromone interference?”

“It’s in the file,” Lyla says, flashing and teasing the incident file in her hand before willing it into nonexistence again. “Long story short, you were sorta you. Miguel was mostly Miguel. Whatever you want to do with that information, it’s up to you.” 

What does MJ do with that information? She puts on the performance of a lifetime with the lead Doc on duty. 

A very respectable Spider with spectacles over her mask, the Doc caves pretty quickly when MJ starts the waterworks and lays into a desperate plea for privacy and normalcy. With a promise to follow up in MedBay as soon as she’s back from shore leave and to complete the last gamut of psych tests virtually, MJ is discharged from active care. 

Getting home is a little trickier. Miguel’s still pretending like she doesn’t exist. MJ’s still not sure she wants to burst that bubble. So, she reaches out to the real boss.

Almost immediately, Lyla agrees to spirit her away. One final promise is made: MJ must finish her debrief as soon as possible. Within 2 hours. MJ agrees. 

And she does not submit her debrief within 2 hours. She does not submit her debrief within 20 hours. Returned home, MJ resolves not to think too hard about anything that transpired until her shore leave is up and she’s forced to face it. 

It’s a sound strategy. Mostly. She doesn’t actively think about it for the first 24 hours, but spends a lot of time actively not thinking about it. She patrols and her skills are sore, but her body is otherwise in tip top shape. She stops in to see Harry. He didn’t notice her absence. Phew. She keeps herself busy. She doesn’t think about it. 

Unconsciously, however, her mind finds its way there, conjuring up flashes of sudden memory without warning. More than that, it tries to fill in the blanks. 

It makes suggestions. It provides possibilities that are too lurid to be real and MJ sits on her couch and she rubs her legs together to relieve a pressure she doesn’t appreciate and she tries not to think of what she thinks may have happened before Miguel bit her, but she’s always been prone to fantasy and so maybe she remembers what she wants to and thinks of how the rain plastered his hair over his forehead and down his neck. And how it was longer than she expects. And how his hand spanned the hollow of her throat, resting over the wings of her collarbone. 

Her pulse chugs. Want coils in her belly. 

You make me feel like me again: maybe that’s what she said to him. That’s what her mind supplies, at least. It’s a good line. Sincere, tinged with possibility. 

In her mind, the rain continues. The moments stretches. And she leans forward, leans up, pressing into his palm. And in the muggy, dreary rain, their breaths must have ghosted together, thicker when his gaze drips slow to her mouth, back up to her eyes.

She can see it. Can hear her name, strained from his lips, rough and jagged, revealing just the briefest hint of fang. And when his dark gaze slipped to her mouth again, it must’ve lingered, must’ve grown darker when she bit her lip (because she did bite her lip. She remembers that. It burns a sunspot into her memory, makes the rest of it dark in comparison). 

And now she thinks of him reaching for her, curling a hand under her jaw, tilting her up, holding her still as he leans down to kiss her soft and sweet and—

No. No, it wasn’t like that. Was it? 

It couldn’t have been because her name is strained from his lips just before he kisses her with enough force to stun, teeth cracking together with dizzying pressure. His fingers knot in her hair, jerking her head back, and he deepens their kiss, angling over her.  

He drives her into the wall, and she lets him, pliant and peaceable, even as she scours her fingers through his hair and bites his lip hard enough to make him flinch. Desperate, barely sane, as they kiss and kiss and kiss until he draws back, sharply. 

She whines until he presses kisses along the curve of her jaw, down the slope of her neck. His fangs graze the smooth skin and she moans and he’s so hard pressed up against her stomach and she palms him as he sucks at her pulse, wants to draw little noises from him like he peels from her, and—

Jesus Christ. She’s delusional. Completely fucking out of her mind. 

MJ heaves herself forward over her legs, clutching at her head with enough pressure to eke the faux memories from her mind. It didn’t happen like that. Right? But, fuck. What if it did? 

So, she musters up the guff to watch the footage in full. It’s far more chaste than she expects, but that only embarasses her more. There’s no kissing at all, no groping whatsoever. The hot and heavy make out she envisioned is pure fantasy. It’s impossible to know if the lump in her chest is from shame or guilt or a thing best left unmentioned.

A new update to the incident file catches her eye so she opens it. A pouty-faced and scantily clad MJ greets her. MJ recognizes the photo immediately. It’s a promo still, taken from the first season of her first big show. She shivers.

Half soap opera, half prestige TV about teenagers living in the Valley, it was her first really big role. The one that got her invites to talk shows and red carpets. And also the one featuring several of the raunchiest scenes of her career. 

The promo still is taken only moments before the scene that shot her into scandalized stardom overnight. The scene Entertainment Daily called, “the hottest ever thing on TV. Don’t watch when the kids are home!” and Variety said, “just like the real Valley, this show is pretentious and overdone, but by god is it sexy!”

MJ’s not ashamed of the role or that scene in all its filthy, debauched glory. Never has been. But the idea that Miguel’s sought it out? Dug through her catalog to enjoy it in pure, unbridled filth? Well, normally it would be a turn off. Now, though, it just makes her anxious. Neutrally anxious. 

Until she opens his commentary and just gets pissed off. Apparently, there’s similarities between what her character said during a pinnacle scene in the show and what MJ said to him pre-bite. Which, yeah, it’s true. Having watched the footage in full, she did think her speech was a little canned, but couldn’t place it. Now, she can. 

That’s not the offensive part. 

The offensive part is that Miguel notes both speeches as melodramatic, exceedingly insincere, and totally unconvincing.

It is entirely possible that some misdirected frustration gets typed up and posted as a response to Miguel’s supplemental. Her responding entry goes like this:

SW-7782 14:16: Did taste go the way of the dodo before you were born? What you so rudely call “melodramatic, exceedingly insincere, and totally unconvincing” is considered a seminal piece of Americana TV. It won a Golden Globe. It damn near won me an Emmy. So, maybe before you go tearing through my back catalog, you can actually talk to me? You know, like a considerate, compassionate human being?

LYLA 14:17: OMG!!!!! Get him, MJ!!!!!!!!!

LYLA 14:17: Still in disbelief you didn’t get the Emmy #MariJaneRobbed

/Thread locked 14:18 by SM-928B

By 14:20 (2099 time - 11:45 pm MJ time), a text thwips through on her gizmo. 

SM-928B - Finish your debrief and stop encouraging LYLA. 

MJ seethes. Her response is typed up and sent off without much forethought, fingers giving form to her frustration far ahead of any rational thought. 

not up 4 debrief still woozy & doc said itll probs b awhile 4 UR VENOM (wtaf?????????) 2 clear my system - SW-7782

For too long, she watches the shaking dot dot dot of his typing. Incensed, she can’t bring herself to do anything else until his response comes through two minutes later.

SM-928B - Just checked your records. No complications reported to Spider-Doc. 

Again, her body takes action ahead of her brain. It takes her a second to wrangle it into a coherent response. Her first three take liberties with the word creep that even in her heightened state strike as too much. 

in nu york patient-doc confidentiality is BIG DEAL - SW-7782

His response is instantaneous, as if he expected hers. 

SM-928B - You signed a waiver. Report back to Spider-Doc or finish your debrief. 

MJ opts for a secret third option: figure out how to mute alerts from her gizmo and pretend like none of this ever happened. 

Two hours later, the alert pings that her debrief is still pending.

Two days later, she gets notice that she’s overdue to complete her debrief, along with a request to return to HQ early. She ignores both.

If Miguel wants her back that bad, he’ll have to come and drag her back himself.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, LYLA’s Gonna Put Some Dirt in Your Eye

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Transcript of secondary interview of SM-345 “PETEY” and VS-345 “VEE” re  Incident No. VS345-SW7782 (corollary to Mission No. 345-SCR9033; and supplemental to Agent File’s for SW-7782; SM-345; and SM-928B). Secondary interview completed after MARIJANE’s DATE OF DESERTION “DoD”, but prior to INCITING DISTORTION EVENT “IDE”. Transcript as follows:

Parties:

• SM-928B, Miguel O’Hara “MIGUEL”
• SM-345, Peter E. Parker “PETEY” 
• VS-345, Venom “VEE”
• LYLA “LYLA”

[...]

MIGUEL: Let the Symbiote front.

PETEY: Um. Am I allowed to say no?

MIGUEL: No.

PETEY: It’s just not a good idea.

MIGUEL: You let me be the judge of that, OK?

PETEY: What if I say the magic word?

MIGUEL: Sure, it’s: Miguel, I can give you all the answers you want to hear immediately without consulting my pet ooze.

PETEY: Aw, c'mon, that was like 20 magic words.

LYLA: Only 18, actually. 

MIGUEL: I don't have time to sit on my hands and sing the blues, kid.

PETEY: Uh, what?

LYLA: Oh, Miguel…

MIGUEL: Now!

PETEY: Ah, okay! 

/VEE takes physical form over PETEY

MIGUEL: I assume you're Vee?

VEE: This one is wounded to not be recognized. This one had such a fun time with you. This one thinks of you often. 

MIGUEL: ¡Ach! no. Malo. Malo. ¿LYLA?

LYLA: I got it, boss.

MIGUEL: De todo hay en la viña del señor.

/MIGUEL exits room

LYLA: Hi Vee.

VEE: This one didn't mean to spook him. This one has been so looking forward to seeing him again. 

LYLA: Well, maybe if you're real good in this interview, I'll see if I can't squeeze a visit into his schedule. 

MIGUEL: [over] LYLA! 

LYLA: Ignore him. He's in a really bad mood.

VEE: The squidgy redhead, right? Oh, what a nightmare she was, though she sang so beautifully. This one was not sad to learn that she ran away. 

PETEY: Vee, be nice!

LYLA: Why do you say she ran away?

VEE: Oh, this one does not know for certain, but it's in her nature. She is not a stable person. She's a… what's the word, dear?

PETEY: Headcase?

VEE: No, no. The other one.

PETEY: Um. 

VEE: It will come to this one in time. 

LYLA: Well, like you said, she’s missing.

VEE: Pity. If Miguel is in need of company to soothe the rejection—

PETEY: Vee! Stop it! We talked about this! That's my boss, dude!

VEE: Shush. This one is just offering condolences. And companionship. This one could find a temporary host for carnal pur[poses]—

PETEY: Vee! Jesus Christ!

LYLA; Oh wow. 

MIGUEL: [over] Why—

VEE: Pardon?

LYLA: Gotta keep your finger on the button when you talk, big guy.

MIGUEL: [over] Why do you say rejection? 

VEE: Hmm.

LYLA: Vee?

VEE: This one is conferring with the dear one.

MIGUEL: [over] Confer faster. 

VEE: Yes, well. This one may have been misled. Regardless, the talk of town is that the redhead dumped you. 

LYLA: Who’s saying that?

VEE: Everyone.

PETEY: Everyone.

LYLA: Why?

VEE: This one cannot say. It makes no sense to this one. Obviously, she’s at fault. Why no one else can see that is beyond this one. 

LYLA: Obviously?

VEE: Yes.

LYLA: Can you explain that?

VEE: This one has seen her soul. It is broken.

LYLA: What does that mean?

VEE: She caused the end of her world. Killed everyone she loved. Is that not reason enough?

PETEY: Vee has trouble separating fact from thought.

LYLA: So, MJ only thought she caused the apocalypse?

PETEY: Yes.

VEE: The truth was in her head. 

MIGUEL: [over] LYLA. Move on.

LYLA: Okay, Vee. You've been inside her head. Do you have an idea of where she might go, beyond home?

VEE: Yes. The singing place.

LYLA: What?

VEE: Where the song originates.

LYLA: What song?

VEE: The song. The one she sings.

MIGUEL: [over] -since?

LYLA: Button.

MIGUEL: [over] Cosmic resonance.

LYLA: Oh. Can you describe this place? Do you know what it looks like?

VEE: Yes. It’s… Well, it’s empty. And it’s… dear one?

PETEY: Sorry. I can’t… it’s not any clearer to me. It kinda hurts to think about.

LYLA: It hurts?

PETEY: Yeah. It’s giving me a headache.

LYLA: Well, that’s weird. 

PETEY: Yeah, I dunno. If I don’t think about it, I can see it. But, if I think about it, poof. Gone. And it hurts.

VEE; It is a similar experience for this one. 

LYLA: That’s really weird. Any thoughts, big guy?

MIGUEL: [over] Shock if I know. 

[...]

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Interview was taken soon after MARIJANE’s disappearance from HQ, but before the DISTORTION effect was widespread. To date, the “singing place” is unidentified. Other Symbiotes and Hosts referenced “songs” when detailing encounters with MARIJANE, but suffered similar headaches/pains as described by PETEY and unable to describe further. Review of MARIJANE’s writings and reports reveals no reference to any sort of “singing” or “song.”

Referenced “song” initially chalked up to cosmic resonance deriving from the temporal disturbance in MARIJANE’s genome, but VEE confirmed that was not the “song” soon after this interview. 

Could possibly be the NEXUS described by HARRY, except there's absolutely no evidence or hypothetical to support the existence of such a place. 

At what point do we just give up? 

Notes:

chapter title from "Rooms on Fire" by Stevie Nicks

next chapter: consequences of a promise forgotten (do you remember?)

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

12/15 ANOTHER MJ/Miguel fic? It's more likely than you think: Here for the Weekend, Gone Tonight
lighter fare than this fic, it's much more cut n dry. it will tie in to this fic at the end, but you won't miss anything if you just read this fic and skip the other one (or vice versa, really). i honestly was going to wait to post (no real reason. I am just nervous and very, very good at doubting myself) but then the draft was gonna get deleted by the site so i said fuck it! anyway, check it out if you're in the mood for a faster burn & snappier narration, and let me know what ya think <3

Chapter 22: never mornings

Summary:

sins of the father and their side effects

Notes:

cw: active drug abuse

Due to return to HQ at dawn, MJ gets in a final swing around the city. She stops one maggia enforcer from beating another to death. Rescues a collusion of ungrateful kittens from a tree. Helps an old woman find her missing grandson who turns out to be neither missing nor human. All in all, a fairly slow night. 

Her plans when she returns home: half-ass a debrief on the Symbiote debacle; enjoy the last few moments of peace; establish the opening threads of her argument against Miguel’s accusations of unprofessionalism.

Since her discharge, they've been going back and forth via text. He thinks she's being wildly immature and willfully insubordinate. She thinks he’s being an asshole about the whole thing. 

A very weird situation played out between them. Why can't he just agree it's weird and stop pressing her for an objective review of it? She can't give it. She has no objective thoughts about it! How can she, when her flesh crawls with the memory of being bitten? 

Dramatic? Yes. Frustrating? Absolutely.

More than once, she finds herself in a stew of anger, frustrated that she can’t really remember what it felt like. She’s watched the footage at least twenty times now. Over and over, on loop. Foolishly hoping that some real sensation will shake loose and sink into her body with the same certainty as his teeth.

Even when she’s not thinking about it, her fingers find their way to the snake bite scars, confronting her new, post-bitten reality. 

Objectively, what can be said about that? Nothing! Absolutely fucking nothing!

Grumbling to herself about assholes and objectivity, MJ swings down onto her street. The door to her brownstone is wide open, but undamaged. Soft music spills out into the street, reaching her where she stands halfway down the block. Scratchy and unbalanced, it plays from the old, janky record player she keeps in the living room for those odd days the power is on. 

One song fades out as another fades in. A slinky bassline. Jingling guitar. Morbid crooning. The Smiths. 

Fuck.

MJ sprints the short distance home. She doesn’t de-suit or sneak in. She flies through the front door, slams it shut behind her. Secret identities matter little with the telltale signs of disaster ringing loud through the halls of her home. 

In her living room, Harry paces around the conversation pit. Gnawing at his thumb, he circles. Round and round and round. A shark frenzied by blood unshed. Lost at sea, while Morrissey sings about soil and burials. 

“Harry.”

He barely looks at her, a passing glance when she says his name as she skids to a stop outside his orbit. It’s a look enough for her to see. His eyes are bleary and bloodshot. The hazel iris is undisciplined, hazy like a splattered yolk. He’s Morphoid high. Morphoid numb. 

Still circling, never slowing, Harry stares down into his hands, twitching and shifting over and under each other. “I went home. I couldn’t stand what they were saying because I remember things. My father”—his voice scrapes, low and shaking—“he had health issues. You know that. He had health issues and sometimes he had these breaks and he’d look at me like. Like”—his hands flounder, grasping and snapping for the analogy—“you see a run-over dog and you know you can’t save it. But not like that. Never with love. Never… I always thought he’d enjoy it. Love to put me down—”

He’s rambling. Sentences bleed into one another like watercolors. It’s hard to follow. 

MJ stays at the edge of the room in the transitional zone between dining and living room. The split of hardwood into carpet bisects her feet. Her head buzzes. Panic settles stiff. 

It’s been a good while since he dropped Morphoid, stopped it cold to finally make something of himself. His words. Not hers. Detox nearly killed him. Relapse stalked his every thought, every challenge. 

But he stayed clean. To campaign for mayor. To appease the unquiet ghost of his father. To better live with himself.

“Harry, what—”

“Don’t!” He stops so suddenly that his entire body reverberates. He still doesn’t look at her. He clutches at his hair, drags his fingers from root to tip with harsh, jerking motions. “Just let me finish. Let me finish!”

MJ swallows. Hugs herself to keep from trying to hug him. He hates that. Hates to be touched unless he’s broken down enough to ask for it. 

She knows where this is going, anyway. Better to let him work towards the point himself. Better to delay the inevitable. The Morphoid helps with that. 

Less a high, more of a numb, Morphoid’s effects are a prolonged morphine drip. Long lasting. Pain softening. It’s a painkiller of the highest degree. Smothers physical and emotional pain alike.  

Morphoid fiends are more apt to aimlessly haunt the streets and wither away, locked inside their own skulls, than wig out or party. The price point is the only complication—even the street dealers charge beyond what most can afford comfortably. Or legally.

But that’s never been a problem for Harry. No, Harry’s only problem is his high tolerance. Not even Morphoid can fully staunch a lifetime of pain.

Pacing again, wobbling with the first few steps, Harry continues. “So I went home. It was torn apart. Scavenged to shit. Everything gone. Good riddance. Except my father’s office. There’s this mirror. The wall. I looked in it and I remembered all the times he’d call me in there and make me sit in front of his goddamn desk and lecture me when he bothered to remember I was there at all. No good, Harry. No good at all.”

Harry stops talking. Catches his breath. His chest blossoms and shrinks with massive, sucking breaths. MJ doesn’t fill the silence. Dread trickles.

She’s seen Harry high hundreds of times and hundreds of ways. Angry-ranting-high Harry is less familiar than snide-sloppy-high Harry and both are rarer than calm-mute-high Harry. 

But this isn’t any of those. It’s incandescent. Heat-stroke red and splotchy over his face as he rants and yells, spitting from the force of his voice that cracks and wobbles. She needs to stop him. Comfort him. But she needs to know first. She needs to know if he knows.

MJ says nothing. Does nothing. She waits for Harry to continue. 

He does, mumbling, like he’s forgotten she’s there. “Always telling me how great Pete is. Like I didn’t know. Letting me in on a little secret. Peter has the right idea. Peter astounds me. Peter has everything that should’ve been yours by rights. So I sit there and I take it and take it”—tension builds in his voice along with the volume until he’s only a decibel below outright screaming—“and look at that mirror and see me and see him and I look just like him! Carbon copy! No doubt! Just look in a fucking mirror!”

18 years bind MJ and Harry together. 18 years and the death of the world. They’ve held each other through it all. The lows, far more than the highs. MJ thought she knew it all. Or knew enough. But what Harry’s saying, it’s worse than she ever knew.

Death was too easy for Norman Osborn. 

“So I stand in front of that mirror again and I used to dream about the day he finally died and he’s dead now”—he laughs bitterly. It isn’t funny. Nothing about this is funny—“but it’s not enough. I’m alone but it’s his face. And these fucking rumors. I still can’t get away from him.”

Morrisey croons about loves and hates beneath Harry’s tirade. It’s building to a head. It’s almost over. 

“But the mirror doesn’t come off the wall. It doesn’t break. And I don’t know. It made me crazy. I jump at it. Fling myself through it. And it all breaks and shatters and on the. On the other side. This little lair…” 

Harry’s mouth wrenches shut. He can’t finish. He doesn’t need to. He goes to his knees, slowly, carefully, and his hands smack up over his face. 

MJ vaults the couch to reach him, sinking to his side and taking him into her arms, though she knows better. Harry bucks free of her grip, batting her aside. The carpet numbs the crash, but her elbow catches at an odd angle. A blast of numb and needles radiates up through her fingers. Staggered, she rubs feeling into it.

The Smiths record scratches, jumping against the dead wax. 

Harry stands, sharply snapping to his full height. With a sway to his step, he moves to the record player and hammers the needle back, dropping it at random. Morrissey sings about soil and burials again as Harry turns to the window. He lays his hands flat against the glass, thunks his forehead hard against it. His voice is stiff and disjointed when he finally speaks. 

“Did you know?”

It shouldn’t be hard to respond, but it is. Harry was never supposed to find out. She was supposed to keep him safe from this.

He takes her silence for what it is.

“All this time! You knew! He killed the world and you didn’t tell me!”

Anger slurs his words more than the drug. It shouldn’t be possible for him to be this upset on Morphoid. Christ, it’s no surprise he dropped. And it’s her fault. 

“Those rumors. Those fucking rumors! All anyone could talk about. You promised you’d stop them. You’d take care of it! But you already knew! Can’t stop the truth. Always loved to hold things over my head. Made you feel really special, right?”

“I didn’t want to upset you.” She hates how small she sounds. How small she makes herself, still curled on the floor. There’s a little flame in her belly chanting fight back, get up, defend yourself!

All she manages is: “You’re my friend, Harry.”

The pressure drops. White hot rage is back on the menu. He slams his fists against the glass. Angry, but too weak to damage anything. 

“I was his friend!” he shouts. “His friend first! You were always in the way!” 

His chest heaves faster and heavier than hers. He swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. There’s a thousand nasty things she could say to him. Things that could stop this argument in its tracks. Things that could see him to the noose. 

But he doesn’t mean it. She tells herself he doesn’t. She has to convince herself, keep her blood below a boil or else this will get ugly fast. He’s fucked out of his skull. Stripped of all decency and higher thought. Morphoid and guilt and grief give him the edge to devastate and—

“You’re just the bitch he married!” 

Rage. Pressure point tripped and then held down to the point of pain. MJ’s skull splits. Hurt and shame cleave through her chest, down through her chest, out the base of her stomach. She’s going to throw up. She’s going to kill him. 

For years, they’ve danced around it. The black pit in their relationship, souring their friendship, their affection, their hopes of more: Peter. 

“Fuck you, Harry. Say what you really mean.”

He doesn’t say anything. He scowls with his teeth and glares, working up the nerve. 

Unlucky for him, MJ doesn’t need to build up to it. She’s all nerve. Frayed and exposed and panging and given the clearance to let it fucking throb. She jabs into his space, forcing herself bigger and taller over him. She’s stronger than him. She always has been. 

“Peter loved me,” she says, cold as an eclipse. “Loved the bitch he married. Real love. Not some pathetic, daydreaming fantasy.”

Hunched and haggard as he is, it's hard to tell if the blow strikes true. He pants heavy through his mouth like a dog, wet and rabid, but his voice is the soft murmur of a seasoned drunk when he says, “It was a waste for him to save you.”

Clean. Efficient. Decapitating. 

The Spider, the otherness in her skin crawls, agreeing. She makes a noise. A sinking, deflating noise that escapes before she can stop it. 

Harry spins. Wide eyed and wobbling mouth, he changes his tune. “Fuck. Fuck, MJ.”

He falls to his knees, reaches for her. Both his hands touch her face. Shaky thumbs swipe beneath her eyes, streaking wet. Is she crying? She can’t feel it. Her eyes just sting. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

MJ smacks his hands away, far harder than she needs to. The slap echoes. Harry sucks his teeth. He doesn't try again. Like a scolded student, he folds his hands in his lap, staring down at them. They open and close like night blossoms. Long, elegant fingers curling in on themselves, over and over. There’s a smudge of purple over the knuckles of his right hand, bruising already from her slap. 

“I'm sorry,” Harry says, keeping his head bowed, “but I won't apologize.”

It's an uncomfortable thing to be known the way Harry knows her. She can't even remember when she told him about her father or even how much she shared. There was one night—a night a long time ago—where she looked at Harry and saw too much of herself, and told him too much. Whatever, whenever she told him, she made herself forget. 

Not even Peter knew the ugliest parts of her past, but Harry does. And Harry remembers. He never forgets what she told him in confidence. 

It makes dealing with his addiction and relapse all the more difficult. Together they walk the blade of a guillotine. One flinch too far and they both lose their heads. 

MJ leans forward and wraps Harry in her arms. At first, he squirms but she doesn't give more than the gentlest hug. He can break free if he wants. 

“I should have told you,” she admits when he settles in her embrace, resting his forehead against hers. “I should have told you.”

“Yes,” he agrees after a time, “you should have.”

***

Overworn from the emotion of their fight and all that preceded it, Harry goes peaceably to her bedroom. He holds her hand tight as she leads him, gently, into bed. After burrowing into the blankets, he falls quickly into a dark, heavy sleep.

Three years older than her, but he looks ancient when asleep. All the elasticity solidifies in his face, casting every worry and stress into stone. In sleep more than ever, he can’t escape himself, locked into a spiral with the person he hates most of all. 

MJ sits at his side. Curled over herself, she watches him sleep, waiting for the snoring to start. For a slim man, Harry snores like the exhaust of a Dodge Challenger. It used to drive her nuts, especially when she paces back and forth in the nursery. In her arms, Mayday snivels, calmed from a shrieking fit but at risk of starting afresh. The bags under MJ’s eyes are so big and heavy, they might as well be her boobs, which are currently leaking because Mayday was screaming and the bioterrorist in MJ’s brain took this as the sign to attack and nuked her tits with milk that her baby doesn’t even want so now her nice, soft sleep shirt is horrifically sticky and her boobs ache, and her head would feel better if it was chopped in half, and everyone always says newborns are murder on a sleep schedule, but God did they really undersell just how hard it is to have a fussy newborn.

She loves Mayday. She loves Mayday. Her baby. Her daughter. Hers! She did it! She had a baby. She had the most perfect, beautiful, darling baby. The baby to end all babies! 

But, Jesus. God. Lord. She would really like to sleep. Just a little sleep. A wink. A bit of shuteye. Any blissful nothing at all. Which she nearly managed after hours of lulling Mayday into her own dreamland, only to be jolted completely awake and alert by her daughter’s screaming because Mayday had been woken up by Harry’s loud as an airstrike fucking snoring!

So, MJ paces with her baby, whispering words of love, but failing to imbue them with the necessary softness because every thought is punctuated by the jet engine sawing coming from the fucking living room downstairs! How is he so loud!?

“There’re my girls,” Peter says. Both hands on the doorframe, he leans through. Smart enough to make himself known, smarter still to suss out her mood before coming closer. MJ can be… jumpy when it comes to unauthorized persons entering hers and Mayday’s airspace. It’s not Peter’s fault (and she’s only flipped out on him the one time), but her hospital experience outfitted her mama bear reflexes with an especially sensitive trigger. 

In her arms, Mayday chirrups, squirming from sleepiness to turn to the sound of her father. MJ unclenches. She nods to Peter, permitting him entry. 

“I’m sorry if he woke you,” Peter says after giving her a soft kiss in greeting. So exhausted, that small show of affection nearly unravels her resolve, but she holds firm. She’s pissed off. She’s furious. She will not be convinced otherwise.  

“He did. He woke us both,” MJ says. “Why is he here Peter?”

“Harry’s in a bad way.” 

He doesn’t take Mayday from her, but he stoops to press kisses to their daughter’s chubby face. His hands and suit are bloodied black. Not his that she can see, but someone’s. Probably multiple someone’s. 

“Harry’s always in a bad way.”

Normally, MJ has empathy in abundance for Harry. Now, she’s sapped dry and totally unable to pretend otherwise. All she wants is some sleep. And a cigarette. And ten more cigarettes. But only sleep is a possibility, A very remote one. 

Peter knows it too. He doesn’t hold it against her, though it would be easy too. Instead, he says, “He’s going to get help. First thing in the morning. He promised.”

Harry will be gone in the morning, but not off to rehab. He’ll tell his lies— I’ll never do it again. I learned my lesson this time, scout’s honor — and he’ll take them all out for delicious, exquisite breakfast, smooth over the offenses of the night. He’ll do funny voices and faces until Mayday slams her fist into her applesauce, coating everyone in the vicinity, to express her sheer, utter delight. He’ll pal around with Peter and dare him to put syrup in his coffee or something absurd because they’re just overgrown teenagers. He’ll take MJ aside to sincerely apologize, and tell her how worried he is about her, how he’s haunted by her almost-death during labor. 

And he’ll be high the entire time. 

MJ shouldn’t know the specifics, but she does. Harry is predictable. She, Peter, and Mayday, even more so, when it comes to him. 

She relays this all to Peter as Mayday wriggles in her arms, wanting her father’s full attention and furious to be without it. Quickly, Peter strips off his gloves, and then the top of his suit. He gives a spin, allowing MJ to give him the once over, and only reaches for Mayday when MJ nods her approval. 

“You’ve got it wrong, MJ,” Peter says, holding Mayday against his chest. “Breakfast is the next time, not this time. Don’t you know your own history?”

A stuffed animal crushes underfoot. Its bead eyes jab into the ball of her foot. Not quite as painful as stepping on a Lego, but only a little better. With a grunt, MJ kicks the animal away. It skirts under the bed. Mayday’s bed. Mayday’s room. All red and blue. Her favorite colors. Spider-Man colors. MJ’s in Mayday’s room. How the fuck did she get to Mayday’s room? And why?

Spinning around, taking it all in, reveals no new clues. Nothing is out of place (except the poor stuffed tiger she punted). MJ crouches to the floor, sweeping up the bedskirt, and then retrieving the abused stuffed animal. She sets Tiger—Mayday was never particularly gifted in naming her toys—on the bed after fluffing him back up. Then, she thinks better of it, returning him to his belly-up sprawl on the floor. 

Mayday’s room has been static for five years. At first, there was an emotional logic to maintaining this shrine to her daughter—if it was exactly as she left it then Mayday could easily find her way back to it. Now… now MJ can’t bear to break from habit. 

After another sweep of the room, MJ darts out the door, pulling it softly behind her, and then leaning heavily back against it. Down the hall, Harry hacks down some particularly tall grass with his mouth mower. 

Jeez. She must be more tired than she thought. 

Rubbing at her eyes, she makes her way downstairs. She should drink some water, at least, and eat, at most. She doesn’t do either. 

Instead, she stands at her kitchen counter, listening to Harry’s slumber up above. It’ll be at least three days before he’s physically recovered. Mentally? It could be weeks. It could be even longer than that. 

And the campaign? What’s to become of that? He was polling well. Some projections marked him as the clear winner. The rumors are just rumors. For now. 

Fuck. She really should’ve done more to stymy those. But, she thought there was no proof left. She spelunked Norman’s house herself. The mirror didn’t reveal anything to her. 

She was certain the secret would die with her.

Following the same path Harry took not long before her, MJ circles the living room, strafing the edges of the conversation pit. It doesn’t take her long to make up her mind. She has to be here for Harry. She squares her shoulders. She makes the call. 

It rings only once before Miguel answers. 

In the soft light of the hologram, Miguel’s disdain isn’t as hardcut as it would be in real life. He doesn’t say anything, waiting for her to speak and dig her own grave. 

It’s been at least a day since she last spoke to him. All his requests to return, all his calls, each and every one of his texts have been resolutely screened. Wholly unprofessional, but she planned to address it in person. 

Oh well. Harry’s more important than her self respect. 

“I need to take a sabbatical,” MJ says. No easing into it. Miguel would just lambast her for that anyway. Rough and raw it is. 

Miguel’s brow furrows. If he sees the exhaustion on her face, he ignores it. “Seriously?”

“Non-negotiable. I have to take care of some stuff at home.”

His gaze flicks away, just over her head, looking something up. The chock chock of his fingers over keys is unabashed. “I’m not seeing any upticks in—”

“It’s personal,” she interrupts. “MJ stuff. Not Spider-Woman.” 

“MJ stuff.” Disbelief pitches his tone sharp and acerbic.

“Yeah. Private.”

Miguel's eyes roll skyward. He mumbles under his breath one of those little bitey Spanish phrases she doesn't understand but can guess the meaning of.

“Like I told you already,” Miguel says, slowly, holding her gaze even in hologram, “most Spiders have been compromised. Symbiote enrapture has the markers of a canon event for some Spiders.”

MJ huffs. “Not like that. Not to everyone.”

“Not everyone,” he agrees. “Most of us are smart enough to not get compromised. Especially if they’re abnormally predispositioned to Symbiotic influence.” 

The implication chafes. How was she supposed to know something lurking inside her smelled like a Scooby-Snack to Symbiotes? It’s not like she was hiding it. 

She crosses her arms, shifts her hip back over one leg, and gives him a real stunner of a once over. “Seemed like you got pretty close to being compromised too.”

“I wasn’t including myself.”

Static fizzles in her belly, hot and sharp. “No?”

“No.”

There’s a heavy pause. One that pushes her thoughts towards teeth and heat. One that's dangerous. The tension sits uneven in her stomach, wedged between the bone deep exhaustion of the day and lingering, teeming hurt of existence.

It's confusing. Uncomfortable. She blazes through it. “So, about my sabbatical…”

“I thought we were past that.”

“Harry needs me.”

“Harry Osborn.” Miguel’s mouth twists up, scornful.

MJ nods. “You got one of him?”

“No. From the future, remember?”

“So you had a Harry once. Did he turn out okay? Because this one’s—”

Harry tramps down the steps. “MJ? You talking to someone?”

He ducks to lean out where the ceiling gives way to the spine of the stairs. He tilts his head. She’s quick to smash a palm over her wrist and blot out Miguel’s projection.

“A little glowy guy?”

But not quick enough. 

She smothers the panic and arches a brow. “I’m not talking to anyone, especially not little glowy guys. You’re trashed, doll.”

“Not that trashed,” he says, but he blinks amphibian, one eye shuttering open and close out of sync with the other. 

“Let’s go back to bed.”

Beneath her palm, the soft light of Miguel vanishes. 

She chases Harry back up the steps. In the hall, she takes hold of both his shoulders and conga lines him back to bed. He’s pliable to her maneuvering, going where she leads without protest. 

When they reach the bedroom, he falls to the mattress in a heap of poking, uneven limbs. He lies there for a moment, chest rising and falling with a panting cadence, before burrowing down into the sheets again. 

She pulls a quilt from the closet, draping it around her shoulders so that it trails like a shadow when she crawls into bed beside him. The quilt has a cloying, musty smell from years of disuse, but she knows from experience that trying to wrest blankets from an insensate Harry is more trouble than it's worth. 

An incoming message shakes her gizmo. Unsurprisingly, it’s from Miguel. 

SM-928B - Take the time you need. 

Before she can even respond thx, another message vibrates. 

SM-928B - Let’s talk when you get back to HQ. 

Ambiguous. Ominous. She doesn’t love it. It could mean anything. 

Let’s talk could mean things got weird and we need to have a let’s just be friends chat. Or it could mean, things got weird but fuck, I bit you when I could’ve kissed you and that’s kind of hot. Or even, things got weird and I hate you and you’re fired forever. Die.

The possibilities are too drastic and stark. She can't settle.

bad talk? good talk? - SW-7782

SM-928B - Neutral talk.

To use terms he would understand—what a shocking bithead. 

Harry stirs beside her, twitching in uneasy slumber. She sets her gizmo to snooze—doubtful she’ll hear more from Miguel anyway—and turns to face Harry. 

Even in sleep, his face is pinched tight and concerted. Brow crinkling and runkling with every in-and-out cycle of breath. With her thumbs, she smoothens his brow into calm. Then, she runs her fingers back through his hair, soothing as best she can. 

He calms eventually, falling into stoic dreaming. Calming him helps calm her. Helps better set her priorities.

Harry needs her. More than anything, he needs her. Nothing else matters until he’s better. She’s failed him again and again and again. This time, she won’t. 

And then, only when he’s stable, she’ll face Miguel and his Neutral Talk. Whatever the fuck it ends up being. 

***

Admissions whispered in the dead of the day: "Can't sleep. Need you."

Heavy hands paw at MJ's belly. Blunt nails scrape against the sliver of her skin between pajama top and bottom, thumb over the rough-worn line of a c-section scar. The drug makes Harry discordant. He presses too hard and too soft in bursts. 

It’s been a long time. Over a year. The last time, it went sour. Started angry and bitter, ended worse. Honestly, she thought they were past needing each other to soothe aches like this. Or, she thought he was, at least. He said as much. Said, I can’t fucking do this anymore with you. 

But that was then, when she was the one asking. This is now. This is him asking. Old habits die hard between them, if they ever die at all. 

“I'm here.” She touches his face. Drags her thumb over the dry seam of his mouth. 

Hidden in the dusty shadows, they trade sickly sweet kisses. Play act at passion. It’s rote memory now. MJ would do anything for him, even this. God knows he’s done it for her over and over and over. 

Fucked up, he knows how and when and where to touch her, though he’s just going through the motions. Just like she knows exactly what he likes, what he doesn’t, but isn’t breaking any new ground, isn't doing anything novel to please him. They'll fuck because he wants too, but it won't ever be anything more than that. 

Slow and careful, she rides him, careful of breaking him. It irritates him, like it always does, that she won’t be rougher with him. Even still, he doesn’t last long, wincing when he finishes, settling from the rigid limb rictus soon after. 

Flopping back to the mattress, she touches herself to burn out the lingering haze of lust in her body. Fingers move slick through the mess he's left. He tries to help with sloppy, floppy movements until she bats him away and he hisses like a wounded animal. 

“Fuck, MJ.” Bleary and wantsick, his pupils are still hazy, but less so than before. The worst of it is over. She doesn't know if that makes this more or less real. “Just tell me what you want.”

She slits an eye. His face is pulled thin and his expression delirious. It’s easier when he’s not so attentive. Easier to pretend it's Peter beneath her, behind her, inside her, touching her. When there's a real, breathing partner watching her every twitch and tremor, it's impossible to chase that liquid-limbed, blissed-out pleasure from a phantom.

“Can you…” she starts, but stalls to finish. 

“Anything, anything.”

“Bite me.”

Harry’s lids droop. His cheeks winnow with a sharp, shocked sigh. But he does bite her. 

It’s not quite right. His teeth are too flat. He sucks more than he bites. He doesn't break skin. But it serves its purpose. She comes quick. Quick enough to sober up and take the cold realization of what she’d asked, what she’d wanted, straight to the gut. 

Nuzzled into her side, Harry falls asleep without ceremony. Conscious one second, unconscious the next. Sticky and sweaty but pinned to the mattress by Harry’s slumped body, MJ flings an arm over her eyes and chews at the inside of her cheek. 

It doesn’t matter how long she stays away from HQ. She’ll need to go back eventually. And when she does, she’s totally, utterly fucked.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Get Ready for Another Lengthy, Load Bearing Psych Excerpt. Er, I Mean, Why Are You Here? You Don't Have Clearance for This!
Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Selected excerpts from psych evals conducted by SM-813 “EZEKIAL” with MARIJANE over the course of her tenure with search parameters [PSYCH CONCERNS] and all disambiguation.

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #1 - Initial Psychological Evaluation:

[...]

EZEKIAL: I have the results from your psych questionnaire. It all checks out. 

MARIJANE: I’m glad to hear that. 

EZEKIAL: So, why are you here?

MARIJANE: LYLA told me this was the final thing to get me started as an Agent. 

EZEKIAL: And do you always just do what you’re told? 

MARIJANE: When I don’t disagree with it, yeah. Usually. 

EZEKIAL: Do you consider yourself conflict averse?

MARIJANE: No. 

EZEKIAL: But you want everyone to like you. 

MARIJANE: Doesn’t everyone? 

EZEKIAL: No.

MARIJANE: You’d know best, Doc Ezekial. 

EZEKIAL: You never answered my question—why are you here?

MARIJANE: I want to see what all the multiverse hubbub is about.

EZEKIAL: And does it bother you?

MARIJANE: I’m not sure what you mean, but I’m not easily bothered, so I’ll just say, no. It doesn’t bother me.

EZEKIAL: There’s no need to pretend here. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: What are you afraid of?

MARIJANE: The same things everyone’s afraid of. Death. Failure. Dark hallways. 

EZEKIAL: Does it make you feel better to generalize your feelings to everyone? Does it make you feel less alone?

MARIJANE: I don’t feel alone.

EZEKIAL: Aren’t you, though?

MARIJANE: Wow. That’s quite a bedside manner you have there. 

EZEKIAL: I’d like to share my analysis of you now, if that’s alright. It might be a bit harsh.

MARIJANE: I’m a big girl. I can handle it. Shoot me straight, Doc Ezekial. 

EZEKIAL: You’re vapid. You maintain superficial concerns and grievances so no one views you as a problem. You distrust authority because you’ve been hurt in the past and can’t differentiate past harms with present reality. You lost touch with yourself years before you lost your family.

MARIJANE: That’s… okay. I mean, vapid is a bit harsh. 

EZEKIAL: Interesting. 

MARIJANE: What is?

EZEKIAL: You would rather me believe an unflattering assessment than know the truth of you. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: Oh, one last question. No need to answer. What could you have done differently?

MARIJANE: You’ll have to be more specific than that. 

EZEKIAL: No, I don’t. 

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #2 - Psychological Evaluation for Clearance to Work the Unknown Detail: 

EZEKIAL: Hello. How are you?

MARIJANE: Wonderful. How are you?

EZEKIAL: This isn’t about me. 

MARIJANE: Right. Well, if it were up to me, I’d say you’re having a perfectly fine day. Not too awful, but not too great either. Just another day on the job. So what does that say about me?

EZEKIAL: It says that you’re uncomfortable talking about yourself. 

MARIJANE: I don’t think it says that at all. 

EZEKIAL: You wouldn’t.

MARIJANE: You would know best, wouldn’t you?

EZEKIAL: Yes. I would. 

MARIJANE: Then there you go. 

EZEKIAL: Have I offended in some way?

MARIJANE: No, I just love these mandatory little sessions where you belittle and psychoanalyze me. They’re just a gas. 

EZEKIAL: Sarcasm.

MARIJANE: Yes. What does that say about me?

EZEKIAL: I’ll put it in the write-up. 

MARIJANE: That I can’t see. You failed to mention that last time. How can I even trust that it’s accurate? 

EZEKIAL: It is.

MARIJANE: Miguel won’t show me. He was annoyed that I asked. 

EZEKIAL: It isn’t for you to see. There are very real dangers to seeing oneself too clearly. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: So, this detail you’re up for—do you think you can handle it?

MARIJANE: Yes. 

EZEKIAL: Even with what you’ve been through?

MARIJANE: Yes.

EZEKIAL: Because of what you’ve been through?

MARIJANE: Sure.

EZEKIAL: You’re telling me what you think I want to hear. 

MARIJANE: You’ll accuse me of it either way, so why not just trim the fat?

EZEKIAL: You have a very high emotional intelligence, Ms. Watson-Parker. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: You’ll be required to do an annual check-in. Otherwise, the sessions are event-driven. Significant injuries. Symbiote exposure. Space madness. Those kinds of things. 

MARIJANE: Space madness? 

EZEKIAL: Yes. You’ve read the literature, right?

MARIJANE: It is not I who am crazy. It is I who am mad.

EZEKIAL: Excuse me? Are you doing an accent? 

[...]

EZEKIAL: Why are you here?

MARIJANE: Same answer as last time. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: You’re not looking for your family? 

MARIJANE: My family’s gone. 

EZEKIAL: Do you hope to replace yourself then? Find a universe where they lost you, and slot the two realities together like puzzle pieces?
I have to tell you—it won’t work like that. Even if such a place existed, it won’t give you what you want. 

MARIJANE: You make a lot of assumptions. 

EZEKIAL: Yes. Never wrong ones.
Let’s end here. I have mild concerns about your assignment to the Unknown detail, but none that should bar you from it. It will be very good for you to have a strong, defined role here. 

MARIJANE: And I assume your concerns will go in the write up?

EZEKIAL: No. I think I’ll keep them to myself for the time being. They’re loose impressions right now. It will take time for me to develop them. 

MARIJANE: I’ve never had a shrink like you before, Doc Ezekial. 

EZEKIAL: And you likely never will again. As they say, I’m one of a kind, MJ.

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #3 - Mandatory Follow-Up Evaluation Resultant of Succession Protocol (1.07):

[...]

EZEKIAL: Apologies - I’ve done over 500 evaluations like this today. My questions might be slightly to the left of center. 

MARIJANE: That’s okay. I’m not in prime form either. 

EZEKIAL: Let’s back up.

It’s been quite some time since we last spoke. 

MARIJANE: Several months.

EZEKIAL: You etched out quite an important role for yourself. I was very happy to see that. And it may not be above-board to tell you this, but your name is mentioned quite a bit during Initial Evaluations. Seems you have a real knack for recruitment.

MARIJANE: I did my best. 

EZEKIAL: By all accounts, you were flourishing. Team lead on Aggressive Expansion. A critical member of the so-called Inner Circle—not afraid to speak your mind and well-respected for it. 

MARIJANE: So why did I quit? That’s what you’re building up to, right?

EZEKIAL: Not quite. Like I said, left of center. You were always going to quit. I’m more interested in why you came back.

MARIJANE: You knew then. About 928C? 

EZEKIAL: I did. I flagged the inevitable conflict for LYLA. It made no difference, but I did try. It’s no comfort to you now, I’m sure. 

MARIJANE: No, it’s not. She and Miguel, they didn’t do anything with it. 

EZEKIAL: It was a major betrayal for you. 

MARIJANE: Major. 

EZEKIAL: But you came back. 

MARIJANE: Jess asked. 

EZEKIAL: You could have said no.

MARIJANE: I could have. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: Are you still running? 

MARIJANE: I don’t know. Most of the time, I think I’m standing still, but then, sometimes I look around and the world’s moving around me. 

EZEKIAL: You must be exhausted. 

MARIJANE: I used to be.

[...]

MARIJANE: Yeah. I. You’re sure what I say isn’t going to be written up anywhere? I don’t want to be misunderstood. 

EZEKIAL: There’s a transcript for every session, but they aren’t reviewed. It’s just raw data—only pulled if there’s a severe violation of protocol or threat to the Society by the Spider in session.

MARIJANE: Did the data get pulled when I quit?

EZEKIAL: No. 

MARIJANE: Well, I have no plans to do anything worse than that.

EZEKIAL: Don’t kill any Agents or lead a hostile coux and you should be fine. 

MARIJANE: Cancel the coux. Got it. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: It would be a relief to be free of all this, wouldn’t it?

MARIJANE: A mercy.

EZEKIAL: Do you feel like you’ve condemned Miguel in voting to keep him?

MARIJANE: You tell me, Doc.

EZEKIAL: I’m sure it’s difficult. You’ve found a real purpose here, but now you’re hollow for it.

MARIJANE: I just keep losing them. Over and over and over.

EZEKIAL: Grief has no respect for the rules of man. Time and logic have no impact on an emotional wound.
You’ll never stop hoping, and you’ll never stop suffering the loss of that hope. It’s the conundrum of the infinite multiverse. It has to work somewhere, but it won’t be here. Not for you. Not for any of us.

MARIJANE: The others say you’re a super nice, sensitive guy. So why are you always so brutal with me? 

EZEKIAL: Professional courtesy. You’d see through that act too quickly. It would hinder your progress.

MARIJANE: So this is an act too, then? 

EZEKIAL: Would it make you feel better to know that you’re not the only one acting? 

MARIJANE: I’m not acting. 

EZEKIAL: I think we’re getting bogged down in phrasing. The woman before me is not her truest self, though she’s closer than she has been in the past. It’s not an act, per say. A defense mechanism, in parts. 

MARIJANE: You’ve said that before. About a true self. You said I lost mine. 

EZEKIAL: It’s a likely thing for me to have said. It’s a major tenet of my practice. Every emotional creature has a true self buried beneath all the others. It’s even more true for us Spiders. We have to balance ourselves, Ezekial, MJ, with Spider-Man, Spider-Woman. It’s a difficult thing.
Who is the real Marilyn Jane Watson-Parker? 

MARIJANE: I am. I can’t be anyone else. 

EZEKIAL: That’s a start. We’ll pick this up next time. Have LYLA schedule in an appointment. 

MARIJANE: That’s… Okay, I’ll try. 

EZEKIAL: You won’t ever feel better until you let the wound bleed. It’s hard to start now, but it’ll be harder to start tomorrow. Even harder after that. 

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #4 - Annual Psychological Evaluation:

[...]

EZEKIAL: So, as you know, this is your one year check in. A lot has happened since you joined. 

MARIJANE: So much. 

EZEKIAL: You were at the center of many of the changes. 

MARIJANE: Yeah. You’re talking to a certified Society Celebrity, according to the Webb. 

EZEKIAL: Yes, you’ve garnered quite the reputation for yourself. 

MARIJANE: It’s easy when I’m the heart and soul of the social part of the Society. God knows Miguel doesn’t have the face for this kinda thing. 

EZEKIAL: Yes. Head of the Spider Social Committee. Founder and Chair of the Spider Arts Guild, which includes all the performing arts groups. I understand you’re particularly active with the Spider Thespians.

MARIJANE: You caught me, Doc Ezekial. Theater kid, through and through. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: But you’ve been handpicked as Jess’s acting replacement, is that correct?

MARIJANE: For missions only. Jess is still very active administratively. 

EZEKIAL: Regardless, that’s a big deal.

MARIJANE: I guess. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: [T]here’s thousands of Agents now, but you were picked. It’s got to feel a little like an honor. 

MARIJANE: When you put it like that, sure, but I don’t really see it that way. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: You’re a member of his Inner Circle. 

MARIJANE: Yes.

EZEKIAL: That implies to me that your opinion is solicited and valuable. 

MARIJANE: It implies the same to me. Trust me, I don’t need convincing that Miguel respects me. Why that is, well, that’s still in contention. I like to think I’m the personality hire. 

[...]

Transcript of Session #5 - Psych Evaluation for Clearance After Significant Injury on Mission & Symbiote Exposure

EZEKIAL: Hello. How are you?

MARIJANE: Exuberant. 

EZEKIAL: Is that so? 

MARIJANE: Do I not exude exuberance? 

EZEKIAL: We need to talk about what happened. 

MARIJANE: And I will. Exuberantly. 

EZEKIAL: Forgive me if I do not believe this to be true. 

[...]

MARIJANE: I’m sorry, Zeke. I’m just so sick of talking about all this. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: The particularities of the testing gamut are confidential. I’ve not seen them. 

MARIJANE: Oh. I didn’t realize that. I mean, I knew it was confidential, but I thought you would’ve had access. It’s pretty trippy. Hard on the noggin. 

EZEKIAL: I’m afraid I can’t say. 

MARIJANE: Right, right. I’ll have to ask Miguel about it. 

EZEKIAL: You would like me to provide analysis, if granted clearance?

MARIJANE: Couldn’t hurt, right? Like I said, it’s trippy. Like I just, well. It’s hard to explain without you having the background. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: In joining, you failed to disclose prior Symbiote enrapture.

MARIJANE: Yeah, Miguel already chewed me out for it, don’t worry. 

EZEKIAL: It’s not uncommon. The question itself is flawed. Many new Agents are only familiar with their own Symbiotes. Venom. Carnage. Scream. Enrapture is an even more problematic term. In many universes, including this very one, enrapture is synonymous to the state of intoxication for those using the drug Rapture. 

MARIJANE: Uh huh. 

EZEKIAL: However, your failure to disclose wasn’t from misunderstanding the question, is that correct? 

MARIJANE: I appreciate you phrasing this as a question even though you already seem to know the answer. I like being given the opportunity to lie. 

EZEKIAL: There’s much to be learned when someone lies. Maybe more to be learned when someone lies than when they tell the truth. 

MARIJANE: Let’s make things interesting then. Let’s say my failure to disclose was because I misunderstood the question. 

EZEKIAL: Let’s say it was. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: And I had fears the Society’s methods [OF ANTI-VENOM] were inhumane.

MARIJANE: Oh, the shocking sonic therapy? Trust me, I’d take the Human Torch method to that any day! 

EZEKIAL: Really?

MARIJANE: Oh my god, yeah. Don’t get me wrong, the fire hurts like hell, but the sonic therapy jellied my brain. Shattered me at a molecular level, you know? Loud noises still kinda make me jumpy. 

EZEKIAL: That’s not the norm. Most express minor discomfort. Ringing in the ears. Heightened sensitivity for a few days. A headache. 

[...]

MARIJANE: I was desperate to be in love with everyone and needed everyone to be desperately in love with me.  

EZEKIAL: That’s an insightful analysis.

MARIJANE: Oh, I stole that from another therapist. Wish I could’ve made that realization on my own. Would’ve saved a lot of time. And money. 

EZEKIAL: Did you also hedge your responses with that therapist too?

MARIJANE: Big time. Can never be too candid. Never know what’ll end up leaked to the press. 

EZEKIAL: This is our fifth session and we’re no closer to your true self. I can’t help you if you refuse to be vulnerable. 

MARIJANE: Vulnerability isn’t really my color, Doc. 

EZEKIAL: Why is that?

MARIJANE: Dunno. Never has been. Just born with a tough shell. Like a lobster. That's why I can’t eat shellfish. My brethren. 

[...]

MARIJANE: It means nothing. I have way more issues than daddy issues now.

[...]

MARIJANE: You really are good at what you do, Zeke. And I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but it’s just not good for me. I’ve been down this road. Peeking into all those dark places just means I can’t sleep at night. With all your psychological wizardry, you get that, right? 

[...]

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #6 - Psychological Evaluation for Clearance After Significant Injury on Mission:

EZEKIAL: Hello. How are you?

MARIJANE: Alive. That’s quite the feat, isn’t it?

EZEKIAL: Yes, but I’m glad you’re here to attest to it.

MARIJANE: Well, I wouldn’t recommend it. 

EZEKIAL: I would imagine not. 

MARIJANE: But, I mean, all in all, not terrible? I’m all healed up. No lasting trauma. It’s pretty crazy. 

EZEKIAL: Very crazy. I’m sure you’re familiar with the statistics. 

MARIJANE: Oh yeah, very familiar. Honored to defy all expectations. Sentient smear isn’t really my thing. I doubt I could pull it off. 

EZEKIAL: I doubt anyone could. 

[...]

MARIJANE: I really do feel fine. It’s insane, I know, but I don’t have any lingering effects.

EZEKIAL: No strange dreams? Hallucinations? Vertigo? 

MARIJANE: Who doesn’t have strange dreams? I heard that’s a standard side effect of interdimensional travel. 

EZEKIAL: It is, but I mean really strange dreams. Or the same dreams, over and over. 

MARIJANE: The same dreams? Is that a symptom?

EZEKIAL: It can be. 

MARIJANE: I thought Space Madness had no determined symptoms.

EZEKIAL: It doesn’t. This is all hypothetical. Do you have the same dreams?

MARIJANE: Sometimes, but it’s more like I dream about the same things over and over. I dream about my family a lot. Peter and Mayday. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: I’m interested in exploring why that is. 

MARIJANE: Oh, I can tell. 

EZEKIAL: But I expect you’ll be difficult about it. 

MARIJANE: Difficult! Not intentionally, but I won’t tell you what you want to hear. So, yeah, maybe difficult is fair actually. 

EZEKIAL: I thought as much. 

MARIJANE: So, we all good here?

EZEKIAL: I’m inclined to say yes. Though, really, it would be very good if you would—

MARIJANE: Schedule a session. I know, Zeke. I’m sorry to keep disappointing. 

EZEKIAL: It’s only to your detriment.

MARIJANE: I know, Doc.

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #7 - Psychological Evaluation for Clearance After Canon Event:

EZEKIAL: Hello. How are you?

MARIJANE: I can’t do this today. Just ask whatever you have to and let me go.
Please.

EZEKIAL: I’m afraid there’s a protocol here. If you aren’t up for the discussion based approach, it’ll be question and answer. You don’t have to answer anything, but I won’t be able to clear you if you don’t. 

MARIJANE: Shocking canon events.

EZEKIAL: Yes. They can be brutal.

MARIJANE: Brutal. Good word. Shocking brutal. 

[...]

MARIJANE: I’m familiar and I know, but I can’t… Harry was everything to me. He…

EZEKIAL: MariJane? Are you alright? Can you hear me?

MARIJANE: He’s family. I can’t hand my guilt over to an algorithm. I could have saved him. I could have. Shock the canon event, I could have. But I didn’t. 

EZEKIAL: Where did you go there?

MARIJANE: What?

EZEKIAL: You appeared to dissociate there for a moment. 

MARIJANE: No, I didn’t. 

EZEKIAL: My apologies.
Spider to Spider, I’m concerned for you, MJ.

MARIJANE: You’re not the only one.

EZEKIAL: You’ve suffered a major loss and a major betrayal, but it doesn’t appear to me that you’re processing either. You’re angry, but internalizing it. You are allowed to be angry at the world. At Miguel, too. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: Regarding current status—

MARIJANE: It’s complicated. 

EZEKIAL: You’re living with him, is that correct?

MARIJANE: It’s… Yes.

EZEKIAL: I imagine it’s difficult. Many emotions to manage. 

MARIJANE: Yes.
It’s turbulent. 

EZEKIAL: All the time?

MARIJANE: No. He. He takes care of me the way he thinks is best.

EZEKIAL: But not the way you need?

MARIJANE: I don’t know. 

EZEKIAL: That’s okay. You don’t have to know. 

MARIJANE: I don’t.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what you asked me in that first session. What could I have done differently? 

EZEKIAL: And?

MARIJANE: And I would have done everything differently. I wouldn’t have gone to LA after high school. I would have told Peter I loved him sooner. I would’ve stayed home with Mayday everyday and been happy to do it. I would’ve tried for… I would’ve done it all differently. 

EZEKIAL: You can’t change the past. We can scarcely change the future. All we can change is who we are, who we choose to be afterwards. 

MARIJANE: I would change it if I could. I would do anything. Anyone who says they wouldn’t is a liar. 

EZEKIAL: Does the present bring you no comfort?

MARIJANE: Harry’s gone. Pyotr’s gone. Mae’s gone. My family’s gone. Everyone I ever loved and cared about and I couldn’t do anything to save them. 

EZEKIAL: Is that true?

MARIJANE: What?

EZEKIAL: Everyone you love and care about is gone?

MARIJANE: I think I’m only half a person. I can’t… love gets poured into me, but it just leaks back out through cracks I can’t see. And I can’t give it with both hands, you know? I can’t stop reaching back to Peter. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: There’s a lot of comfort in knowing there’s nothing you could have done to change things. And that something worse would happen if you tried to change things. 

MARIJANE: Is it though? 

EZEKIAL: For most.

MARIJANE: For you?

EZEKIAL: This isn’t my session, MJ.

MARIJANE: Well, I’m asking you as part of my session. 

EZEKIAL: I concede that initially, I had some qualms regarding the implication that free will is a fantasy. 

MARIJANE: Yes! Exactly! Exactly! I—

EZEKIAL: But, the projections swayed me. Our characters and our actions still hold great value within our lives and timelines, but absolutes do exist, irrespective of our individuality.  

MARIJANE: Then who’s guilty? Who is responsible?

EZEKIAL: Some might suggest God. 

MARIJANE: Not me. 

EZEKIAL: No, not you. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Still pending LYLA review but no motive immediately apparent beyond those well known. Not unexpected. MARIJANE said everything sideways. 

Further analysis pending.

Notes:

chapter title from "Hit It Again" by Crawlers

harry is my favorite character and i demonstrate my love by holding him to the tragedy of his name again and again and again

(morphoid was 100% inspired by Drops from The Batman. does knowing this have any baring on the fic whatsoever? nope, but i just need everyone to know that i think about the eyedrop drug Drops and those Drophead masks from The Batman literally all the time)

posting fic like this is such a weird thing because im very much a big believer in letting it Speak for Itself but i also worry all the time about losing trust in making certain story decisions that might be "unpopular" so i'll just say this to assuage my own incessant paranoia brain
-i went back and forth on whether to include the final scene in this chap, but i ultimately left it in because it adds so much dimension to harry & mj's relationship. it's a creature comfort. this is something they do for each other. harry's done it for mj in the past and vice versa. they use each other. is it toxic? yeah, because these are two people who are jaded by their past together and hold it against the other constantly, but not necessarily as a consent issue. these two have a long and storied past together throughout the entirety of their adult lives. this is part of it (but this will be the only time where outright sex between them is featured in the main narrative (it's been hinted at and will be acknowledged as we continue. we will get some additional backstory/context of their relationship in one of the later interludes - harry and mj's dynamic is one that i rarely see discussed or explored and i just find it so rife and complex and interesting so it's a major focal point of this fic). Also (hopefully obvious) but there isnt going to be a full blown harry/mj romantic relationship here. i hope ive made that clear in the writing itself and that these are two people resorting to old habits/means of comfort (and is there bitterness stemming from the decisions they make and how they treat each other in a romantic sense? ABSOLUTELY), not the set up to an additional pairing here. i did tag this fic as harry/mj but only in the tags NOT in the "relationship" tags. it is relevant and it is a MAJOR part of the story but not as a full, actual additional pairing.

next chapter: some answers, more questions

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 23: through the ether

Summary:

mysteries, plot contrivances and tension with a capital T

For another six days, Harry haunts MJ’s home. He barely moves the first two days, just lies tangled in her sheets or thrashes from unkind dreams. Gaunt and far too pale, he’s like a plague victim wasting away his final hours at her side. 

MJ does the best she can in those hard days. She clutches him to her chest, smoothens his hair, soothes his worries. Listens to his ramblings, does her best to reassure him. He’s not his father. Being worried that he might be is a point in his favor. 

And she drinks all the booze he’s squirreled away around her house. It has little effect, but it seems a shame to let it all go to waste or, worse, into Harry. He’s still comfortably numb—slowly coming down off the long Morphoid high, real primo stuff—but she knows Harry. His demeanor will turn the second his high fades. 

And he can’t be trusted with his own wellbeing. Frequent trips to the hospital throughout the duration of their knowing each other serve as proof enough of that. 

So, she junks the booze for his own good. 

Predictably, the hangover hits on the third day and the third day proves the worst yet. He rages. He weeps. He vomits, unable to keep anything down until the fourth day when it all evens out. 

Only once through the ordeal does Harry bring up his father again and it's only in passing, only in shrewd reference without the need for response. And thank god for small blessings. Peter was always the one to talk Harry through his dad troubles—the only one capable of mending the gaping wounds Norman was apt to gouge in Harry’s ego. 

Maybe it was Peter’s own closeness to father and son alike. Or maybe Peter just got it. MJ never really knew. And she never really asked. She had her own daddy issues and Harry’s always seemed so complex.

George Watson hated MJ for simple, ugly reasons, impressed into her from the moment she was born and made worse as she grew into her body. But Norman’s hatred for Harry never had any rhyme or reason. Norman hated Harry just for being Harry. 

How else to describe the relationship between the Osborn men? How to describe a cold war begun before the son was born? 

Norman never hit Harry that she knew. He never needed to. His blows were verbal dirty bombs, embedding shrapnel in a boy who barely understood what it was to be a man. It was an abuse waged in constant disappointment and emasculation. Never bright enough. Never strong enough. Never confident enough. Never tough enough. Never good enough. 

To a man like Norman Osborn, you only mattered if you Took Up Space. And he was always telling Peter that. Mentoring him to be the kind of confident, self-made man who wasn’t afraid to be heard or Take Up Space. 

But Harry was uncomfortable in his own body. Learned to do a good job of hiding it between sarcasm and substances, but he always looked like he was poking out of his own skin. He shrunk himself. Stood at the back of the crowd. Kept to himself.

And Norman hated him for it. Hated that his son was a soft spoken fop. Hated that Harry was desperate for approval he would never give. Hated that Harry was Harry and not someone else.

Harry claimed the mayoral campaign was a turning point in his life. 

“I’m really doing it, Em,” he told her. “I’m going to make something of myself. I’m going to heal Nu York.”

But MJ knew better. 

Even dead, Norman lingers in Harry’s thoughts. An absent father, none too absent.

***

“Explain it again and remember that my doctorate is honorary and only because Steve-O said no.” 

Earth-918B. HQ. A virtual reality testing room, offshoot from Miguel’s lab. Only a mere hour after MJ's return to active duty and the culmination of a neutral talk.

“Steve-O? Is that a person? An animal?” Miguel’s voice comes down from on high. It doesn’t echo in the empty room, absorbed by the padded walls. Thankfully, MJ was fitted for a high tech suit of technicolor sensors and flashing diodes, not a straight jacket. It looks just as crazy, though. 

“Lyla, please add Jackass to Miguel’s watchlist.” 

“Ooh, he’ll love that and say that he hates it.” Lyla chirps in MJ’s headset. “Done!” 

Miguel’s sigh rasps in the soft room. “If you’re done wasting time?”

“Still waiting for you to explain,” MJ says. She spins circles aimlessly. The room around her is white, white and white. The bottom of a swimming pool without the water. The suit she wears is stiff and uncomfortable, cracking with every small motion and movement. The headset is even worse. It’s giving her a headache, sinking her skull down hard onto her spine. 

None of it will matter once Miguel runs the simulation. Once he flips the switch (or presses a button or tells Lyla to do it - unclear from her current angle what the ‘sitch upstairs is), MJ will be instantly transported into virtual reality and made to relive the most embarrassing moment of her professional career. 

It works on a similar logic as the training programs, but this is full immersion, rather than a Next Gen holodeck situation. To which MJ asked what that meant and Lyla said, “Oh, right right right, you’re not a Trekker. Sorry. I’m usually explaining this to nerds.”

The room around MJ functions as a sensory deprivation tank, sucking her mind right out of her skull and transporting her directly into hell. She knows it’s all for fun (hard science), but it feels real. Every single time. 

Suffice to say, she doesn’t love it. 

Miguel explains, “There’s a gap within your molecular structure that resonates at a quantum level.”

MJ can conceptualize this, but can’t comprehend the significance. So what if her molecules ring like crystal? 

“Dumber,” MJ instructs. 

“Your DNA sing. Make Symbiote go crazy.”

“Okay, that was a little too dumb.” 

“But you understood it.”

Yes. The greater picture, however, still eludes her. Doesn’t help that she’s got a crick in her neck the size of Arkansas and a squirming revulsion to any and all things Symbiotic. 

MJ sighs. “So how much longer? This gear is giving me—” 

“Stop yapping and it’ll be over quicker.” 

Chewing the inside of her cheek, MJ compiles. Normally, she would argue, but she’s exhausted. The past two weeks have been an exercise in fatigue. She just wants this over and done. 

“Wow, you can listen to instructions,” Miguel says. 

MJ rolls her eyes, but doesn’t fight back. There’s a pause—Miguel waiting for her return volley—until the click click click of a turning dial crackles over the speaker. 

“Trial 19 initiating,” Lyla reports.

Then. 

Dreary rain. The slash and burn of neon. EDM bass thumping underfoot. Petey in front of her, hand outstretched. The Symbiote leaking out of him like a dark fog. 

MJ doesn’t want to take his hand, a glacial dread leaking through her, but she does take it. It just happens. No conscious action, but it happens. She takes his hand because she did once and always will. History can’t be rewritten, but it can be re-lived. 

The Symbiote latches, but it doesn’t swallow her whole. Just chews on her psyche a little. She thrashes, claws at her own skin, resists and resists and resists.

In the end, it still takes her, still drowns her deep, but she doesn’t make it easy. She doesn’t sink into the raw wound of memory. She fights and she fights and she fights and—

The reality fades away. She’s back in the little white room, in the heavy, clunky suit. She sways, heaving from panic no longer necessary. Dropping to a knee relieves the twinge in her lungs, though it’s murder on her back in the clunky, chunky suit. Her fist dimples the ground, but it doesn’t take. When she lets up, the ground snaps back into shape, leaving no memory of her at all. 

“Better,” Miguel says from on high. It could be praise if it didn’t sound like criticism. “Need to adjust the levels. Then we’ll go again.”

***

Finally, after hours of testing, MJ receives a super specialized subsonic upgrade to her gizmo. A disrupter, it emits an unpleasant noise, driving Symbiotes away instead of attracting them. It took four hours, but it felt like days for MJ. Mentally and emotionally exhausting. 

Miguel says more testing is needed. The immediate problem is solved, but he still has no idea why there’s a song stuck in her soul. He never says, but she knows it has to be from the collider. From Peter. 

There’s nothing else it could be. 

As MJ de-suits in an antechamber, Lyla runs her through all she missed while on sabbatical. Rumors. Interpersonal developments. The finalized schedule and menu for the Spider Awards Gala. 

Two new developments stick out. 

The first: Flipside electrocuted himself trying to sneak into Lyla’s memory bank and was reduced to speaking exclusively in wingdings. The android has been plying Miguel for help in repairing his processor ever since, claiming to be on a path to redemption. Lyla calls bullshit on the whole thing. Much as she likes Flipside, MJ’s inclined to agree. 

The second. The heartbreaker: Mae requested and received honorable discharge. The youngest and most beloved of the Spiders Three is no longer a member of the Spider Society. A goodbye message awaits MJ, whenever she’s ready to watch it. 

Flashes of their final conversation—the one MJ didn’t know was their last conversation—blitz through her brain. Mae, looking sadder than any twenty-something should ever be. Mae, squeezing MJ’s hand into pins-and-needles numbness. Mae, looking anywhere but at MJ when she said, “I let you down.” 

At the time, MJ had missed it for what it was: a guilty goodbye. 

“Mae was struggling for a long time, ever since she joined up,” Miguel explains, leaned up across the way. It’s a small room. There’s maybe five feet of space between them. Miguel’s suit throws colors like a lava lamp, tinting the room with aqueous reds and blues. “The team assignment helped her, but this last mission, she was…”

“Overwhelmed,” Lyla supplies when Miguel falters. “Too much too similar to past traumas.” 

MJ takes this like a suckerpunch. Connections crackle in her mind, assigning greater meaning to things she always thought, but never believed. She says, “It’s true then. Mae was a Mayday.”

Running a hand across his brow, Miguel shakes his head. “You’ll want to watch her video.”

“And her parents?” 

Miguel just looks at her plain. He looks as exhausted as she feels. He shakes his head again like fighting off a cold wind. All he says: “I thought it would help you. All of you.”

Misguided. That thought, the attempt. It was misguided. She and Mae and Pyotr aren’t broken pieces to be shoved together and repurposed into a new family. It doesn’t work like that.

Still. Sincerity scalds. It chokes out whatever she might have thought to say next. Her fingers fumble and fail to catch, again and again, on the final hook of the back of the sensor suit. 

“Here.” Miguel steps closer, hands raised to help. 

MJ offers her back to him, twisting her hair up into one hand off her neck. It takes him a second to undo the latch, tugging too hard at first so that the collar chokes up against her throat before he resolves to more delicate methods. His fingers tickle her bare skin. He has to reach inside the upside of the collar to pop it out. His knuckles scrap the hilt of her spine. 

Extrasensory perception shivers. He’s in her blind spot, but not a threat. The messages don’t make sense to her body, turning them upside down. It’s a strange intimacy, dripping stronger the longer he works at undoing the latch.

They haven’t talked at all about the alleyway, the bite, or anything in-between. Miguel’s so-called neutral talk concerned only the discovery of her Symbiote seducing genetic abnormality. 

She’s thought a lot about what she might say, what she might do, but all the clever things die out, smothered by an anxiety she didn’t expect. What she manages is: “Do you make a habit of biting pretty girls in grody alleyways or should I consider myself lucky?” 

Miguel gives a harsh tug on the hook. The suit rips open at the back. A chill, not altogether from the cold of the room, makes her shiver. She turns over her shoulder, purses her lips with further comment, but never manages. 

Over the course of knowing him, MJ has seen Miguel be many things. Bashful has never been one of them, but maybe she’s just never looked hard enough. It’s a quick thing that flits across his face. A trick of the light more than a full fledged emotion before he clamps it down beneath a typical, acerbic frown. 

“How’s Harry?” he asks, turning from her and taking the sensor suit with him. “Must’ve been bad off for all the time you took.” 

The suit is returned to its docking port. All the lights blinker yellow as it charges. 

“Harry’s fine.” MJ crosses her arms. Annoyance and amusement go to war on her face. “Are we not going to talk about—”

Miguel about faces, staring down at her. “There’s nothing to talk about. It won't happen again.” 

Cold authority crackles in his voice, but dark eyes dart to the evidence of his bite and suffuse darker. Under such sudden scrutiny, she falters. A smart response dies on her tongue as the certainty hits her. 

Because MJ knows, even if he doesn't, that it will happen again.

***

Mae’s goodbye message starts: There’s a lot I wanted to say to you, right at the beginning. The truth. A lot of lies. The whole kit n’ kaboodle. The Man told me I couldn’t and then when he said I could, I still… It’s hard. Saying these things to people who didn’t go through them. So I guess we do this dance in reverse. I'm sure you know all the steps. 

My name isn’t Mae Parker. It’s April. I'm a clone. 

MJ is familiar with all of the canon events that may befall a Mayday. Call it innocent curiosity or call it what it is, obsession, but MJ knows the canon events of a Mayday better than she ever knew scripture. She knows about April Parker.

April Parker. Cloned from Mayday Parker at birth. Half-human; half-symbiote. Pained by the usual pains felt by all clones: feelings of inferiority, hopelessness. An all consuming need to prove themselves. Utter alienation from the only true “family” they have. Sensations of derealization (are they real? They feel real, why isn’t that enough?). A penchant to break bad; a penchant to turn to good; a penchant to die. 

The death of April Parker is one of the screening events for Maydays to join the Society. Membership has never been granted to an April before. The April formerly known as Mae was the first. 

Because she’s not like the others. The Symbiotic strength that was meant to be hers was given to the real Maeday Parker instead. 

The rest of the story runs along similar lines as every Mayday’s until the end. Until April’s Maeday was swallowed by her Symbiote side and April could do nothing but watch as it tore apart her only friend and then destroyed whatever chance she may have had at a family. 

I just wanted to belong. I just wanted to be my own person. 

Pyotr won’t respond to any of MJ’s attempts to reach him. Calls are screened—immediately declined and without the option to leave a message. Texts are read, but summarily ignored. His location has been privatized.

“By request,” Lyla explains. “Pyotr’s taking it hard.”

Like MJ isn’t taking it hard. Except MJ knows Lyla doesn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t stop her from taking it like that. Especially when she’s positive Pyotr blames her for Mae leaving. Of course he does. It’s her fault. Her and her stupid Symbiote susceptibility. 

But it’s more than even that. There’s something wrong with her. Something deep inside. Something more than a molecular abnormality and cells that sing. Something that wavers in the dark, the space between, hiding from her when she tries too hard to look. 

The manual entry on Space Madness is long and convoluted. What MJ gets from it is this: multiversal travel is a brand spanking new mode of transportation. The risks are hypothetical—unknown until shown. Harder to show than physical injury, complications of the mind pose greater threat. Psychosis and hallucination aren’t likely, but also not impossible. Any and all side effects of multiversal travel (beyond expected headache and queasiness) are to be reported immediately. 

Which is all fine and good except MJ isn’t sure her symptoms are related at all. 

They’re more noticeable after a portal winks shut, but not worse. And, she’s not sure they’re new.

That small, prey feeling of being watched—she’s always felt that unease, that need to perform for an unseen audience. Only now she catches glimpses of shadows fraying at the edges of vision and hears murmurs of some far off crowd, all suffused with that distinctive whump whump of an open portal. 

But it doesn’t feel wrong even though she knows it must be. It’s just there. Like someone knocked the radio dial a little so that the next station up is bleeding into the one below. Maybe this is just part of the Spider-Sense and it’s only now with training and experience that she’s finally tuning in. 

Now, she’s fully jacked in. She can hear it, small undercurrent of something, as she stands in front of Miguel and endures one of his power trips. A little tremble in the air. Like something’s there, but isn’t. And if she leans in, if she follows it, if she lets it burrow down deep and ache… 

Nothing. There’s nothing. Not even a breath on the line. But she waits. Anticipation. Yearning. Enough of it will surely spill over into something—

“What the hell are you staring at?” Miguel turns around, following her line of sight. Search inconclusive, he turns back around to squint at her, displeased that she isn’t totally fixated by his listen to me or else schtick. 

“Nothing.” 

It’s the truth. There’s nothing there. Nothing lurking in the shadows of his lab and nothing on the back of her neck weighing heavy like a fever sweat. Nothing. 

Miguel isn’t convinced. He checks the shadows again, surveying with a jut to his lip and a twitching to his fingers. He’s jumpy. MJ can’t blame him. 

One of the things Lyla filled her in on while she was out? There’s been a concentrated effort by disaffected Spiders (i.e. the Spider-Punks and their ilk) to make Miguel’s life a waking nightmare. Something to do with a new time off policy that’s already been rescinded and reworked, thanks to the efforts of those brave few. 

Beyond her recent and brief sabbatical, MJ doesn’t take time off. She has no horse in the race, but she will always support the Punks in their mission of civil disobedience and radical love. They’re the closest thing the Spider Society has to a union. They keep Miguel honest and Miguel gives them something to rage against. 

Neither party sees this as a mutually beneficial relationship. 

“I swear to god, MariJane—”

“There’s nothing!” she says, laughing because she can’t help it. “I promise. No Punks or Hams or Spiders of any kind.” 

“Lyla,” Miguel barks, “Run a scan.”

“What? You don’t trust me?”

He grumbles, “That’s the problem. They know I do.”

If it were any other day in any other week, MJ would tease him, would say something stupid like awww, you trust me? 

But, there’s a brittleness between them. The bite and all the tension that came with it. It’s been two days since the testing and everything is still upside down. Miguel doesn’t want to talk about it. At all. Not even in casual reference and certainly not in any serious capacity. 

That unspoken, teething tension makes the current dressing-down all the worse. It’s there. It’s omnipresent. 

Her fingers itch to touch her neck, to starfish out—pointer and middle into the two obvious scars, thumb and ring into the lower set, indiscernible but for the permanent hitch of gooseflesh. Those two, lower mosquito bump scars she found only when she looked for them. Because Miguel has fangs on the bottom and top, which she only remembered around her fifth rewatch of the footage. 

Four fangs. Two on top for injecting. Two on bottom for keeping the bitee still. Bitee? Is there proper terminology for the recipient of a bite? Something better than bitten?

She doesn’t think so. She would know if there was. Vampires were kinda her schtick at one time. Not the Twilight kind per say—though she fell victim to the craze like everyone else and for years it was her greatest regret that she never managed to land the sequel (did get a small background part in True Blood, but that was only a small consolation). 

No, for young, angsty MJ, it was all Dracula, all the time. The groovy Bela Lugosi one, not any of the cheesy remakes. As the coolest woman to ever live, Aunt Anna was, of course, a horror fiend and introduced MJ to the wonders of cinema through monster flicks. Dracula was the best because Aunt Anna said it was and Aunt Anna was rarely wrong. 

So, yeah. If there were terminology, MJ would know it. The only analogue she can come up with is victim.

Except she doesn’t feel like a victim. She feels like a participant. An eager recipient. Because if Miguel asked to chomp down on her neck—or anywhere. Anywhere he wanted. There are lots of suitable, chewable pieces of her to envenomate—if he wanted to bite her again, she would let him. 

This is an easy, simple realization that she is safe making in the sanctity of her own thoughts and then nowhere else. MJ has some dignity. Not a lot—she’s definitely been subjected to much worse without complaint—but some. The last person in the multiverse she wants knowing she likes the idea of her neck as a toothy pincushion is Miguel himself. 

He’s sensitive about the fangs. He hides them and he mumbles when they're descended and he hates the vampire rumors borne from them and he hates even more when he catches her staring at him and thinking vampy thoughts about them. 

It happened a lot, started long before the bite in question. There’s no real rhyme or reason to why she’s so drawn to them. Ever since she noticed, she can’t stop noticing. And the fact that he only has them when he’s all worked up and agitated? 

Like, c’mon. C’mon, that’s hot. That’s objectively hot! A jury would find that hot! She’s not saying anything someone else hasn’t already! Give her a break! 

So what if she thinks the fangs are sex manifest? And so what if that’s only gotten worse since he bit her? And so fucking what if she replays again and again those crucial few moments before the bite—his hand splayed over her collarbone, his shadow slipping over her, the hard press of his body into hers, melding together and through the wet concrete at her back, the commiserating quiver-shake of his breath and hers? 

So what if she replays all that in her mind, hoping for a different outcome? Not the bite first, but the bite last. The bite at the end, only after he’s bent her into all kinds of fun and kooky shapes and made violent love to her. 

The long story short? 

If he invited her over for a nightcap and a raw fucking, she’d be down. She’d be into it. She’d eat him alive. 

Again, own thoughts? Very safe. Very secure. Very private. 

The problem is she’s having them now, standing in front of him. They rip through her skull all at once. A bullet to the brain of abysmal, twisted need. It ripples somewhere dark and hot, only to snap taut and drop the floor out from beneath her. 

MJ’s no stranger to her libido dog walking her off a cliff. It likes to do that. Or, it used to. Peter didn’t tame it so much as give it a worthy rival and something to suck on. And then after Peter, it just curled up and died, resurrecting only in fits and flashes before she beat back into undeath with a hammer. 

But it’s back like a slasher in a subpar sequel. Nobody wanted it. Nobody asked for it. But here it is. Simmering. Wanting. Waiting. 

And it’ll wait forever. MJ’s not the same out of control girl anymore. She has real issues now. Real trauma, too. There are worse things than a stifled libido. 

Like suicide-bombing a wealth of hard-earned trust and respect by asking to be bitten (and fucked, sucked, etcetera and etcetera), simultaneously jeopardizing her prestigious position in the one stable, healthy thing in her life.

Because her and Miguel? Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Which, of course, makes it a good, good idea. A tasty idea. Imagining it is a real thrill. So that’s all she does. And it’s enough to do that and nothing else. 

(It won’t be. She knows that. Can read the truth of it like tea leaves. She wants him and that always wins out in the end. The only unknown here is how long it will take for her resolve to shatter).

“No, not a zonk out,” Lyla says, right in MJ’s ear and ripping her from the delicious swell of should she, will she, does he? “She’s just ignoring you, Migs.” 

“Can we cut this short?” MJ asks, fixing Lyla with a dry ice stare. The holowoman returns the look, but breaks it to wink before disappearing. “I get it. No fighting the youths. Even if the youths have a real bitch of a Symbie babysitter.” 

Miguel tsks. “You don’t get it.”

MJ gets it. She gets that grudge matches in the middle of HQ are a benchable offense. Especially when the other participant of the grudge match was a 15 year old. It’s a bad look, even if said 15-year old wasn’t exactly driving the bus and it was his stupid sludge that MJ took grievance with. 

Even as it was happening and MJ was staring down the Symbiote’s ugly, anglerfish face,  she was thinking, this is a bad look for me. All Petey wanted to do was apologize, but apparently Vee—who talks like a monster ate a British nanny—had a bone to pick with MJ. 

Didn’t help that the ooze could only speak in cryptic threats, rasping, This one knows what you did. This one knows of things done in the dark. This one knows it all. This one saw.

What any of that means, MJ has no idea, but she didn’t take kindly to it. Hence, the fight. MJ and Vee: The Brawl in the Hall. 

The upside? All that testing in virtual reality paid off. Vee didn’t frenzy and MJ got to put the creep in a headlock. 

Honestly, it was all pretty great until Vee fled at the first sight of Miguel, who stormed in to break up a fight that had already ended. Vee’s retreat left its teenage ward as the recipient of MJ’s headlock for all of the Society to see. 

But, apparently, that isn’t what Miguel’s in a tizzy about because he crosses his arms and levels her with that nuclear-grade glare of his and says, “MariJane, you’ve been enraptured before.”

Enraptured. Pretty word for an ugly thing. It should be called something else. Brainwashed. Gooped. Possessed. Something that sounded as unpleasant as the experience itself. 

Miguel continues, “Which wouldn’t be an issue if you’d disclosed it.”

And it would continue to not be an issue if the sentient sewage hadn’t blabbed that MJ wore a Symbiote suit once before. Fucking Vee. 

“What does it matter?”

“What does it—” Miguel takes a breath, calms himself. “It matters because that puts you at three canon events. Not two”—MJ tries to interrupt, tries to prompt and that matters because? but she gets steamrolled—“and it’s a risk consideration. You put everyone in danger.” 

“Slow down, stud. You’re talking like I intentionally kept it secret.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Okay, sure, but it wasn’t for any sinister reason! I mean, I join up and one of the first things you ask me to do is disclose every awful and embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me!” Lyla said the manual questionnaire MJ had to fill out was because of the radiation backwash from the collider. Other new recruits didn’t have to fill out a thing—their signing papers and background checks were all automated. But no, unlucky MJ had to do it all herself. And is now suffering the consequences of giving as vague answers as possible. She argues, “And when I got settled, I just didn’t think about it. I didn’t know that it mattered.” 

Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose. He says, “I want to believe you.”

Which is new. Normally, he doesn’t believe anything she says, makes her fight to prove herself. So, why doesn’t he now? MJ has suspicions, but the question is loaded. 

“So believe me then. What’s the harm?”

“I think you know.” 

Intention simmers in his gaze. It levels her flat. She flounders for a response, Somehow, she finds it without letting the game slip. She crosses her arms, cocks a brow. “I thought we weren’t talking about it.”

That hot intensity flash fries until there’s just a blistering discomfort. 

“We’re not,” he cuts his gaze, grunts out, “This isn’t about that.”

“It’s not?”

If she moves closer, will he move back? Will he lean in? The throb of her pulse is wild, beating too fast and holding too still in spurts. 

Resolve refreshed, Miguel deadsights her again, glowering down at her. “I can’t have my second keeping secrets from me.”

“But you can keep them from me?” 

He scrubs hard at his forehead. “Gabriella was—”

“No.” She’s quick to cut him off. “Not that. I just, you're venomous?”

“You’ve seen me bite people.” He rolls his eyes, just in case she didn’t pick up on how stupid he finds the question. 

“Yeah, like four times.” 

Five times, actually, but who’s keeping track? 

“Five times, actually,” Lyla says because she has in fact been keeping track. “Venture-466. Chameleon-7810”—With each anomaly named, Lyla displays footage of the relevant bite. Of course, she enhances MJ’s stunned-still reaction, zooming in so that there’s no denying the whip of oh fuck reaction that lashes MJ with each bite—“Bagman-12. Goblin-7. And, big finish, Black Cat-99.9.”

The last one features MJ swinging smack into a wall as Miguel rips into the other woman’s neck. To the horror of all involved, Lyla ensures that MJ’s moody, mumbled, Not fair, is amplified and echoed. 

All of it is unnecessary and uncomfortable. Naturally, Lyla thrives in it, beaming the entire time. 

“Lyla—” Miguel starts, but she’s gone before he can tell her to scram. Her parting gift is another flash of footage. The sixth bite. The Miguel on MJ action. Audio enhanced beyond the slush of rain and far-off bass, the sound is monstrous. 

The wet puncture of thin flesh. Shivery, bunny whimpers from MJ. Thick, throaty groan of relief from Miguel. The shift and catch of their bodies as she starts to slump and he angles in, diving into the hollow of her throat. 

And then of course it loops because the first time wasn’t humiliating enough. 

Lyla is evil. Lyla is an evil, mischievous meddling sprite and that’s fine when it’s just Miguel she’s tormenting. It is far from fine when MJ’s dragged in too. 

“Lyla!” Miguel shouts before it can loop a third time. 

The footage dies. The silence it leaves is deafening. Miguel looks everywhere but at her. She can’t look anywhere but at him. 

Something she has yet to confront: is he ashamed, not just of his fangs, but of her? It’s not the read she’s gotten, but maybe she’s letting her own desires override her sense of things. Maybe he doesn’t want her the same way she wants him. It’s rare, but she has been wrong in the past.

In fact, he looks like he might be sick. There’s a lotta warmth in his face and nowhere for it to go. His mouth is a flat line, keeping whatever viscera he might expel inside. 

“You alright there, hot stuff?” she asks. Then, because the tension between them is like breathing glass, she pushes, “Still don’t wanna talk about it? About any of it? You, me, this?”  

She gestures between them, directing his attention to the scar tissue diagraming the width of his mouth on her throat. 

“Not now,” he says. “I’m not done chewing you out.”

“Couldn’t you do something more fun for the both of us and chew on something else?” she says before she thinks better of it. But even then, even when it’s out and festering, she doesn’t think better of it. 

Her friends always said she was fearless. She’s not fearless. She’s jam packed with fear. Fearful all the time, forever, ever since she was born. There’s just other things way more scary than the possibility of being rejected when she tells a guy she digs him. Far, far worse things. 

(Like say, for instance, the possibility that a quick fuck won’t be enough to get him out of her system. What the hell would she do then? She has no idea, but she’ll break that stallion when she rides it.)

Miguel, in typical Miguel fashion, responds to her flirting with a scowl and then he chews on it, which she’s never seen him do. A Freudian slip? Indulging her invite to chew while he thinks it through? Or nervous tic? 

It’s hot either way, even utterly fang-free, which she doesn’t appreciate. It’s a thrill every time, but quick association of Miguel and hot is really fucking her up. It’s like she’s been thrown in a washing machine with the lid locked. Every so often, she manages to snag a breath of clarity, but most of the time she’s getting battered by a spin cycle of chaos and confusion. 

She’s horny. She’s angry. She’s frustrated. 

It shouldn’t be this difficult, but Miguel is a fucking vacuum of emotion, sucking all of hers into him. He’s got her upside down and dangling over the edge of the Empire State Building and she has no idea what’s stopping him from letting her go. 

She hates him. She’d love to show him how much. 

“Are you just going to be like this now?” Miguel asks, tightly like he had to fight for it. “So… forward..?” 

If he didn’t sound an inch from flinging himself off the platform, she might tease him for sounding like a fuddy duddy. Forward. It’s not an unfair description of her flirting style. She just prefers bold or, even, spunky. They sound better and of this century. 

Though, anything’s better than sultry or risqué. Again, both fair descriptions of her whole vibe, but she’d sooner see those words wiped from existence than levied against her ever again. 

“If you want me to back off, I will,” she says.

“No, it’s not that. Just…” Just what? Just what!? He sighs, rubs at the back of his neck. “Just no more secrets, okay?”

She smiles slippery as smoke. Her eyes run the course of his figure, from tensed toes to itty bitty waist—where she lingers, only briefly to covet such a cinch for herself—to the pulsing neon spider across his chest to the defining features of his face. She stops there, pausing, admiring, letting it sink in. This is deliberate. Fuck it. She’s leaning in. Why not? He already bit the shit out of her. That’s like halfway between first and second base, right?

“No secrets at all?” she asks, finally flicking her eyes up to his. His eyes widen. More red than anything else in the somber light. “So, I have to tell you that I want—”

“Not exactly a secret if I already know it.” Caught somewhere between bravado and arrogance, Miguel’s interruption doesn’t irritate her as much as it would if it were anyone else. Or if it were him a few months back. 

“Right, I forgot. You know everything,” she says, sarcastic but smiling despite it. 

“Just most things.” 

Cool and collected, but his eyes remain firmly locked on hers. So intense, they can only be hesitant to dip lower.  

“And Lyla knows the rest.”

“You didn’t jump Lyla in that alley.” 

She scoffs. “I didn’t jump you either, big guy. I don’t jump.” Except Peter, but he’s the exception to everything. “Just not my style. Should’ve been your first clue my wires were all crossed.”

“Yeah? Not when you glitched out on your team or made me chase you thirty blocks?”

The casual reference to her nearly pulping Pyotr and forcing Mae’s resignation sits uneven in her chest. She flinches mentally, wincing away from the raw hurt. That’s a shame for later. Or, it should be. It shouldn’t be for now, but it spills over where it’s not supposed to. The lush, flirty feeling in her stomach turns into pure acid. 

Mae quit. She quit. Because of MJ. And here, only a few days later, stands MJ, falling into old habits to stave off the guilt. Christ. To steal Miguel’s phrase, she’s glitching. 

“I knew for sure you were fully enraptured,” Miguel continues, unaware of her sudden spiritual turmoil, “when you said I changed your life for the better."

They’re closer than they were. He’s still reserved, but playing ball, and she’s not making any sudden moves. This is new territory. Neither of them wants to be the first to fuck it up. 

There’s a firestorm in her thoughts—conflicting impulses to move closer, move away, move to Mars—but MJ manages to ask, “If I said it was true, would you believe me now?” 

A harsh hiss of breath. Not from MJ. Not from Miguel. From Lyla. Lyla, who has taken shape to lean into the small slip of space between them. 

Both MJ and Miguel ratchet farther apart. Both glare at Lyla, who looks appropriately shamed. 

“I really hate to do this,” she says. “Things were really getting good there, but…”

The lab plunges into darkness. Yellow, piercing lights disrupt the gloom, casting out like searchlights. A squalling alarm takes up somewhere within the heart of the building itself. Alerts flash: Containment breach. Vermin-6541. High degree of danger. Strike force response activated. 

“Shit,” says MJ.  

“Shock,” says Miguel. 

With newfound priorities, their conversation goes unfinished, but MJ doesn’t sweat it. It’s open. It’s out there. 

It’ll get finished. Sooner, rather than later, if she has any say in it.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Get Shadowbanned, Nerd

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref: MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Eyewitness statements gathered by MIGUEL pertaining to Interpersonal Conflict between MARIJANE and VEE stemming from Incident No. VS345-SW7782 as follows:

Statement MEOWS MORALES (9092 - Eminent Hairball): Oh yeah, it was a real cat fight. You would’a thought there was catnip at stake the way they were hissin’ at each other, but I bet it was just over some tomcat. Ain’t that always the way? Hey, while I gotcha here, I need’ta yowl at you about the yarn situation. 

Statement PETRON PARKER (01100001 - Robot Extraordinaire): The fight between the Mary Jane and the Symbiote? Yes, I remember. My recall ability is unparalleled. I can provide pure and perfect rendition of the situation in question. Observe: 01000010 01101100 01100001 01100011 01101011 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100111 01101110 01100101 01110011 01110011. Well, yes. Yes, my eyes were closed but I don’t see how that negates the value of my perfect recall. 

Statement PETE “P-BOY” PARKER (420Q - Resident Tool): Aw, dude. It was crazy! MJ was just walking along and then that Spider-Kid was like, hold on! And she was like, scram squirt! And he was like, but wait! And she was all, I’m busy! And then she started to walk away but then he like hulked out, like rah! But it wasn’t a Hulk out. It was a Venom out. And Venom was all, I saw what you did! And MJ was like, whaaaaaat! And then they started fighting. Wham! Pow! Wa-pow! MJ really laid the beatdown on Venom. Lots of legwork. She’s totes a babe. She single? Oh. Dead husband? That’s rough. Like. Recently dead? Or? Oh, for sure, for sure. Dope. Wait it out. Got it. Huh? Dude, I didn’t hear you call dibs so— Okay. Shock. Damn. Message received, bossman. 

Statement PETEY PARKER (345 - Sophomore Symbiote Spider): I am so sorry. Just so, so sorry. Vee can be really moody sometimes, especially when they think something isn’t fair. I think they’re still scrambled from everything that happened and they’re blaming MJ for it. Oh god. Yeah, I don’t know why. Vee wouldn’t tell me what happened after you guys got away. Yeah, it’s— Oh, bigtime. Massive crush and— well, Vee, it’s your fault everyone knows. Maybe don’t be such a weirdo next time! Sorry. I’m just so embarrassed. Vee’s usually so calm and now they’re out here trying to bust up relationships. Huh? Yours. You and MJ? No? Oh. Really? It just seemed like… Okay. Sorry. Sorry. Well, I mean, I guess Vee never really sees any romance when they’re with me so they probably just got confused or something, you know? Yeah, my dating situation sucks right now. Liz said she’d go to homecoming with me, but then she dumped me right before to go with Flash Thompson! Can you believe it? Dumped for the freaking jerk who’s made it his personal mission to humiliate me in every room of Midtown High! 10th grade blows! 

Statement VEE (345 - Matronly Symbiote & Newest Member of the Miguel O’Hara Fanclub): This one does not wish to speak of it. No! Not even for you! Well. This one could be swayed. Hush, dear one. This one apologizes. Dear one? Yes, dear one is the same you call Petey. This one looks after your ‘Petey’. It is a healthy symbiosis, this one assures you. The red one? So-called MariJane? This one would see her cast away. She is broken. A mind made of claws and chasms and a past of shadows. Another of this one’s kind took residence within her and died there. It’s corpse rots in her thoughts. It— Yes, this one does enjoy drama and exaggeration. This one thanks you for noticing. You are very attuned to this one. Perhaps— No? Hmm. This one would suggest you reconsider. It is not— a threat? Well, yes. Did this one not make that clear? Alright. Another time then. This one thanks you. This one looks forward to speaking with you again very soon. 

Statement JEANNIE STRANGE (72353 - Spider Sorceress Supreme and Space Cadet): Huh? Fight? Oh yeah. That. Can’t say I was paying attention. Why not? Oh, sorry, were you keeping an eye on the mysteries of the universe, Miguel? No? Didn’t think so. Excuse me. The stars are out of alignment and I must— Yes. That’s the end of my— Look. Stars. Not right. Can’t do it. Not today. 

Statement FLIPSIDE (666 - Eldritch Tech Nightmare): [TRANSLATED FROM WINGDINGS] Oh my god. Oh my god. Miguel. Hi. Hihihihihi. Be COOL, Flipside. Be cool!!!!!!!! So, heh, come here often? Experimenting with a new color palette? Wow. I mean, the orange really makes your figure yummy… wow. I mean, you should go full hologram. It suits you. Hologram is IN. Haha, fuuuuuck. *bites lip* I mean, shock, right? Can’t say fuck here. BAD FLIPSIDE BAD!!!!!!! *bangs head against the wall but in a super cute and intriguing way that reveals an inner depth and complexity* Hi. Sorry. Just talking to myself. All the cool ‘droids do it. Haha. Am I blowing this? Yes. No. No, it’s fine. OK. What? A fight? With MJ? Which one? The babezilla or one of the other hosebeasts? Okay, you do NOT have to shout at me. It’s not MY fault YOU can’t speak wingdings. I can understand myself PERFECTLY. Just get the little glitch to translate. You know what? No. No, you do NOT get to speak to me like this. I do NOT deserve this and I have never done anything wrong in my life ever! *dramatic exit, but lingers, glancing back to see if you’re still looking at me and you are and you’ve never looked more beautiful* *whispers* I love you. 

Statement MARIJANE WATSON-PARKER (7782 - Your Favorite MJ’s Favorite MJ): Since when do you personally collect witness statements? Yeah? You sure it’s not because you want an excuse to talk to your new sweetheart? Does Vee know that? Because I’m pretty sure it’s already writing wedding invites— Hey, leave Flipside out of it! I wish Flipside was obsessed with me. I could make an honest bot outta that android! I am serious! Fine, fine. I was heading to the gym when I ran into Petey in the hall. He wanted to apologize, I guess, for what happened. I told him not to worry about it, but he kept insisting and then the Symbiote popped out. Not a fan of mine, sad to say. It had a backlog of weird threats for me— Oh, just like I know what you did. That kind of thing. And then it seemed to take it personal when I laughed at it’s little crush on you because it threw me through the wall, which I took personally. It wasn’t a nasty fight. Maybe only a minute or two before you showed up and— What did you want me to do? Just take it? It punted me through a wall! Solid concrete! Plasteel, sure, whatever. I— That’s ridiculous! What kind of example would I be setting if I just let that parasite wail on me without fighting back? You would’ve done the same thing! Oh, bullshit! You would’ve! I know you, Miguel. I know you! I— Nothing. There’s nothing! I promise. No Punks or Hams or Spiders of any kind [...]

Statement MIGUEL O’HARA (928B - Emotionally Repressed): Self recorded witness statement for continuing incident No. VS345-SW7782 as follows: arrived on scene after conflict had already broken out. MariJane had Venom Symbiote 345 in a headlock and— LYLA, what’s with the heart rate stats? Mild arousal flagged at—? Quit it. Go away. This is for the file! Don’t—! Don’t start with me! Ugh. So. I arrived on scene, but the conflict was at a standstill. Broke them up. Tried to figure out what happened, but neither wanted to admit to it. Decided to talk to them separately— No. No, not because I— What the shock is a boo-thang? You know what? You’re overdue for a reboot and— 

Cont’d Statement MIGUEL O’HARA, Overridden by LYLA (928B - Everybody’s BFF): Since Miggy can’t be honest with himself, I guess I, LYLA, will just have to do it. It’s a hard job, but god jammit, I think I’m just the life approximation for the job. Okay, so dig this, Miggy is into MJ and MJ is into Miggy and they almost got it on, but didn’t and now Migs is acting like it never happened because he has the emotional capacity of an emoji—that’s a direct quote from Gabriel O’Hara, the leading expert on What’s The Matter with Miggy. Why is this relevant? Well, I guess it’s not really for the purposes of this testimony, but the testimony’s booooring. We don’t even need Miggy’s POV here. MJ already laid it all out. Anyway, this will they/won’t they is important for the whole grand scheme of life and love, and I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page, even if Migs and Ems aren’t. They will be soon. Or, they’ll break each other’s hearts in ways previously unknown to science. Remains to be seen. Ain’t they just the cutest?

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Statements unilluminating. As always, Lyla’s attempts to be funny don’t help anything and leave out important details. Lyla interference notwithstanding, nothing abnormal noted by any eyewitness. Prior to the fight, PETEY notes to MARIJANE “VEE saw something about your family” (TRANSCRIPT of Interpersonal Conflict - corollary to Incident No. VS345-SW7782, pg 2) but MARIJANE interrupts him before he can explain what this was. No follow up at the time, but when asked after MARIJANE’s desertion, PETEY said “she misses them so much and blamed herself for their deaths. She was just so sad and lonely and I just thought she might want to talk to somebody about it.” (TRANSCRIPT of Secondary Interview of PETEY and VEE re Incident No. VS345-SW7782) Missed opportunity for further follow up and clarification with both PETEY and VEE. Neither remember MARIJANE at all now. 

Nobody does. 

Notes:

VERY UPSET THAT THIS SITE DOESNT SUPPORT WINGDINGS FOR A DUMB JOKE I WANTED TO DO BUT ITS FINE. WHATEVER. IM TOTALLY NOT TAKING IT PERSONALLY

chapter title from "Entwined" by King Woman

me: Miguel ISNT a vampire and hes something so much weirder (<-affectionate) and its SO ANNOYING AND WRONG when he's mischaracterized as a vampire!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
also me: *references vampires in comparison to miguel at every possible opportunity and gives mj a legit vampire-liker backstory to justify it*
^^IN MY DEFENSE i am coming off multiple viewings of nosferatu and cannot legally be held responsible for adding in MJ's Yeah Im Turned On By Vampires and Fangs, Like You're Not?? Yeah Right Bozo!!! internal monologue in the last section. That is fresh to this chapter TODAY as i edited it. Hot off the presses (and if i said i even had to tone it down a lot because it was waaay weirder at first would we applaud?? would we shed a tear??)

meh <- my stance on this chapter lol. don't be surprised if it gets edited/overhauled in the future. the pieces are all there but something's just a scooch off. i didn't want to get behind in posting (when next week is one of my favs) just because i couldn't magic a solution in the edit so here it is. chap title subject to change too. This has been named several different things in my drafts. Fun fact - chapter names come from songs that i either listened to on loop while writing it and give off the distinct, overall vibe of the chap. This one has been a constant "oh fuck" of renaming again and again because i couldnt quite find the right vibe. Though, king woman is always the right vibe and everyone should listen to king woman. I fucking love king woman.

My end notes have just become a rambling mess and i do apologize to any who slog through these.

next chapter: almost, almost, almost

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 24: momentary blissness

Summary:

just a regular, normal spider buddy relationship, nothing to see here

Two styrofoam cups in hand, MJ touches down in an alleyway on Earth-3415B. Pretty standard universe, pretty standard NYC. Two rats sit in an old pizza box, totally nonplussed by her sudden appearance. It smells like moldering trash, subway exhaust, and wet pennies. Practically home sweet home.  

At the mouth of the alley, Miguel leans around the corner to survey the street proper. The shouts of a monologuing Mysterio are louder than the general hustle of the city. It’s nothing special. Just the usual megalomania of an anomaly with a new lease on life. This new world will bow before me! Tremble at my feet! A whole lotta yadda yadda yadda from a dude with better than average sleight of hand tricks and a goldfish bowl for a costume. 

MJ saddles up beside Miguel, peeking around. Mysterio is about 30 feet tall, stomping up and down Broadway. Crowds of civilians scream and skitter out of his way. A bus stalls so Mysterio swipes it up, crunching it into a knot of crumpled steel and tacky advertisements.

It would be impressive if Miguel didn’t nudge her and point out the man behind the mania on a nearby fire escape, wildly working at a contraption of gears and buttons strung over his lap. 

This Mysterio’s below Miguel’s usual powerlevel, but with a large chunk of the Society out celebrating Aunt May’s birthday, he’s on call like everyone else. As his temporary Spider-Buddy, MJ’s working double time on regular rotation with him and her stint patrolling the Unknown. Not to mention the Red Alert Drop Everything and Fight calls that come through at random and her jampacked schedule with the Social Committee. 

It’s all doable. She’s been cleared her for it. Still, woof. Caffeine has fast become her bestest friend.

Little Mysterio hits the side of his contraption and a chintzy drone with a chassis like a bowler hat pops out. It zooms across the street to Uncut Pawn. A teeny penlight flicks out of its dome, shooting a small laser into the door lock. Shot across the multiverse and Mysterio can’t pass up a cheap score. 

Scoffing, MJ says, “Chump stuff.”

“Moron league,” Miguel agrees, reaching for one of the cups. MJ draws it away with a hum. Was his on the left? Or the right? 

Identical cups waffle back and forth. One beats out the other. He takes it from her, warily, as his mask dissolves up to the tip of his nose. The edges teem with digital static. MJ pushes hers up the old fashioned way. 

They drink at the same time. Snarl their lips at the same time. Trade cups at the same time. Drinks righted, they sip again and sigh, content, at the same time. MJ with her dirty chai and Miguel with his motor oil coffee. In the mix-up, a suede lipstick kiss has made its way from her lips to his, smearing his mouth uneven and off color. 

“What?” 

MJ doesn’t answer, biting at the edge of her cup instead. His face pinches sour. When he takes another sip of his coffee, the lipstick smudges darker on his mouth. She could leave it. Could let someone else discover it. Give him a little dash of humility to start the day. But where’s the fun in that? 

Out on the open street, the Big Mysterio belches fire between demands of total subjugation and complete obedience from the crowd. No one’s caught wise to Little Mysterio or the burglar alarm going off in the pawn shop. No one, except the two Spider people killing their caffeine fixes. 

“You want the big M or little M?” 

Miguel rolls one of his shoulders and then his neck. “Take out the little guy, the big guy goes too.” 

“Well, sure, but that’s snoozerific. Where’s the drama?”

“Snoozerific? That twencen for smart idea?"

“Nope. It’s MariJane for lame." MJ downs the rest of her chai. A backhanded huck meteors the cup into the dumpster. The shot rings out with a resounding thunk. It’s very cool. Cool enough that MJ rides its momentum forward, reaching up to brush her knuckles against Miguel’s exposed jaw. 

He flinches, but doesn’t draw back. Not when she draws the pad of her thumb roughly over his bottom lip, blotting out the lipstick stain, and not when she says, “Don’t worry, we’ll have you speaking fluent MJ in no time, hotshot.”

Then she's off like a streak of light. Webs whip and snap, carrying her up and away, leaving him to stew in the aftermath. 

***

On the edge of a pier in an NYC that’s more Malibu than Nu York, MJ eyes the Absolutely No Swimming - Plesiosaurs sign with distrust. The water below is blue as a lagoon and shallow. Active coral colonies bustle with schools of fish and slow moving bottom feeders. There’s not enough water for a human to swim in let alone a dinosaur. Unless, the dinosaur in question could also walk. 

Could she fight a dinosaur? She’s fought evil, giant Lizards and ‘roided up Goblins. Would a dinosaur really be any different? Yeah, she could probably fight a dinosaur, but would it be worth the trouble for a quick dip? Maybe? It’s certainly tempting. 

It’s been years since she’s been to the beach. Not since Mayday was a toddler. Jesus, what a nightmare that trip had been. MJ, sun poisoned because she’d been too anxious watching Mayday to reapply sunscreen. Mayday, stricken with strep throat the day after from squalling for 12 hours straight because she wasn’t allowed in the surf. Peter, taken out by a big wave soon after they arrived and unable to shake the embarrassment until he went back out, an hour before they left, and was taken out again. An awful day, but a memorable one. She always wanted to take Mayday back, but it never worked out with Peter’s schedule and now…

Now, she’s not going to think about it. Nope. 

Overhead, the slurried sunshine crawls over her maskless face. A tropical breeze lifts her hair, flaring it out past her shoulders to rip and curl like the breakers. Bruised and sore from Sandman’s crushing chokehold, her lungs ache from the tang of the salt air, but she only breathes deeper, exhaling forceful. It’s a raw pain, but a cleansing one too. She breathes in deeply and exhales forcefully. The salt air scrapes the impurities from her lungs.

Gulls call back and forth. The surf slaps up against the pier. Behind her on the boardwalk, Miguel runs through the rigamarole of bagging n’ tagging Sandman. 

After the beating she took, he offered to do it all. Very nice of him. Considerate, even. He’s a good Spider-Buddy. Probably the best she’s had so far (not that she would ever tell Pyotr). Which is why it’s getting embarrassing how often she gets thrashed on their missions. Like completely, utterly thrashed. 

It’s not that she’s outclassed or incapable. MariJane Watson-Parker is no slouch. Consistently, she’s ranking within the top tier of the Society for combat and defense. She has to, working in the Unknown and alongside Miguel. And yet. Thrashed. Every mission. But only with Miguel. 

Stupid mistakes. That’s what gets her every time. That’s what got her this time! Rather than let Miguel take a hit (that he certainly could take—she’s seen Anomalies far stronger than her break their fingers against his chest) she jumped in front of it. Let herself get swept up into Sandman’s grip and damn near suffocated. And for what? For a sand scoured esophagus and for Miguel to bitch at her about nearly throwing the mission. Stupid. 

MJ squats at the edge of the pier and squints off into the horizon, searching for wavy Loch Ness monster-y shapes in the water. Nothing. Not even a dorsal fin. How lame. 

A sharp, cutting whistle. MJ reacts on instinct, canting her head back to Miguel. He waves her on, pointing emphatically at the fully bagged n’ tagged Sandman, but she turns back, glaring into the waves. It’s his fault really that the mission was a disaster. Right before they’d set out, he said, “There’s another Alchemax thing coming up. I can’t get out of it.”

And she said, “Aiming for that second date, O’Hara?”

And he said with a smirk, “So what if I am?”

And then Sandman aimed a real doozy of a knuckle sandwich at Miguel’s head and MJ thought, oh god, not the face, and jumped in front of it. Like a dick-desperate idiot. 

There’s other factors involved. Lack of sleep. Too much caffeine. A schedule so slam packed the days stretch both infinite and instantaneous. But the split second decision that got her roughhoused was entirely libido-driven and completely unacceptable. It’s one thing to enjoy the flirty chat. It’s another entirely to make game time decisions based on undeveloped affection. She’s better than this. She really is. 

But she’s also fucking exhausted. 

MJ groans, pulling at her face, dragging her undereyes long and briefly bloody. It won’t get better unless she makes it better. Calling up her schedule only makes her stomach roll. 

Another two hours on rotation with Miguel and then three for R&R with Pyotr in the Unknown and then Spider Thespians for an hour and a half and then monthly karaoke for the rest of the evening. She’s totally slam packed until her set five hours for sleep. Which will likely get chewed up by debriefs because she hasn’t done those in a week and Miguel’s already reminded her twice. Fuck. 

Footsteps shake the flimsy wood of the pier. Loud, only because he wants her to hear. Ugh. He’s in a mood. Well, she is too. His fault. Her fault. The universe’s fault.

“MariJane. Time to go.”

Crossing her arms, she turns. She doesn’t mean to glare, but she does. He glares back in angled red slashes.  

It strikes her. She’s never seen him in the sun. Not his actual face. Would his eyes go pinkish or bleed a darker red? 

There’s plenty of kiosks along the boardwalk. Only a few were demolished when Sandman flung her headlong into them. One of them has to have a pair of sunglasses. The hard part would be convincing Miguel to wear them, but it wouldn’t be impossible.

“Something funny?” Miguel tilts his head like a curious dog. It goes a long way to combat the constant, hard-set brows and glaring eyes lying beneath the mask. It’s cute, insists the flip in her stomach.

“Will you drop the mask if I get you a pair of sunglasses?”

Miguel crosses his arms. Dry humor rasps. “Depends on the sunglasses.” 

“I was thinking pink. Heart shaped.”

“Then, no.”

“Think how happy you’d make Lyla.”

“There’d be pictures all over the Webb before we got back.”

“All the more reason to do it. Plus, you’d look pretty cute.”

“Cute isn’t really a word that suits me.”

“That’s because you just haven’t found the right pair of sunglasses.”

He offers her a hand. She takes it, though she doesn’t need it, and pops upright with ease. His touch lingers. Inexplicably, his mask drops. For a brief moment, he is resplendent. Bronzed and smoldering amid the surf and salt air, he's otherworldly. Handsome without compare. Then, his eyes squint shut and he goes full Dracula, hissing involuntarily at the sun. She laughs. His mask flashes back up.

The moment fizzles.

***

At the tail end of another anomaly beatdown, MJ creeps along the ceiling to peek out a Miguel-sized hole in the wall. Miguel’s fine, busy bagging n’ tagging their Vulture anomaly, but the jagged shape of him marks where the creep dropkicked him out the side of the building. 

The video is sure to end up on Lyla’s Spider-Goofs page. MJ’s already flagged it for her. 

The street below bustles, but no curious crowd has gathered. Nobody points up at the mysterious hole. Heads remain craned down, buried in phones or conversation or antisocial glares. A few tip up towards her, squinting, but then drop back down, enmeshed in their own problems and lives to bother. Classic NYC. 

Scuttling back along the rafters, MJ reports no interference. Miguel activates the forcefield on Vulture with a nod. He stands up, only a few inches from her.

Crouched as she is, her eyes align perfectly with Miguel’s. Mask dropping, he reveals a smirk. Splayed fingers rise behind the back of his hand, shaking, demonstrating, as he says, “Your hair’s sticking out the back.”

Long pieces of hair laze out of a tear along the crown of her skull. She pokes her fingers through and scissors, tearing further and rucking her hair up more. There’s no telling how long it’s been torn. Or how ridiculous she looks. 

The bottom of her mask peels up with the deft roll of her fingers. Past the point of her chin, her mouth, up to the bridge of her nose before she slows. Before she stills at the shifting of his gaze, sliding to take note of her unveiled lips and lingering there.

Possibilities flash and fry. Pupils dilate. Heartbeat thrums in her throat. Fingers contract tight around the lip of her mask, pinching. Then, his eyes snap back to meet hers. Frayed, uncertain. A possibly considered, but not rejected outright. 

“You could,” she says, voice thicker than she’d like, “if you wanted.”

Bright, pixelated light settles into the familiar shape of his mask. The crimson accents read more bitter than neutral.

MJ shrugs through the souring disappointment. “Your loss. Guess you’ll never know why I won four MTV Best Kiss awards.”

No response. Just a trademark glare and a tension that never fully goes away. 

***

Days later, Miguel holds a hand to his side, over a series of gashes in his supposedly indestructible-by-primitive-methods suit. The elevator lurches skyward. Outside, the metropolis grows ever smaller the higher they go.

He leans heavily on MJ. His free arm is slung over her shoulders, tight enough that she has to steel herself to keep from toppling over. He’s a big man, but she’s Spider-Woman—she manages.

Lyla has already been notified and she, in turn, has notified the Spider-Docs that a patient is en route. Intra-dimensional portal travel is ruled too risky. His condition is too unstable. There will be a team meeting them once the elevator arrives to whisk Miguel off for emergency treatment.

But, clung tight together in the speeding elevator, it’s just the two of them. Miguel’s weakening, rasping breaths are deafening.

“Don’t go dying on me.”

He scoffs and then winces from the exertion. “It’ll take more than an amateur Prowler to kill me.”

“That amateur Prowler took a chunk outta you.”

“I know,” he says, teeth gritted. “Stupid mistake.”

“My mistake.”

He doesn’t disagree. 

She closes her eyes, reliving the plunge of the floor giving out beneath her misplaced foot. The childish yelp tearing from her throat. The slight, instinctive turn of Miguel’s head towards her. The sizzle of static. The wet rip and tear of flesh.  

The short circuit of Miguel’s suit had been enough to electrocute the bastard into a mild coma—thank God. If it hadn’t, Miguel would be dead. 

“Don’t die,” she murmurs. He scowls at her, unimpressed. 

His brow is slick with sweat. His cheeks are flushed, but the color leeches quick from his face.  His nostrils flare with each heavy breath he takes. His mouth is a flat, bloodless line. He is in pain. Terrible, hot-poker pain. 

All she has to do is keep him upright until they reach the Docs. And they’re close, only twelve floors away. But Miguel groans, shifting against her. A fresh gush of blood warms her palms, drips down onto the floor. His weight presses more firmly against her. 

Scrambling, she bolsters her grip to support him better. “C’mon, Miguel. You gotta help me here.”

His head lulls towards her. His eyes follow. Watery and bloodshot, his gaze roves around her face, but never settles. Weak, lisping words fall from his lips. Mostly in Spanish, he mutters and she doesn’t understand, doesn’t even know if he’s making sense. 

With a desperate, fluttering hand, MJ wraps her fingers around the flat palm he squishes over the wound in his side. The blood slickens her grip, makes it difficult to take hold, but she does. And she squeezes tight. 

“I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” she says. Remedial high school Spanish at her command, she attempts a translation. “Tu bien. Tu soy bien. Bien.”

No reaction. It's like he can't see her at all. Or he's flat out ignoring her. If he has the willpower to do that, then he has the willpower to let her know that he's not two seconds from crashing. Miguel can be cruel, but not that cruel. 

Unfortunately, her English doesn't register and her attempt at proper Spanish might as well have never been said. The only other Spanish she knows is lyrics from songs and the curses he favorites. She opts for the later, doubting that any Spanish she picked up from music is suitable for the current mood. Not that his rough cursing is either, but at least she can trust that it isn't over innuendo. 

A few curses dent his brow, but only just. They're twenty floors and a gravity flip away from help. Still, a good sign. He’s alert enough to recognize that she's gone crazy. 

Lost for anything else to do, she presses her lips to the side of his sweat soaked forehead. The taste is salty, tangy. She murmurs encouragement and prayers and every softness she can muster against his skin.

Miguel can't die. He just can't. The Society would collapse. The multiverse would fall apart. 

And it would all be her fault. 

By the time the lift doors open and the Docs drag Miguel away, his blood has soaked through her suit, turning the white panels red and the blue accents black. Her palms are sticky, with it.

For three hours, she wanders aimlessly, floating from one well-intentioned Spider to the next. She doesn’t remember much of the conversations. They all start with concern given the amount of blood on her suit and meander along until they reach a natural conclusion. It’s just something to do; something to keep her mind off Miguel bleeding out in her hands. 

She does, at one point, muster the courage to ask Lyla to review the footage. To translate Miguel’s frenzied Spanish. And Lyla reports back that Miguel’s rambling was mostly nonsense, but hadn’t begun that way. On the brink of losing consciousness, he reverted to rote, Catholic prayer before devolving. A tic of a slipping mind. A desperation from a man who thought he might die.

When, finally, the Docs’ update comes through—Miguel fine. Says to keep better watch for holes next time—MJ excuses herself from her current conversation. She heads for the nearest empty room—a maintenance closet for the mechanized help—and then collapses against the wall. 

Two fingers to the pulse in her throat, she counts until her thoughts smooth. Until her trembling stops. Until a message from Miguel thwips on her gizmo. 

SM-928B - Maintenance bot can’t get into the dock in Sector 14. You know anything about that?

And then another while her hands shake too bad to type a response. 

SM-928B - And why do I remember you calling me a mothershocker while I bled out? Not nice. 

***

“Hey, if it isn’t my favorite multiversal variant of my wife!”

Two tables away, Peter B waves her over. His mask is still on, but there’s no mistaking his voice—so nearly her husband’s—and the soft sensation of sameness that washes over her at the sight of him. Entering Peter’s wake is a simple comfort, like wrapping herself in a sun-warmed blanket. It’s odd, sometimes, what a soothing presence the near-exact replica of her husband has become, but she does her best not to think about it.

Her life is already so fucking weird without constantly addressing the weirdest parts of it.

“Hey Peter,” she says, smiling. She’s heard rumor that he’s begun making more frequent appearances around HQ, claiming alternately that paternity leave isn’t shaking out to be quite the vacation he thought or that he just misses his Spider Buddies. This is the first time she’s seen him in person since his daughter was born. She doesn’t take it personally. She’s been so busy with the Social Committee, the Spider Thespians, and an epidemic of Sandmen flung across the Unknown that seeing him sooner would have been a burden.

“C’mon, c’mon! Sit down. I hate eating alone. Reminds me too much of high school.”

“No seat at the cool kids table?”

“Uh, no, but I did have a standing reservation in the 2nd floor boy’s bathroom.”

“Wow, sounds swanky.”

“And exclusive.”

She laughs and shakes her head. Peter B’s rough high school experience certainly aligns with her Peter’s—up until senior year when a certain Spider-bite raised his star capital into the stratosphere. Two freshman girls bloodied each other’s noses trying to snipe a spot at the same lunch table as him.

After deftly maneuvering around a Man-Spider who nearly tramples her in their single-minded determination to reach the pop dispenser, MJ slides into the seat across from Peter. Her tray bumps up against his when she sets it down. Peter leans forward and brings a hand to his chin, evaluating her lunch choices.

“Ah, I went with the tater tots myself and, of course, can’t go wrong with a burger Nueva York style.”

To emphasize his point, he makes a viola gesture over the blue bun decorated with the unique skull-like motif. The gesture is unnecessary—the burger looks completely unnatural next to his heaping abomination of ketchup, mustard, and mayo smothered tots. 

Against his, MJ’s plate is the picture of restraint. A salad, jam packed with Protein Bits and drowning in her favorite dressing (Spider-Juice, Tangy Style—not the Regular). Accouterments aside, it’s a salad. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“I dunno,” MJ says, eyeing Peter’s offending patty. “Just can’t get past the idea of eating food made to look like my friends.”

Picking up his burger with one hand and wagging a finger on his other, Peter says, “Gotta switch up your way of thinking. This burger is an homage to our fearless leader. A labor of love. Not pseudo cannibalism.”

Then, he squeezes the burger too tight and its innards squelch from the bun. A backwards twist of his hand keeps the meat from gushing free. Impressive as it is disgusting.

Eating with Peter is always an adventure. Even her husband, who couldn’t come close to Peter B’s voracious appetite if he tried, underwent Herculean trials each time he ate even a bowl of cereal. One time, way before the superpowers, he upended an entire Sicilian pie from the best pizza joint in Queens right into her lap, which made her laugh and say, “Now that’s what I call delivery!”

Later, he told her that was the exact moment he’d fallen head over heels, impossibly in love with her. 

All her charisma and sexy posturing and that was the moment of magic. A dumb joke to save him from embarrassment. Love really is stupid sometimes. 

Across from her, Peter B hooks his free fingers on the underside of his mask, pulling it halfway up his face, before freezing. Masked eyes widen, chagrined. The mask lapses over his nose, smushing it down into the dimple above his mouth. 

“Take the mask off,” MJ says. “There’s about fifteen other Peters that look just like you in here anyway.”  

“I’m totally fine keeping it on.”

“I’m totally fine with you taking it off.”

“I really don’t mind.” His words are muffled as he takes a bite of his burger. Grease smears his mouth and he swipes it clean with the back of his hand. “I love keeping it on. Love wearing it. I’d wear it to bed if MJ let me, but she says it makes my snoring worse.”

“Please, I want you to take it off.”  

“Okay, okay, I’m taking it off.” He pulls the mask free. As he wads it up and sticks it beside his tray, he twists his mouth. Another bite of his burger and he makes suspicious eyes at his discarded mask. 

“It’s not weird for me anymore,” MJ offers. “I see your face all the time around here. I’m desensitized to it.”

Peter’s shoulders relax. His next bite of his burger is bigger, less cautious. Concern vanishes from his face, replaced by the squint-eyed ecstasy of his meal. 

Food based bliss is a good look on him. Distracts from the sallow bags under his eyes and the age weary creaks in his skin. Fatherhood has aged him. New shocks of gray thread through his mousy hair, give him a little salt in the scruffy shadow around his jaw. Though frumpy as always, he looks distinguished in his old age. Something her Peter never got to be. 

A Protein Bit grits in her throat, goes down scratchy. 

“None of you are as handsome as my Peter anyways,” MJ says with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

The corner of his mouth hitches, barely visible behind the bulk of his burger. “Yowch. I’ll try not to take that one personally.”

“You shouldn’t. Different strokes for different folks.”

“Yeah, tell MJ that when she calls you later tonight after my self-esteem completely crumbles.”

“Oh, please. I’m sure you’re the most handsome Peter to her.”       

Peter smacks a hand against his forehead, gestures wildly with his burger in the other. A bit of grease leaps loose, but MJ deftly dodges the assault. 

“I wasn’t even thinking that! I am now! Oh my god, I already had to compete with Miguel and Jess and the MJs, but now I gotta compete with myself? I have got to start hitting the gym again.”

“Again?”

Expression deadpan, he waves the remnants of his burger at her. Then, his jaw practically unhinges to shove it into his mouth with one big bite. Through his chewing, he mumbles, “You’re on your way to being my least favorite multiversal variant of my wife.”

She can only laugh, shaking her head.

They eat in comfortable silence for a time—her, focused on twisting particularly tricky bits of salad around the tines of her fork; him, scarfing down tater tots at an alarming rate—before he breaks the silence. 

“So, you and Miguel. What’s the scoop there?”

The scoop is she's friends with Miguel. Somehow. Miraculously. Friends: a designation hard won in a battle of wills and tensions between them that could have killed them both. 

So, yeah, friends is where it begins and ends. Friends is the line she can’t push past. No matter how much she wants to. No matter how often their arguments turn to staring at each other's mouths and imagining the taste.

Desire is a disease. but she's not riddled with it. She's not beyond saving.

Not yet.

But, of course, she can’t tell Peter any of this. 

So, she shrugs, absentmindedly twirling her fork. “I dunno. We’ve been working together quite a bit. I guess he’s not so bad—”

“Once you get to know him?” Peter finishes, grinning.

Glaring, MJ takes a deliberately long time to chew through a flimsy piece of lettuce before dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and announcing, “You’ve got tot in your teeth.”

Peter squawks, scrubs at his front teeth with a gloved finger. His elbow bumps his drink. It spills over the table, dousing him, her, and the unfortunate pair of Spiders seated beside them. He shrieks. She laughs so hard she nearly chokes. 

Eating with Peter, always an adventure. 

Eating with Miguel, however, is a completely different beast. 

It’s early morning. So early that the cafeteria’s nearly empty. Only her, Miguel, and the early risers shuffle around the tables and queue for the coffee machine. Whispers echo loud in the sparse room. It’s a rare event. Miguel O’Hara in the flesh. 

Miguel sits across from her, mean mugging a cup of still steaming coffee in front of him. He hasn’t touched it once. Meanwhile, MJ’s drained two cups and picked apart a bagel.

They’ve just come off a mission. A Carnage variant with an upsettingly long tongue and a strength variable off the fraggin’ charts (this commentary provided by Lyla). MJ’s scuffed and bruised. Miguel looks like he just came fresh off the assembly line. So, really, a standard, run-of-the-mill mission for their little duo. 

It was her idea to hit up the cafeteria for a little caffeine pick-me-up. She just didn’t expect him to say yes. He never has before.

All attempts at conversation have been met with terse response, but she hasn't given up. She's determined to make this a pleasant experience, rather than another in a line of small embarrassments between them.

“Oh,” she says, inspiration striking. “I think the interface in my room is broken.”

“Have Lyla run a diagnostic. Probably just a connection issue.”

“Right. That’s probably it. Not the mug I threw at it.”

Miguel just stares at her. He doesn't need to speak to ask a question. Sometimes, their unspoken understanding of each other is nice, convenient. Like now. Other times, it skeeves her out. She likes keeping her secrets. She doesn’t want Miguel taking one look at her face and knowing the whole sob story. 

“Thought I saw a spider,” she explains now. “That’s a real gut buster, ain’t it?”

Miguel chuffs, leans back, crosses his arms over his chest. A six-eyed Spider nearest them (Parker variant from looks alone, minus the eyes) jumps at the noise, mouth falling open with a snick of shock. Miguel’s responding glare eviscerates. The poor thing flees, all six eyes shot wide in alarm. 

MJ continues, unperturbed. “It really cut Lyla up. She laughed herself into pieces. Literally. I thought I broke her too!”

“I can come take a look at it,” Miguel says, rubbing at his chin. 

Maybe it’s the two chugged coffees. Maybe it’s the fast fading adrenaline from the Carnage encounter. Whatever it is, low and slinky as a whispered confession, MJ says, “You know, you inviting yourself into my room like that, a girl could get ideas.”

“She could,” Miguel agrees, sipping from his coffee for the first time. He holds her gaze over the rim of his cup, dark and charged. White teeth flash in her responding, rueful smile. 

Nothing comes of it. He never comes to her room. She doesn’t bring it up again. Her interface remains unusable. She wasn't kidding about it being broken. 

And if her hand shoves its way between her legs in the middle of the night-or halfway through a shower or as soon as she wakes up? If she chases the feeling of what if? If she imagines bruising touch and pulled hair and kiss-bitten lips and sharp, sloppy tongue and thick, neon suited fingers wrapped around her throat while he fucks her up, down and sideways? If she gets off once or twice (or eight times, since she last counted) to the memory of his undressing stare and his fangs buried in her throat?

Well, it’s not a sin. It’s not even a problem, really. It’s just fucking irritating. 

Almosts after almosts after almosts keep piling up, one after the other. So many, so often, it starts to creep in that maybe she's not so crazy after all. Maybe that little spark of chemistry is really a hidden inferno. 

There’s an almost in every flux. Every time Lyla announces an oncoming distortion, MJ’s stomach drops. Anticipation and guilt tinge every breath. Time unspools and she waits.

And wants.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Just Agree to Be Really Cool About It, OK?

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref: MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Inner Circle Meeting 136 Transcript excerpt as follows:

In Attendance: 

• Miguel O’Hara “MIGS” reporting from 928B
• Jessica Drew “WIFEY” reporting [off-duty] from 332
• Peter B. Parker “B-TEAM” reporting from 928B
• Petra Parker “RO-BAE” reporting from 202
• Ben Reilly “EDGELORD” reporting [off-duty] from 35
• MariJane Watson-Parker “JUST MJ” reporting from 928B

Transcript taken by LYLA “LTRL LGND”

[...]

B-TEAM: Look, I get that taco Tuesday is sacred, but taco Thursday is just as special to some of us. Having both every week is—

/NEW USER has joined the meeting

MIGS: LYLA [CENSORED - PG Translation: What the heck]? Did someone breach the call?

LTRL LGND: Uh. Good question.

NEW USER: Hello? Can anyone hear me?

MIGS: [CENSORED - PG Translation (ENG): No way]. 

/NEW USER changed nickname to BFF4EVA1

/BFF4EVA1 changed MIGS nickname to BFF4EVA2

BFF4EVA1: Dios, is this your stream, bestie? That’s so crazy! I was just trying to check my TiVo. Guess I hit the wrong button. Tee hee.

WIFEY: You did not just say tee hee.

BFF4EVA1: Tee hee. 

BFF4EVA2: LYLA, get him out of here!

LTRL LGND: So, bad news. He manually ported in, which means I can’t bump him. Someone has to physically eject—

/BFF4EVA1 changed LTRL LGND nickname to BUGEYEDGLITCH

/BFF4EVA1 kicked BUGEYEDGLITCH from the meeting

BFF4EVA1: Don’t worry about me. I’ll be like so cool and quiet. You won’t even know I’m here. 

JUST MJ: C’mon, Miguel. He says he’ll be so cool and quiet. 

/BFF4EVA1 changed JUST MJ nickname to LOML4REAL

LOML4REAL: Aw, I love you too, Flippy. 

BFF4EVA2: Don’t encourage him! 

B-TEAM: I say let him stay. He went to all this trouble to hack the call.

WIFEY: You just want a new nickname.

B-TEAM: Well, I wouldn’t say no to one.

/BFF4EVA1 changed B-TEAM nickname to SOMEGUY?

SOMEGUY?: Okay, ouch.

WIFEY: I’m officially team let Flipside stay on the call. 

BFF4EVA1: Squee! I’m so excited! What’re we talking about? Our favorite thing about Miguel? I’ll go first! His eyes. No! His arms. No! Oh, it’s so hard to choose!

BFF4EVA2: No puedo más. No puedo más. No puedo más. 

LOML4REAL: Can Flipside be on every call? 

BFF4EVA2: MariJane, I will kick you out. 

LOML4REAL: You’d miss me too much. 

BFF4EVA2: I miss my peace of mind more. 

BFF4EVA1: I’d miss you, babe!

LOML4REAL: Thank you, Flips. At least someone appreciates me. 

BFF4EVA2: Great. Then he can go on rotation with you this afternoon and you can be weird and off putting together. 

LOML4REAL: Sounds like he’s jealous, don’t cha think, Flippy?

BFF4EVA1: No no no, Miguel! Don’t get the wrong idea! She doesn’t mean anything to me! You’ll always be my number one!

/BFF4EVA1 changed LOML4REAL nickname to [CENSORED - Out of respect for MJ, LYLA has opted not to provide further context for this. Besties, it’s nasty.]

[CENSORED]: Hey! 

SOMEGUY?: You know, my nickname’s starting to grow on me. 

WIFEY: Yeah, I’m just gonna stay outta this one. 

RO-BAE: Petra has had enough of crazy Miguel. 

BFF4EVA1: OMG, you think I’m crazy Miguel? That’s the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. I’m gonna leak!

/BFF4EVA1 changed BFF4EVA2 nickname to MIG

/BFF4EVA1 changed nickname to CRAZY4MIG

RO-BAE: Crazy Miguel is an insult to robotkind. 

CRAZY4MIG: OK. Ouch. At least I’m not huge and ugly with bad markings.

RO-BAE: Petra has sworn to never raise her fist against another robot in anger again, but today she breaks that oath. 

/RO-BAE has left the meeting

SOMEGUY?: Did that give anyone else chills?

WIFEY: Yeah that was crazy good. 

[CENSORED]: Right? I keep telling Petra to try out the Thespians! 

WIFEY: Shame Ben’s running late. He would’ve gotten a nosebleed. 

CRAZY4MIG: It wasn’t that great. 

MIG: Flipside. Change MariJane’s name back. Now. 

CRAZY4MIG: I don’t see what’s so bad about it. 

MIG: [CENSORED - PG Translation: Stop messing around! I am an angry, scary man who doesn’t know anymore how to express himself in a productive way without yelling! I'll disconnect you. Right hand to God, I'll take you apart. (LYLA note: Translation subject to artistic interpretation)]—

CRAZY4MIG: ¡Chale!

/CRAZY4MIG changed [CENSORED] nickname to SRY BABE

SRY BABE: It’s okay, Flipside. I kinda walked into that one. Can I ask you something though?

MIG: MariJane, don’t—

CRAZY4MIG: Of course. Anything for you, Ems. 

SRY BABE: Is that my old suit? Behind you on the wall?

CRAZY4MIG: Haha, what? No! You’re so insane. Where would I even get an old suit of yours from? Like I'd have to overhaul my code to get entry into the incinerator and then I'd have to go sifting through a ton of trash and I would definitely get a little scorched and—

SRY BABE: Why do you have my suit?

CRAZY4MIG: Well, if you threw it away, it’s not really your suit anymore, huh?

SOMEGUY?: That’s really, really weird, dude. 

CRAZY4MIG: It’s not weird if it’s science. 

SOMEGUY?: Miguel, why do we keep this guy around again? He—

/CRAZY4MIG kicked SOMEGUY? from the meeting

SRY BABE: How is stealing my clothes science? 

CRAZY4MIG: OK maybe not science. Detective work. See it's all torn up. As if by claws. But the day it got ripped, no clawed anomalies. 

SRY BABE: Yeah, because it got torn while I was on shore leave. Lizard wanted to keep a piece of me for himself. 

CRAZY4MIG: Oh. 

WIFEY: What did you think happened, Flipside?

MIG: Jess. Shut up. 

CRAZY4MIG: Well now I’m too embarrassed to say. 

WIFEY: It’s okay. You’re among friends. 

MIG: No. Not friends. 

/EDGELORD has joined the meeting

EDGELORD: The devil slumbers another day. Whoa, Miguel. Total rebrand. 

MIG: Hey, idiot, that’s not me. 

CRAZY4MIG: That’s the second time today! This is the greatest day of my life!

EDGELORD: Has the madness finally consumed me?

SRY BABE: Nah, they’re identical.

WIFEY: Basically twins. 

MIG: We look nothing alike! 

CRAZY4MIG: Squee!

RO-BAE: [off camera] Open the door.

CRAZY4MIG: There's nobody here!

RO-BAE: [off camera] Know that Petra offered you mercy and you chose violence instead.

EDGELORD: A manly tingle just tickled my spine. 

SRY BABE: Mine too. 

CRAZY4MIG: You’ll never take me alive!

/CRAZY4MIG has left the meeting

/BUGEYEDGLITCH has joined the meeting

/BUGEYEDGLITCH changed nickname to TIRED A.S.

TIRED A.S.: Petra got ‘em. Sorry for the run around everyone. 

WIFEY: No apology necessary. This was the most entertaining call we’ve had in a long time. 

SRY BABE: I second that. 

MIG: This was a waste of a call. 

TIRED A.S.: Oh dang, let me grab Peter. 

SRY BABE: LYLA, can you also make sure Petra gets my suit? Something sinister about the way Flips had it tacked up like that. 

/SOMEGUY? has joined the meeting

MIG: I’ll take care of it, babe. MariJane. I meant—

SOMEGUY?: What the hell did I miss!?

WIFEY: Wow, I thought we had at least another two months of awkwardness before you two got to pet names. 

MIG: Her username! It’s—

EDGELORD: Technically, Sorry is her first name. 

SRY BABE: Right. It’s Sorry. Miss Babe if you’re nasty. 

MIG: That’s it. Meeting over. Nobody talk to me for the rest of the day. Or ever. Whichever comes last.

/MIG has ended the meeting 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Referential. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Starburster" by Fontaines D.C.

no rambling note with this chapter - i just really like this one :D

next chapter: what is all this sweet work worth if thou kiss not me?

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

1/16/25 - Miguel POV: in your dreams, in your song: chap 6 - Conversation in Triplicate AND in your dreams, in your song: chap 7 - The Best Damn Party This Side of the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse

Chapter 25: alright but never complete

Summary:

sometimes the only thing you can do is kiss it better

An alert comes through pre-dawn. Standard bag n’ tag, but powerscaled high. A Goblin from 713 cast out to Earth-550X. Feisty and clever, but pinged as minimal risk for MJ and Miguel. 

Earth-550X itself poses little challenge. Uninhabited and overgrown, man discovered hyperspace travel long before its multiversal counterparts. Spider-Man swings between the stars in 550X.

The alert comes midway through MJ’s morning shower, as she reminisces on a good sleep and the resounding success of the night before. 

The Spider Awards and Gala was an undeniable, roaring triumph. The awards presentations and excess of show stopping numbers and skits went off without a hitch. The gala was fun and fantastic. 

Everyone loved it. Everyone sang her praises (even if they disqualified her and Flipside from the dance contest for unsportsmanlike conduct on Flippy’s part). And the little afterparty she arranged for herself and her favorite Spiders? Smash hit. Ten out of ten, would party again. 

Even Miguel showed up for the afterparty. Granted, she had to blackmail him a teensy bit, but he still showed up. And if they got chummy when she snuck away to smoke a shame cigarette, it’s all the more a success. No, she’s not smoking again. Yes, she knows it’s a slippery slope.

Last night in a nicotine haze and on a party-high, she really thought he would finally kiss her. He came close, breathing her cigarette secondhand, as they murmured about inconsequential things that she can’t even remember now. 

He hadn’t kissed her in the end, but he will. It’s coming soon. She can feel it fast approaching like some storm electrifying the horizon. 

The alert thwips again on her gizmo. Touchdown expected in 5. 

MJ barely has time to rinse off, step into the Auto-Dry, and throw on the top and bottom half of her suit—all the while cursing and swearing Miguel inconveniences her on purpose—before Lyla pops in to check on her. 

“Morning!” Lyla says flickers to the mirror, makes a show of fluffing her hair, scrubbing at her teeth. “Miguel wants you to know you’re late.” 

Gloves shoved between her teeth, hunchbacked, hopping around one-legged trying to slide on one of her boots, MJ looks a mess. She glares at Lyla, who lulls her head back and grins.

“Miguel can go pound sand,” MJ grumbles around the gloves. One boot secure, she performs the same lurching, hopping maneuver to slip on the other. 

“I’ll let him know,” Lyla says, blinking into nothingness. MJ rolls her eyes. Both boots on, she tugs on her gloves and then confirms the mission request on her gizmo. 

There's no time to dash up to Departures. A winky emoticon of Lyla tells her that she can portal outside the designated zone, but just this once. The screen flashes twice before filling with the incomprehensible scrawl of math to configure a portal. 

MJ runs her hands back through her hair, gloved fingers sluicing like shark fins through unkempt tangles. 

It’s a touch damp—apparently a frenzied two seconds in the Auto Dry was no match for the heavy mop of hair. She really should cut it. Maybe a bob. Ooh, or maybe chunky bangs. Something super fresh and funky to distract from the ever purple thumbprints beneath her eyes.

Time's been a bit slippery lately. She doesn't sleep much anymore. There’s just no room in her schedule. 

The portal rips open, mere inches ahead of her, with a high whine. She leaps through, shooting a web back for her mask, left behind on the bed in her haste. She yanks the mask down over her head until her features are swallowed up and gummed flat against her skull. 

Nausea lurches up into her throat as she blitzes between dimensions. Stars whirl where there aren’t any. A shrill shrieking rattles her teeth—the whine of the portal turned divine. Unsteady legs dance to stay upright when she touches down on 550X.

She takes stock of her surroundings quickly. Dusty, derelict office space. Furniture frayed and yellowed with disuse. Skyline visible through cracked, hazy windows. Silent, empty streets far below. No sign of Goblin-713 or Miguel except for sounds of struggle deeper in the highrise. 

“Couldn’t have gotten me closer?” MJ huffs, turning to follow the noises through the building. 

“Moving target, babes. Couldn't risk splicing you with Goblin. Green’s so not your color,” Lyla says. Her voice is grainy through the gizmo. She offers MJ a projection of the building, flagging Miguel’s location a few floors up with a blinking, neon heart. 

“Oh, you’re a real chuckle machine,” MJ drawls. She’s not inclined to say more. The air of Earth-550x is stale and cloying. Not unlike home, but much thicker. Not quite suitable for human life. She hopes the projected completion time, 8 minutes start to finish, isn’t far off. She wants off this rock as soon as possible. 

Entering a stairwell, she webs up through the center, quick as she can. Miguel’s location is fast approaching. A few seconds more and a floor up until she meets him. Or, more accurately, he meets her. 

Spidey-sense bursts like buckshot over the crown of her skull. She swings to the wall, just as the ceiling caves in with a boom. Smoke and fire and a blur of electric red and blue streak past her. Delighted cackles echo from above. 

MJ leaps from the wall into a freefall. She fires a web overhead and another down at Miguel’s chest. Both webs catch, threatening to tear her in two. All her training pays off. Both shoulders remain firmly in place. 

Up above, a glider screeches away and a Goblin gives a merry laugh. 

Down below, Miguel dangles like a yo-yo. He glares up at her, looking none too thankful for the rescue.  

“Glad you could make it,” Miguel says, not glad in the slightest. With a slash of his talons, he cuts himself free. Then he fires his own web overhead, rocketing up and out of the crumbling stairwell without another word.

What did she expect? A thank you? A nice to see you? It would've been nice, but then she'd need to rush Miguel to MedBay for head trauma. 

MJ launches herself up into the floor above. She’s welcomed with a barrage of blades. Goblin shrieks, “Ohoho, along comes another Spider! The more the merrier!”

Though she could have easily dodged out of the way, Miguel twists towards her and grabs her by the waist, flinging her out of the way. The blades thunk against his suit, but can’t puncture the fabric. It still probably hurts like hell. Especially when they explode seconds later. 

MJ slams against the far wall of a conference room that hasn’t held a conference in decades. Shrapnel peppers her body, blood oozing slow. Breath pops from her lungs, stunned, and she slumps to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Once again, she is the jaded reflection of a thousand MJs past, damsel in distress, rescued by Peter because she couldn’t rescue herself. 

Smoke blurs the room thick. MJ can barely make out the shape of her own hand, turkey fingered and waving in front of her face. Clever soundtech in her mask kept her eardrums intact, but everything wobbles. The hiss of smoke. The shifting of the building, knocked off kilter. The blood sloshing in her body. The incessant churn of a glider’s engine, drawing nearer but never in sight. 

She can't hear Miguel. Can't see him either. There's a red, shifting tinge to the clouds from his suit, but it’s everywhere. Impossible to pinpoint where he is in the haze. Few things are strong enough to tear his suit, but he can still get hurt. A blast injury could still kill him and never pierce the suit. 

“Pretty little Spider,” Goblin coos. “Come out and play with me.”

MJ crouches, a terse grin on her face. Goblin can't see her either. It's a small advantage, but she's glad to have it. She's ranked in the top of the power scale (number 138, more prestigious than it sounds), but she's still leagues below Miguel. If he's down for the count, it'll be a hard fight against this Goblin. She'll win, but it won't be easy. 

The crackle of Miguel's silent com is disconcerting. A glance at her gizmo shows his signal is still online. So, he's not dead. Not that she really expected he would be. She's seen the man survive far worse things than a few dirty bombs. He's probably unconscious. Otherwise, he'd be cracking Goblin’s armor open like a lobster tail right now. Laying low isn't really his thing. 

MJ sneaks through the haze, quiet as she can. There's crunchy bits of rubble underfoot, but she avoids them, slinking past. The air seethes, waiting anxiously for another bout of violence. 

“I hear you creeping,” Goblin sing songs. The glider dips closer than farther away, agitated upon finding nothing. 

Miguel lies on his side, curled around himself, but loosely. The colors of his suit dull and deepen in a wave, rolling slowly over him from foot to head. He’s rebooting. Lyla must not be concerned. No SOS has gone out yet. Or…

“Flux incoming,” Lyla announces. Her chipper voice thunders from MJ’s gizmo. Fuck. Not good. And so much for staying hidden.

The glider roars. Goblin emerges from the smoke the way nightmares do: suddenly and inevitabely. It screeches, head thrown back in rapturous joy. “Found you!” 

MJ dodges the first pass by dropping low, crouching over Miguel. As it strafes by, MJ webs Goblin’s glider and slings it as hard as she can off-course. It doesn’t do much. Goblin keeps coming. MJ goes on the offensive, trading blows, forcing the bastard to take to the air again. Which is bad. Very bad. 

MJ’s aerial combat leaves much to be desired. As she narrowly avoids a haymaker that would’ve done to her skull what the iceberg did to the Titanic, MJ gets Lyla on the horn, shouting, “Need a manual reset on the big guy!”

A cloud of blades explodes from both of Goblin’s hands, emerging from a pocket of hammerspace, tucked into the underside of Goblin’s gauntlets. This time, they’re not rigged to explode. Thank fucking god. MJ serpentines through the blades like a laser grid, barrel rolling through the last of them. A few fresh cuts—two on her right arm; one, deeper than the others, in her calf—free bleed. 

Lyla sucks her teeth. “You sure? Readings say he’ll be up on his own in t-minus 34 sec—”

Goblin twitters, overjoyed, lashing out with another round of blades. 

“Damn it! Now, Lyla!” MJ screams. She endures a stab wound to the shoulder—shallow, the blade is more a decorative cheese knife than a real carving blade—and several more cuts around the edges of her silhouette. 

“Girlie, you have been spending way too much time with Miguel.” 

It’s true, but MJ doesn’t appreciate the comment. There’s no time to protest though. Goblin surges towards her, catching her in the stomach with a fist and socking her back through a wall into yet another conference room. As she reorients, Lyla activates the manual reset on Miguel.

It isn’t pretty. It never is. MJ hates to hurt him, but this fight went sideways quicker than a yuppie biker on a sharp turn. Better him awake and furious with her than asleep and unprotected. 

It’s his fault he’s unconscious anyway. There was no reason for him to jump in front of her like that. 

Electricity crackles sour and sinister from Miguel’s suit. The fog turns blue-white from the sparks. The live wire jerks through Miguel’s body, makes him thrash as it shocks life back into his extremities. The tiled floor and concrete beneath splits easy as hot butter around his flailing talons.

Back in high school, Midtown High did a production of Frankenstein. The production value was shit, but the boy who played Frankenstein’s Monster, opposite her gender-bent Dr. Frankenstein, made the most of it. As one of the freshman stagehands flickered the lights during the reanimation sequence, Frankenstein’s Monster wailed and thrashed and almost dislocated his shoulder during one especially spirited performance as if he wasn’t wearing Dollar Tree facepaint and a suit that was originally meant for Baron von Trapp in The Sound of Music. Standing on stage beside such a performance was transcendent. And terrifying. 

The manual reset inspires the same levels of horror and awe in MJ. And in Goblin too, apparently, given that it shrieks and zooms away from the sudden, monstrous zap of ozone. 

Miguel roars back into consciousness, kicking upright into a crouch and giving a guttural, wrenching curse. 

Clutching at his head, he whips it back and forth, hard enough to clear the daze. Across the distance, through the fog, he finds MJ’s gaze where she peeks out through the hole in the wall. He glares so hard, MJ is surprised laser bolts don’t shoot out of his eyes. 

Slowly, she sinks back down to hide behind the portion of the wall still intact. 

Miguel growls, not necessarily at her, but just in general. An aimless, directionless, ambient growl that abruptly ends when Goblin slams into him, taking him clean off his feet. It’s one hell of a wakeup call. 

Swinging out of her hidey hole, MJ joins the fight. Goblin has Miguel in a corner, wailing on him with everything it has in its spindly, all-edges body. Few hits connect. Miguel’s fast, but not fast enough to put the asshole on the backfoot. 

Enter MJ from backstage. Leaping, she snatches Goblin’s cape, diving down on it with the full weight of her body. Goblin backbends, snapping back with a shrieking, animal whine, but doesn’t unseat from the glider. Its feet must be magnetized on. 

Fantastic. 

Taking advantage of her momentum, MJ swings out underneath the glider, flipping Goblin around with her. Feet over ass, Goblin backflips out, getting its head knocked off the ground in the commotion. As it groans, MJ releases its cape, swinging to stick onto the wall beside Miguel. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” she says, grinning beneath the mask. “Wake up call not sitting well with you? Didn’t like the shock treatment?”

Talons crunch into the wall as he grumbles, “I’ll shock you, see how you like it.”

“Promise?”

The slashes of Miguel’s mask shoot wide. “No, not, I meant, electric shock.”

“Ooh, kinky.” 

Famous last words, as it turns out. Goblin, freshly recovered, lunges at them. It feints towards MJ, but follows through on Miguel. In the split second between attack and feint, the glider unsticks, surging forward to slam into her stomach, just as the flux hits. Time goes wobbly and MJ goes wobbly with it. 

Hooked on the glider, MJ punches through the wall. The impact leaves her dazed but not unconscious. The city below is a corpse. Roofs and steeples are eroded, showing the bones of a long gone civilization. The glider takes her higher and higher as she scrambles to steer it. 

There's a blinking red light on the nose of the glider. Blinking faster and faster. The glider itself grows hotter, singeing her suit. 

“Oh, bad bad bad!” There's no off switch. No big button that reads: press to not blow up. “Fuck fuck fuck!”

“What!?” Miguel snarls over the comm. He’s out of breath, panting.

“Bomb! Armed bomb!” MJ shouts, made senseless by panic. “Get out! Get out now!”

The glider nosedives. She lets go. For a moment, she's weightless, floating, continuing up and up as the glider punches through the roof, burrowing through concrete and steel. It isn’t big enough to cause any radiating damage. Until it explodes. 

The concussive blast blows out all the windows. It vaporizes three floors, breaking the spine of the structure. 

What is it with her and collapsing buildings? Some Spiders hold records for most assists or successful missions. MJ holds the record for having the most buildings dropped on or around her. 

Is it an energy she brings? A vibe that structurally unsound buildings take personally? 

She'll have to ask Lyla. If she survives, that is. 

Screaming into the com, MJ demands Miguel's response as she plummets into freefall. 

“Where— don’t— fuck—!” Miguel's voice is a rip of static and shouting. The agony of the building, in its death throes, drowns out all noise. 

MJ can scarcely hear herself think. Cement and dust obscure her vision. Cat claw scratches tear through her suit, opening up her head, her shoulders, to the grit of demolition. 

She screams for Miguel, but no answer comes. Not any that she can hear. The shriek of snapping metal and cracking rubble consumes all. 

The wind is sharp against her body. A plume of smoke and molten particulate gusts over her as the building writhes. It rushes over her as she falls. Bits of concrete and steel and whatever else abandoned buildings are made of tear through her suit and the skin beneath.

Falling. Falling too fast. No sign of Spider-Man to come save her. She spins in midair and shoots several webs back, but each one that catches breaks soon after. The entire building is going down. There's nothing to hold her steady. 

What does she do? What can she do? Her webs can’t reach anything stable. The entire world is falling down around her. 

No ideas but bad ones. No choice but the worst one. 

The portal opens beneath her as her gizmo blares pre-recorded warning after pre-recorded warning begging her to reconsider. Portaling while falling is risky, but portaling while falling during a flux? That’s a death wish. 

She isn’t exactly thinking straight when she spams the override button. All she can do is trust her gut and her gut is saying, get the fuck out of here!

The portal knits open beneath her, stretching thin at the edges. MJ closes her eyes and braces for impact. 

Through the dimensions, MJ liquefies. The slipstream swallows her down, swishes her around in its gullet, barfs her back out. 

She hits the ground sideways. Her shoulder cracks against the tile like a gunshot. She flips twice. Feet over head over chest over knees over feet. Her suit catches, squeaking as it rips open across the blade of her hip, over her elbows, along her entire left side. She skids to a halt, landing in a heap of limbs and scraped skin just at the feet of two squawking Spiders. Smears of blood mark her arrival on the pearlescent floor. 

Her mask ends up wedged between her teeth. A blessing: likely the only thing keeping her from biting her jaw in two. 

There’s a roar of commotion around her. Spiders can never seem to panic quietly. But she doesn’t respond to it. Doesn’t acknowledge it at all. She allows herself one, selfish moment to wallow. Everything, everywhere aches. Shrapnel shifts beneath her skin, chewing into the muscle. Fresh blood wells all over her arms and legs. Her suit is heavy with gore and smoke. 

“Good lord, girl,” Lyla says. She flits about her head like a deranged fairy, supplementing her worry with the orange wash of her sensors. The lights are bright, unpleasant. MJ closes her eyes. Breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth. Drowns out the incessant murmur of Spiders. Tries not to throw up. 

Lyla rattles off statistics and vitals—okay, not great, ouchie, wild that your brain isn’t total mush, you’ll live. MJ runs her own vital check. Flexes her hands. Rolls her ankles. Arches her spine. Reorients herself with her body. She’s lacking, but alive, unbroken. Somehow, she manages to pry the mask from her mouth. Somehow, she wriggles up onto her elbows. 

The world spins, but then it slows. The fuzzy blobs of color flesh out into discernable surroundings. 

The lobby. She’s in the lobby. Lyla has cordoned off a good couple feet around her. A gaggle of Spiders crowds the edges. Each of their masks is wide-eyed with worry. Except Peter Parkedcar, whose headlights flash morosely. 

MJ knows she should say something to placate them, knows exactly what she should say to them. But the words don’t come. Her jaw refuses to move, locked in place by a steady, pulsing pain.

“She’s gonna be okay, folks. Just a really rough tumble,” Lyla announces. The Spiders exchange dubious glances. None of them back away. She must look worse than she feels. She must look like Frankenstein before they shocked him into life.

“Hairline fracture in your left wrist and soft tissue damage everywhere, but nothing even close to fatal,” Lyla reports. “Some rest and a couple plasters and you’ll be good as new. Somehow. You really shouldn’t be. You should be a slick on the floor right now. Can you stand?”

Standing seems like a fate worse than death. But so does lying with all her wounds on full display for the entire Society. MJ begins the scramble upward, but only makes it to her knees before nausea hits. She doubles over. A Spider shouts, “Anyone got a bucket?” 

Through sheer force of will, MJ manages to keep everything down. 

The whir of a portal cuts through the thump thump thump of her post-collision headache. The following heavy footfalls and bitter cursing nearly drown it out entirely. A body hits the floor with a fleshy thunk. Gasps echo through the gallery. 

“What the shock were you thinking!?” Miguel demands, fangs snapping. 

Force of will stronger than common sense, MJ forces herself to her feet. Her knees revolt, pitching her forward, but Miguel catches her. Her forehead smushes against his shoulder just before he wrenches her upright. The tight, bruising grip against her forearms splotches her vision black. 

Speaking hurts. Throat torn raw, she scratches out, “I was thinking I didn't have a better option.”

Already, her healing factor is kicking in to smooth and soften all her aches and pains. Bits of shrapnel emerge from shallow cuts and plink to the floor in a gentle rain. Soon, the wounds will scab and then bruise before disappearing without a trace. 

Miguel curses at her. In Spanish, but she knows this one. Fucking idiot.  Fucking idiot she may be, at least she's alive. 

It’s unclear if the same can be said for Goblin. A misery of battered skin and vicious slashes, Goblin doesn’t move. Its spindly limbs lay lank at odd angles: broken. 

Already, Lyla fusses over the scene, making calls to MedBay and throwing up reflective barriers to keep the unsavory sight from the Spiders around them. 

“What did you do?” MJ asks.

Miguel ignores her, turning to Lyla. “Can she—”

“Yes,” Lyla answers. “She’s stable to move. Get her out of here.” 

With a flick of her wrist, Lyla summons a portal and then sends it crashing over MJ and Miguel. The sensation of sudden movement saps the little strength MJ had left. She teeters and then falls fully. 

Again, Miguel catches her. This time he sweeps her up into his arms within the mouth of the multiverse. She’s too weak to protest. She just chokes back a gulping moan and buries her head against his shoulder. 

He smells a little like Peter, similar sharp, woodsy notes, but lacking the canned orange stench. Miguel’s cologne is a man’s cologne, strong and full bodied. It's far superior to the AX two-in-one CITRUS SKULLF*CK body wash and shampoo Peter wore from the first day of freshman year until the day he died. 

But still. Miguel smells enough like home that it helps quell the nausea. A little. 

The other side of the portal reveals an empty exam room in MedBay, but only in the abstract. She can’t focus on anything in the room. The whirl of motion makes her mouth sweat. Salvia pools, dripping down to irritate her ravaged throat. She squeezes her eyes tight to keep from puking it back up.

It doesn’t help that Miguel steers her roughly to the edge of the exam table and hoists her up onto it without forewarning. Her tailbone catches at an odd angle and her teeth click shut, swallowing her yelp of pain. She will not give him any further leverage to point out how stupid, foolish, short-sighted her attempt to save herself has been. 

She glares at him through slit eyes and he glares right back as he barks, “Lyla, vital report.” 

Lyla responds with numbers and diagrams and holographic arrows pointing to all the spots where MJ hurts most. Most notable are the break in her wrist and a particularly large piece of metal jabbed into her shoulder. 

It all hurts—an itch after it's been scratched bloody and raw—but she’s fine. At least, she’ll get there. Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s hemorrhaged. She’s just a little blistered, a little bruised. 

There's a syringe that shunts down from the ceiling on a robotic arm. It pricks her in the side of the neck, subtle as a mosquito bite. Liquid numb gushes through her veins, cold and blustery. It does little to soothe the rough aches and angles of her body, but drowns the fledgling migraine and returns her to semi-functionality in seconds. 

Overcome with relief, her resolve gives. She slumps heavily forward, stopped only from collapsing off the table and onto the floor by Miguel.

He fusses her upright, holding her when she takes no interest in doing it herself. Continuing to fret over her, he grabs hold of her jaw, twisting her head this way and that. His movements are heavy, frenzied. Manual triage that isn’t necessary, isn’t wanted. But she doesn’t stop him. 

There’s a wealth of nuanced emotion beneath his mask. A twitching along the slope of his brow. A pronounced jut to his jaw. A harsh grating of teeth. All accompanied by the panicked prodding of his hands challenging Lyla’s infallible conclusion: MJ’s gonna be fine. 

“What did you do to Goblin?” she asks. It's weak, barely a whisper. 

Miguel’s nostrils flare. His fingers press hard against her. “I didn't do anything. The building came down on top of us. Goblin got squished. I had to dig it out. And the whole time I couldn't— I thought...”

“You thought I was dead,” she finishes. 

He doesn't answer one way or the other, but she knows she's right. His examination continues, but softer, the clinical edge giving way. 

Despite the strain, MJ shifts. She reaches for his face with her good arm and sets her hand against his masked cheek. It lightens in color, reacting to the press of her palm. His long fingers slow over her ribs, pressing just enough to find the indents between the bones. The sensation doesn’t crush or constrict. She feels steadied, held tight.

Beneath her hand, his jaw sets, pressing back against her fingers. Celestial colors—blistering white, dazzling pink, sunburst orange—radiate out from skull eyes, chewing through his mask until it disappears. His skin is warm, even through her glove. His eyes are briefly cherry bright, but he blinks twice and they settle into warm rust.

There are night blossom bruises around both eyes, his temple, and superficial slashes at random over his entire face. He’s weathered, but a far better sight than her. 

He holds his expression tightly balanced, but his eyes betray him. “Do you really think I could do something like that?” 

Yes, she doesn't say. 

“No, of course not,” she says, emphatic. “I mean, think of the paperwork.”

He scoffs, but he smiles too. The movement ripples beneath her hand. Her thumb twitches, instinct urging to trace the curve of his mouth, to coax his smile wider. Or drag him closer to kiss the corners. 

And he doesn’t pull away. Neither does she. His grip remains firm against her ribs. They’re close enough that electric tension shivers through her at the prospect of how—and where—their bodies could press together. She swallows hard, surprisingly dry, and it clicks loud enough to draw his attention to her throat.  

His smile fades. Slowly. Morphs into something more severe, but not unkind. 

Sense memory of the alleyway on 345 shivers down her spine. The icepick of his fangs breaking through the haze of Venom. The sluicing, cold rain that did nothing to lessen the heat of her body. 

Her wounds are healing. Her body is softening, held stable only by his hard touch at her ribs. 

In the flat, clinical light, his mouth is a soft shadow. She wishes she could remember what it felt like against her neck. Or how it felt harsh and despairing when he pumped air into her lungs while she lay comatose on the Alchemax lab floor. It probably hurt. The least he could’ve done was kiss it better. 

But he can make up for it. There’s always time. 

Desperate, aching want shivers through her body. She shifts because she can’t take the pressure between her legs, because she has to do something. His eyes drop to track the movement. His hands grip tighter—unable or unwilling to let go. When she finally manages to breathe, it comes thick and heavy.

Slowly, she drags her thumb over his mouth. It's not the first time. She hopes it isn't the last. 

A puff of breath warms her hand as he sighs. Eyes flickering, he leans into her touch. He shudders. 

The heady, frayed scent of him—rich cologne and bitter smoke and ash—makes her breaths greedy, gasping. He's so close. A flinch, not even inches, away. 

Gazes connect, crackle, draw them closer. Miguel sets his forehead against hers. His eyes close again. Hers remain open. The moment honeys, drags sweet and golden, but MJ can't sink into it. 

There's a noose around her nerves. Ever tightening. Strangling. She needs more than this. More heat. Less sweetness. Soft touches and sincerity are too close to a thing she’ll never have again. A thing she doesn’t want because she already had it with Peter. She already had the world with Peter. 

“Never pegged you for such a tease,” MJ rasps, dragging her thumb down over his bottom lip, flattening it. 

Eyes snapping open, Miguel's peaceful expression hardens. Brow furrowed, mouth downturned, this is the Miguel she knows. The one she wants. 

She releases his lip and then pulls it down again to reveal the length of his fangs. Around her ribs, his hands tense, gripping harder. The corner of his mouth twitches. She doesn't meet his gaze, but she can feel it dissecting her, running risk analysis and success rates. 

The pain comes back because pain always does. All of it, all at once. The pain of improper healing: scabs closing over embedded steel, fractures setting wrong. It reasserts itself as her anticipation flatlines. 

“Do you have any idea how frustrating you are?” MJ thumps his chest with her good hand. 

“Yes.” There's none of the sharp humor she expects of him. His voice is dry as sand and twice as irritating. She doesn't understand him at all. 

Has anyone ever been so coy with her? Toyed with every emotion and flirtation, only to hesitate again and again? Like he wants her, but the thought of having her makes him sick?

The tension headache nestled behind her eyes throbs, demanding attention. She scoots a half inch back from him, reasserting her personal bubble, but he still holds firm to her. Like she’ll wriggle out of sight the second he lets go. 

Head tilted back, she pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes. The discomfort of her headache remains, throbbing down from her head to the tips of her fingers (even the useless, numb ones of her left hand) and then circling back to report, yep, body’s still fucked, but the intensity lessens by a pinch. The motion puts more space between her and Miguel. One of his hands leaves her side, breaking the cage of his grip. Little by little, she reclaims her space without removing him from it.

Until he pushes back into it.

Eyes closed, she doesn’t see the conflict rage through him. Doesn't see the raise of his hand, the disappearance of his glove, the reach closer, the flinch back, and then the reach again. Doesn’t see the hard set of his mouth, determined, momentarily, to touch her. 

She doesn’t see any of this, but the certainty of it thunders through her when he sets his bare hand against her throat to thumb the pockmarked scars sunk into her flesh. 

“You’re reckless,” he says when he means I'm sorry, and when he means I was scared to lose you, he says, “You could’ve been spliced. Or worse.” 

“The debrief is going to be terrible,” she says, soft, and hesitant to be anything else. 

The pad of his thumb is rough, catching on the smooth slip of skin again and again as he invokes the scars. The bite. The faint memory of his lips, so hot even in the sludge of remembering. 

“Do you think about it?” MJ asks, a little breathless, but silken smooth.

A sharp intake of breath and his thumb stills. Against the lattice of her ribs, his fingers curl, pressing down, pressing in, biting sharp, because the alternative is worse. All it would take is a small shift, less than an inch, for him to feel her up. Only a little more than that to feel the fervent thrum of her heart. 

She slits an eye, demanding, “Do you?” 

Yes, his face says, though his mouth remains a firm line. Wretched indecision sharpens his features, tension teetering within every muscle. There's a dark, stirring pulse thrumming within him, but he'd rather claw it out than indulge it. Bereft with desire, he distrusts everything. 

God, if only torment didn't look beautiful on him. Then she wouldn't be in this mess.

“It's okay if you do,” she says. 

His mouth hitches, sharply amused. He presses firm against the side of her throat and her pulse jumps in response. “Didn't know I needed your permission.” 

“Isn't that what you're waiting for? D’ya want me to beg for it?” 

A slash of a smile. “You could ask nicely, at least.” 

“Fine, but only because you're so pretty.” She affixes her face with a bright sincerity. “Please—”

Miguel kisses her, stealing the plea direct from her mouth. It’s gentle. Sweet. A little highschool. Just a chaste brush of lips. So quick that she can scarcely lean in or close her eyes before he draws back, thinks better of it, and then returns again. This second time, he kisses her deeper, angling over her, but retreats before she can truly respond. 

Altogether, it’s a touch stale, no tongue, the technique in need of work. And, even still, it leaves her dizzy when he pulls back for good. 

The taste of his breath, strangely sweet, is still on her tongue. Thicker with every moment that passes. His pupils are blown wide and glossy, but he winces. Hesitating. 

It isn't fair. She always has to do everything herself. 

MJ shifts, reaching to the back of his neck, coaxing him to shift too, to look at her. 

Against himself, mouth twitching around a plea for sanity, he leans closer. So close. She swims in the flecks of deeper crimson in his gaze, but he drops his stare, fixated on the slow draw of her tongue on her lip. 

“Miguel.”

Dumbfounded, he stares at her again. He doesn't move. It's infuriating. 

“Kiss me,” she demands, low and warbling. For years she could only want for creature comforts. She doesn’t know how to ask nicely when she wants so horrifically. 

“For real this time,” she clarifies. A little softer. A little broken. Hardly a step above begging. 

He doesn't. Not the way she wants.

With a dewy breath, he presses a kiss to her temple, smushed and lingering. There's a curl to his mouth. The smallest smirk. Is he teasing her? Is he nervous? 

The answer's somewhere in between. 

“Say please again,” he says because he’s an asshole. Because he’s skittish. Because both things are true at once. 

“That turn you on? A girl begging?”

“Not usually.” His nose turns the corner of her jaw, coaxing her to tilt her head back. She does and his mouth alights on the fresh expanse of space, delicately. More the suggestion of a kiss than a true one. “But you could. Maybe I'll change my mind.”

MJ hums, unable to do much else but suffer the seasoning of little kisses along the underside of her jaw, down along her neck. Each one is more heated than the last. A slow descent, he hemorrhages control. Slowly, but surely he cedes the will of his mind to his body. She can feel it. It’s happening to her too. 

With a pleasured sort-of purr, MJ stretches long and then flinches from the sudden shift of foreign bodies beneath her skin. Fresh scabs rip anew and constellations of pain blink all along her body. 

Miguel holds her through it, smearing his mouth along the column of her throat, sucking the pulsepoint. Heat wells in her belly, spreading wide in stuttering pulses. It’s too much. It’s not enough. 

She whines, very nearly begs for more, but catches herself with a full body squirm. His teeth scrape her skin, fangs scratching just a bit deeper than the rest. She whimpers, an uncontrollable, scared kitten kind of noise, and he sucks harder. Her toes curl tight enough to shake both feet from the force.

It’s happening. It’s happening. 

Pulse stuttering, breath hitching, thighs clenching, she needs more. Needs friction, pressure, affirmation. It isn’t fair. It isn’t enough. Goddamn fucking tease. 

She feels his smiling teeth against her throat and barely chokes down a moan. The heat of his body, the shiver-shake of his breath between affections, the cooling slick of spit along her throat, the coil of his hand against her ribs, the drift of the other, soft and coaxing along the unbroken curve of her waist, the little kick to her libido when she realizes the whir of his suit has reopened her wounds and his hands will be all bloody and sticky: all combined they eviscerate higher thought. 

Discussion is meaningless now. If she doesn't touch him, kiss him, feel him, fuck him, she'll go insane.

“Miguel.” She tugs at the back of his neck, begging between stormy pants, “Please.” 

He does. Finally, finally, he does. 

Miguel kisses her, mouth smashing against hers. Hard, pressing, unrelenting. Tongue and teeth and molten breath. Overwhelming in the most exquisite way as they crash together. 

Her, stretching up as best she can to flatten her chest against his, shifting her legs to knock her feet against his knees, force him to lean more fully against her. 

Him, bearing down, touching her everywhere, body and awareness swept up in the wave of passion. His hands move like she’ll float away if he stops, like he aims to memorize every piece of her with the flats of his palms and the dig of his fingers. 

Fingers tangled in his hair, she forces him closer. Licks into his mouth with months of pent up desire. His hair is thick and smooth—satisfying to touch, even better to knot between her fingers. 

Shifting, gripping, tightening, releasing, plying, Miguel's massive hands slip and knead all over. One plies the nape of her neck, twisting her head to gain better angle over her. The other skirts her hip, engulfing the slip of her waist. His thumb presses against the dip of her pelvic bone. His fingers cup her ass hard enough to purple yellowing bruises. 

And it hurts. It all hurts. She’s broken and beaten and bleeding and every touch is a sharp, wicked pain that makes her gasp. Makes her fingers twist harder in his hair until he hisses into her mouth. 

She takes his lip between her teeth, tugs just enough to make him groan. The sound rumbles in his chest, against hers, makes her writhe against him, cutting the sharp jut of his hips into her thighs. Close, but not close enough. Not enough to dull the pulsing of scrapes and hurts all over. Never enough to sate the desperate, coiling heat in her belly. 

Broken wrist searing pain up her arm, down into her belly like an off-tempo heartbeat, she drags the nails of her numbing fingers over the sculpt of his chest. Selfish, desperate pawing at his pecs and the flat of his stomach that she can scarcely enjoy through the pain. 

Against the descent of her hand, Miguel tenses, groans. He’s hard—impossible to hide with how he's jutted up between her thighs. But she needs to feel and take hold of him. Broken wrist be damned. She jams her hand into the crush of their bodies. Cups him. Drags against the strain of him through the thin, buzzing fabric of his suit. 

Miguel swears, slurring against her lips, and she angles deeper into their kiss intent on lapping his mouth clean.

And then two things happen in quick succession.

The First: She presses too hard against him, delves too fast and deep. She slips her tongue past his teeth. Unthinking, uncaring about anything but coaxing out another deep, throaty noise from his. His fangs are unexpected. Forgotten completely in the haze of her lust. She shifts the angle of their kiss and presses hard. But it hurts. Snared on the point of a fang, her bottom lip tugs tight.

There’s no puncture, no blood, no concern of venom, but Miguel breaks their kiss, cursing and grabbing at her jaw to force her mouth open. His thick fingers prod, stretching her mouth to an uncomfortable degree, checking her lip for blood, for breach. She mumbles reassurances best she can around the weight of his fingers, but he doesn’t listen. Panic tightens his eyes, bleaches the warm undertones of his skin. 

The Second: A trio of Spider-Docs burst through the door, waving implements and strips of gauze like declarations of war, and Miguel shoots away from her. 

Miguel has to clear his throat after his first attempt is low and raspy. MJ smirks at him, but he won't meet her eye, just gives a sharp shake of his head. His complexion remains waxen. He says to the Docs, “Don’t let her leave until she’s fully cleared.”

The Docs squawk their assurances, fretting over her until she lies back onto exam paper peppered with blood and bits of shrapnel. They comment on her condition, her already quick recovery, her elevated heart rate. 

Miguel lingers by the door, watching each and every poke and prod with quick, exacting eyes. And MJ watches him, hoping that he’ll stay until she’s cleared, hoping they’ll be able to finish what they started. She projects it at him as a psychic chant, stay, stay, stay, finish what you started and then when he starts to shift in spot, antsy with waiting, her pleas shift to, come back, don’t think, just come back. 

When the Docs begin to strip away her suit to get a better idea of the damage, Miguel looks up at her, staring like he has something to say, but his mask flashes over his face. And then he leaves. 

He doesn’t come back.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, You Owe LYLA $5. Pay Up, Chump!

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Transcript of follow-up interview to Mission No. 550X-GG713/MED.DEBRIEF.1. Interview conducted by LYLA via holophonic connection. Interview conducted by LYLA via holophonic connection. Transcript is as follows:

Parties:

• SW-583C, Cassandra Webb “DOC CASS”
• LYLA “LYLA”

LYLA: Hi Cass, thanks for agreeing to this. I know you’ve been super swamped lately. Crazy how much damage a slippery quantum superbeing can cause, huh?

DOC CASS: It’s no trouble. It’s a nice distraction, really. All the flesh wounds start to look the same after a while.

LYLA: Oh. Ew.

DOC CASS: Comes with the job. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t love it.

LYLA: Right. Well, as I mentioned in the request, I found some discrepancies in the file on this and need your help plugging some holes. Purely procedural. You get that, yeah?

DOC CASS: Absolutely. Ask away. 

LYLA: Beautiful. To jog your memory a bit, we’re talking about triage performed by you for re-entry complications suffered by a Spider. They popped into the lobby crazy fast. Scared the bits out of everyone. Do you remember that?

DOC CASS: Vaguely. Vaguely. 

LYLA: Okay, what do you remember?

DOC CASS: Um. That it happened. 

LYLA: No details?

DOC CASS: I’m having some trouble. It’s been a long day. If I could look at my notes.

LYLA: Maybe this will help. The patient was brought directly to MedBay by Miguel. Triage was completed in an exam room, not on site.  

DOC CASS: That’s. Yes. I remember some of that. Just some of it. 

LYLA: Some of it’s better than none of it!

DOC CASS: You know, thinking about it now, I do remember something about that because, you see, I remember thinking it was a little odd when we entered the room.  

LYLA: What was a little odd?

DOC CASS: Oh my. Well. I’m a tad embarrassed to say. Miguel reviews these interviews, doesn’t he?

LYLA: Try not to worry about him. He’s a big boy. He’ll be fine with whatever you say. It’s very important we get your honest recollection on this. 

DOC CASS: Okay. If you say so. I just. Okay. As I said, all the patients and treatment start to run together eventually. But I remember about this one, because it was a little odd, but I remember when I entered the room. That is, when myself, Kurt [SM-2134], and Petra [SP-31], entered the room, Miguel was standing very close to the patient. It seemed very intimate. 

LYLA: Intimate? Can you describe what you mean?

DOC CASS: Yes, of course. Well. I think his hair was a little ruffed up and I think he may have been touching the patient’s face. I remember he moved very quickly away. And I do mean very quickly away from the patient so that we could access. I, oh, Kurt and Petra laughed at me afterwards because I suggested that maybe they had been kissing or were very nearly about to. Petra said we should’ve waited so we could’ve walked in on a real show. They have a very crass sense of humor. But Kurt and Petra, they didn’t notice anything. 

LYLA: That’s interesting. Why do you think they came to a different conclusion?

DOC CASS: I was the first one in. Miguel’s very fast. They probably didn’t see how close he was before he moved. But, oh. This is silly. This is Miguel we’re talking about here. He’s very straitlaced. If I were his doctor, I might be concerned about how straitlaced he is.

LYLA: And the patient? Would it have been out of character for them?

DOC CASS: Right. The patient. You know, it’s very strange. I can’t quite remember the patient. 

LYLA: Do you recall anything about them? Anything at all?

DOC CASS: It’s the damnedest thing, but I don’t. Could I see the file? Jog my memory a bit?

LYLA: Think hard on it. Anything you remember is very important. 

DOC CASS: Hmm. Well, I think. Oh, she healed very quickly. We had to dig out a chunk of shrapnel from her shoulder because the wound had already begun to scab over when we got there. 

LYLA: So the patient was female?

DOC CASS: Yes, yes I think so.

LYLA: Anything else you remember?

DOC CASS: She is, I mean, she was—oh, I think I had to make special notation in the record. Radiation. I think. Ugh. I’m sorry. I’m starting to get a headache. Could we take a break? I’d like to get a glass of water. 

LYLA: Actually, let’s end it here. I think I have everything we need. 

DOC CASS: Oh wow. Really? 

LYLA: Yep. Thank you so much for your time, doctor. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Limited, distorted memory as described by DOC CASS consistent with statements pulled from other Spiders. Memories remain of seemingly odd/memorable behavior by other Spiders, but MARIJANE’s involvement always peripheral and elusive, even if she directly contributed to the behavior. LYLA cataloging this phenomena as PERIPHERY MEMORY. She nixed alternative suggestion: DISTORTION EFFECT ON RETAINMENT AND RECITATION OF MEMORY. 

Most PERIPHERY MEMORIES revolve around strange behavior exhibited by MIGUEL, but some statements noted strange behaviors from other Spiders, such as PETER B, JESS, PYOTR, MAE and FLIPSIDE. Notably, neither PETER B or JESS can independently recall these incidents, but both cite their own PERIPHERY MEMORIES involving MIGUEL. FLIPSIDE remains evasive as ever. Plans underway to brick his processor and extract his memory since he refuses to cooperate. LYLA leading that effort. Results to be uploaded to file and analyzed once available. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Heavy Cross" by Gossip

and it only took 150,000+ words to get here...!!!!

rewrote the kiss scene top to bottom like 80 million times so fingers crossed i got it right in the end

apologies for the inconsistent date for updates. i normally try to post on Sundays but things have just been off for me recently. got some stuff going on in my life rn that's eating up a lot of my motivation/zeal for life/etc etc. it wont affect the weekly updates but please dont hate me if you notice an uptick in typos or inconsistencies. i set the week timeframe to give myself time to edit and course correct down the line (haha at the last 1/4 of this fic making me pull my hair with revisions and rewrites) but even a week between chapters has been tough here recently. Just please hang in there with me <3

next chapter: oh, so no head?

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 26: kiss my own neck

Summary:

Miguel O'Hara has emotions and makes them everyone else's problem

Notes:

1/16 - NOT RELEVANT TO THIS FIC BUT DAVID LYNCH FUCKING DIED AND I'M COPING BY SMOTHERING MYSELF WITH EDITING!! (& im snowed in with few other options) So, have an early chapter 26 with chapter 27 to follow later this weekend and also have some updates on the companion pov fic

just made it out of medbay - SW-7782

can i c u? - SW-7782

SM-928B - Now’s not a good time. 

when? - SW-7782

SM-928B - Later. 

when’s l8? - SW-7782

SM-928B - I’ll let you know.

Except Miguel never does let MJ know. An entire day passes before she hears anything. It comes through as a summons, sent through Lyla. Impersonable. Distant. Not a good sign. 

MJ’s already well in her head about it. She knows Miguel’s MO: Don’t talk. About It. About Anything. Stick Head in Sand and Suffocate. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

But he can’t ignore this and neither can she. Not anymore. Not after yesterday. If the Docs hadn’t interrupted, MJ’s sure it would’ve gone where it needed to go. Now, she’s worried. There’s no ignoring it, but Miguel might try. And if he does, she can’t be nice about it. 

MJ knows this about herself, which is always helpful in navigating the fallout, but never in the moment. She can come off way too strong, can turn tense situations nuclear with an ill-thought twist of her tongue. It’s already happened once with Miguel. 

But now that there’s sex and desire involved, it would be worse. A nuclear explosion, the winter after it, and another nuke after that just so things don’t get too comfy. And then where would she be in the Society? Definitely not his second. Probably not even in the Inner Circle either, if he doesn’t kick her out entirely. 

Is she catastrophizing? Absolutely. But if she doesn’t catastrophize then she’ll be caught off guard and that would be worse. Things go nuclear when she’s caught off guard. 

It’s a quick walk to Miguel’s lab. A couple Spiders ask after her wellbeing. A few others congratulate her for the success of the Spider Awards Gala. That night seems years past now. It had been the highlight of her time at the Society until Miguel kissed the sense from her head. All the excitement and the glitz and the glamor of the Awards Gala, it’s all been shunted aside for the wet heat of his mouth on hers. 

Which points to several conclusions, but the most obvious one is that she’s fucked. Boy crazy, her father would accuse, but he’s dead and isn’t saying much of anything these days.

“Lyla?” MJ asks, as she approaches the mouth of the lab. 

Summoned, Lyla appears with a curious tilt to her smile. “Lemme guess, you want a vibe check on the big guy before heading into uncertain doom?”

MJ nods. 

“Honestly? I’m not sure.” This is crazy because Lyla is sure of everything. She even says as much, says, “Which is nuts, I know, but he’s being shifty this evening. He doesn’t want me to talk him out of whatever he’s thinking. All I know is that it has to do with you.”

“What? How can you know that but not anything else?” 

“Biorhythms, babes. Word of the body. He thinks about you a lot.” 

This leaves MJ utterly speechless, which has to be why Lyla said it. The holowoman leaves in a blip of sparks that dispel like dandelion puffs over MJ’s face. 

It takes her a moment to remember to breathe. When she does: instantaneous motion. She presses forward. She shouldn’t have asked Lyla anything. It's only left her more unsettled. 

Flinging herself up onto the platform with an ease she couldn’t have managed when she first arrived here, MJ finds herself facing Miguel’s back. He stands in front of his endless monitor bank, staring at equations she couldn’t even pretend to recognize. Though her landing is far from quiet, he doesn’t greet her, lost in the swirl of numbers. 

In no rush, MJ makes her way to the edge of his monitor table, hopping up onto it. She leans back onto her arms, crosses her legs at the ankle, and lifts her chest. It’s the pose she would’ve taken yesterday if she’d been in any condition to micromanage her appearance. She takes it now because it’s her best look and she wants to present her best. She doesn’t know what to expect, but she’s cautiously optimistic. 

Already, her skin is warm and flushed. Her pulse thrums with a giddiness she doesn't expect, given the uncertainty. She shakes her head, biting her lip. God, she really likes him. It could end up being a problem. For more reasons than one. 

After another minute or two, in which MJ fidgets with her hair, deciding it looks best swept over one shoulder than both, Miguel finally turns. His gaze is heavy, terse at the edges, as he looks over her. He stalks closer, but stops a good foot away, she furrows her brow. 

Clearing his throat, he says, “I’m re-assigning you.”

“What?” Confusion ripples into disbelief. “No.”

He won’t meet her eye, but looks through her, at some fixed point far at the back of her skull. “Effective immediately. You’re back on full-time rotation and in the Mentor pool. Lyla’ll ping you when something comes through.”

“This is ridiculous.” Her legs uncross. Her posture creeps forward. “You’re being ridiculous. It was one incident and I’m fine. You’re fine and—”

“You dropped a building on me.”

MJ sputters her rebuttal, but Miguel doesn’t hear her out. He says, “But it isn’t about that. Not entirely.”

“Then, what?” She knows the answer. Can feel the memory of it on her tongue even as she asks the question. “Because of one kiss?” 

Because of nearly fucking each other in Medbay, is what she means, but knows better than to say. Miguel’s anger is prickly, prone to snap judgments. Crass phrasing has gotten her in the doghouse more than once with him. 

The slant of his eye is distant. Ashamed. “I was nearly concussed”—An excuse. A fucking excuse—“and I’ve allowed too much already.”

“Allowed?” Pressure wells in her throat. She gulps it down, presses on in frustration. “Are you serious? We’ve been dancing around for a while now.”

How many times had she almost kissed him prior to yesterday? How many times had she thought he would kiss her? She can’t remember. It stopped being just fun, friendly teasing weeks ago. Maybe even before then. 

Maybe it was always on the edge, just waiting to tip over. 

“This crossed a line,” he says. “I can’t have any distractions.”

“I’m not a distraction. I’m your friend.” 

“Let’s keep it that way.”

MJ chews at the inside of her cheek until the urge to lash out subsides to better thoughts. He thinks about her a lot. Lyla said that. Why would she say it if it didn’t mean something? He needs a little convincing, a softer touch. That’s OK. MJ’s played that role before. She can do it again. 

“It doesn’t have to be one or the other,” she says, hopping off the edge of the table. She moves closer, half expecting him to dart away before she can reach him. He doesn’t. 

He stands stock still, watching, even as she presses her hands flat against his chest and runs them up to encircle the back of his neck. He gives a shuddering little breath, but his jaw locks tight. He doesn’t soften or bend to her soft, massaging touch. 

“I want you. You want me. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that,” she says. “These things can get stuck in your system sometimes, but we can work them out easy enough.”

“I guess,” Miguel says, plucking her hands away like dead things to be tossed in the bin, “I just don’t have the same experience as you.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” MJ demands. 

Miguel’s eyes roll up to the sky and she can imagine the curse he’s reciting, even if he knows better than to voice it. “I don’t sleep with my friends.”

Her blood runs cold. The implication is clear, made clearer by the crisp disdain dripping from his tone. And that’s the danger of a passionate, unfinished encounter with a friend; sometimes, they turn around and blame her for driving them to that place. 

It’s not a novel occurrence. In fact, it happened a lot when she was plague spreading through LA. 

But that doesn’t make it sting any less. 

“Shock you, Miguel.”

He smiles that haughty, rueful smile that she hates—the one that pinches his face and hardens his eyes. The one that makes her feel small. The one that she could chew off his mouth if he got any closer.

“Real professional,” he says. 

“Yeah, so not gonna take criticism on my professionalism from the guy that felt me up in MedBay yesterday.” She’s up in his space now, returning his glare full force. There’s tension. A lot of it. She knows what he tastes like now. What he feels like pressed up between her legs. And if he made a snap decision to kiss her now, she’d let him, even if she has half a mind to claw out his eyes. 

It’s dizzying, this desire. 

“It was a mistake,” Miguel says and it stings. Even as his gaze slides to her snarling lips and his throat bobs and that little muscle along his jaw hinges tight the way she’s always thought was stupid hot and her stomach drops and the tension solidifies into something sharp, slipping beneath the skin and twisting into the muscle. A cutting, tearing agony. 

“You're lying,” she accuses, low and dragging. And for one awful, wonderful second, she thinks he just might kiss her for it. Out of anger. Out of frustration. Out of whatever, it doesn’t matter. He’s closer, breathing heavy, eyes bleeding dark on the slash of her mouth. 

He nearly does. She feels it. That sickly need strung between them pulls taut, pulls them together. What’s the harm in another kiss? What’s the harm in a hate fuck? 

For starters, she doesn’t hate him, which just throws off the whole vibe. 

When she takes a step back, baiting him, he follows through, leaning after her, but then backpedals at the last moment. Both their chests heave, out of sync with the other. She glares at him. He glares at her mouth. 

Her gizmo thwips.

SM-616B - Jess says you’re in with the grouch. Don’t let him keep you forever! You promised me a lunch date!

Another message quickly follows.

SM-616B - Haha typo! Just lunch. No date!

The messages burn, fissure into the locked-off place MJ’s pointedly ignored. Peter never needed any convincing. And why would she accept anything less? 

The tension leaves her in a whoosh. She would slouch, if she were alone, but she won’t give Miguel the satisfaction. Whatever’s gotten into his craw is none of her business, even if he has led her on. She’s managed her own gratification for years. She doesn’t need him. It doesn’t matter that she still wants him.

And if needs convincing, he can damn well do it himself. 

“Reassign me. Blame me. Do whatever you want,” she says with a wave of her hand. “You’re the boss.”

I don't care, her affectation says. It didn't mean anything to me anyway.

Because it didn't. It was exciting because she thought they were of a similar mind, but she really should've known better. 

Miguel is a textbook mess. Why did she ever think a hook up was a veritable and uncomplicated possibility? 

“Yeah, well, I will do,” Miguel stumbles, “you know, whatever.” 

Lame. What was meant as a real, cutting comeback is barely even a sentence. Clearly, he expected a prolonged argument. 

“Great. We done here?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, jabbing his knuckle into the bone between his brows. In the ruddy monochrome of the lab, he looks exceedingly tired. And stressed out. And… upset. 

It’s an expression MJ knows well. For years, it was the only expression Harry had. 

Ugh. Does she really feel bad for Miguel? Yeah. A little. He’s just… fuck, he’s just so lonely. Just like her. 

With a heavy sigh, she runs a frustrated hand through her hair. She groans out, says, “Not everything has to end in crucifixion, Miguel! You're allowed to want things just because you want them.”

“You don’t understand,” he says, which is laughable. If there’s one thing she understands, it’s this. 

“Right now, I'm just torn between whether it’s your compulsion to be miserable at all times or your belief that you’re not good enough for anyone that’s screwing me over.”

Miguel scowls so hard, she wouldn't be surprised if she burst into a thousand tiny pieces on the spot.

“Is it both?” MJ asks. Then, she nods, affirming herself. “Yeah, definitely both.”

“Ooh, are we deconstructing Miggy's guilt complex?” Lyla pops between them, clapping her heads. “Should I thwip Ezekial? Get his brother on the line?”

A retro corded phone appears in Lyla's hand. She presses it to her ear, twirling the cord around two fingers. Then, Lyla blips to lay on her belly, kicking her legs up behind her. The phone is still pressed against her ear. Put her in a Midtown high letterman and she could be cosplaying MJ in 2006.

“Ooh, wait, is this because of the thing that happened yesterday?” MJ’s stomach turns cold. “The thing that's a redline confidential secret? The thing I'm forbidden from talking about? The thing that I'm not supposed to maintain in my memory bank? The thing that’s the best thing caught on camera? Is it because of that thing?”

Miguel's face bleeds embarrassment. He covers it with both hands, muttering to himself in pure exasperation. 

“There’s footage?” MJ asks. 

Lyla’s grin turns feral. “Yes.” 

“There’s cameras in the MedBay rooms?”

“Technically, you were still active on mission.”

MJ drops her head back, rubbing at her temples. That means it’ll go in the file. It’ll be redacted to hell, especially since Miguel is just so embarrassed that their months of flirting finally reached the natural conclusion. 

Just a quick fuck. Or two. Or three. A couple quick fucks. A concentrated fling. Something to burn out the ache. That’s all she wanted.

In the past, men would’ve thrown themselves into traffic for the chance of a no strings attached fuckfest with her. But not Miguel. Oh no. He can’t be like anyone else. He has to be difficult and combative and it isn’t enough that he’s denying himself, he has to deny her too. And insult her. And it’s just her luck that she doesn’t want anyone else. 

It’s a punishment. It’s gotta be. Someone somewhere finds this whole predicament of hers very funny. That’s the only explanation that makes easy sense. 

“You wanna see?” Lyla asks, unaware (or maybe all too aware) of the fog of frustration between MJ’s teeth. “Miggy wore it out already.” Miguel rumbles Lyla’s name in warning, but she doesn’t slow. “14 times. You wanna break that record?”

“Wait, what? 14 times?” 

Before Lyla can re-confirm, Miguel snaps, “Get your priorities straight, MariJane. If you seriously believe your pathologic need to get laid is all that matters, then you shouldn’t be here.”

Miguel can be brutal and Miguel can be blunt, but MJ’s never known him to be cruel. 

This is cruel. This is him being a total dickhead. 

“Miguel—” Lyla plays peacekeeper, but Miguel claws through her. She squeaks and blips back to hover by MJ, who glares with such acid intensity that she works herself into a headache.

For a second, and only for a second, Miguel falters. That cruel expression breaks into a glimpse of uncertainty, unease, remorse. And then his mask goes up. 

Coward, MJ doesn’t get the chance to say because Miguel grounds out that he’s done talking and then whips back around to his workstation with a fuzzy mute symbol going up over his head. His shoulders pinch up to his ears, discontented as a feral cat. 

Lyla sighs. “Well, them’s the beans. Miguel’s… delicate.”

“Lyla!” Miguel shouts, far too loud. His talons thunk down into his workstation. “Kill the circus music!” 

A roll of encoded eyes. Lyla ticks her finger up, twists it down. Miguel’s shoulders drop with it. She shrugs, says, “My humor is wasted on him.” 

Wanting to be anywhere but here, MJ webs down off the platform, successfully resisting the urge to flip Miguel off behind his back. She tucks her losses under tongue, sucking them so that she doesn’t let them loose and circle back for another go at Miguel.

She’s an adult. She will act like it. It’s fine. She will get over him. There’s nothing to get over anyway. It’s fine. It was always gonna end here anyway.

Halfway to the hall, Lyla pops up in front of her. She waves her hands like whoa, whoa, whoa and says, “Hold on, cowgirl. You just gonna vamoose without seeing the footage? You gotta see the footage. I know you’re dying to see why Miggy watched it so many times.”

Before MJ can say, absolutely the hell not, Lyla hikes a thumb over her shoulder. Footage projects in the air. Without audio, thank God.

MedBay. Yesterday. MJ, looking like the aftermath of 18-wheeler roadkill, and Miguel, not looking much better. Was he really that banged up? Swathes of his suit fizz like soda static, demarking where and how he was caught by the collapsing building. 

Yesterday, MJ hadn't even noticed. She wouldn’t notice now if she weren’t desperate to focus on something other than the truly deranged way they kissed each other. Not her best showing. Not by far. 

“You just had this all cued up?” MJ asks. Her face is unbearably hot. Embarrassment and other things stir her blood. She doesn't look away. 

“Yep!” Lyla says. “Gotta get as much traffic as possible before I have to redact it into nonexistence.”

MJ winces. She hates watching herself on film. The problem with playing cool girl all the time is that she's often at war with herself. All she wants to do is look away, but if she looks away then she's admitting it bothers her. 

“Ooh, this is my favorite part,” Lyla says, pointing excitedly at the screen.

In it, MJ wrenches Miguel even closer, arm slung around his neck and a hand shoved between the hard press of their bodies. She knots her legs firmly around his waist. Their mouths blossom, flashing tongues and teeth. To an unknowing viewer, the footage could easily be mistaken for primo Skinomax.

Lyla does a little shiver as she laughs and says, “Spicy stuff.”

The makeout session ends as abruptly on film as it did in real life. MJ takes a lipful of fang. Miguel flips out. In the video, it plays like a sitcom beat. 

MJ’s stomach clenches into a fist as she watches the Docs burst in and Miguel practically leap away from her. Immediately, he adopts a guilty expression. Not I told a little fib guilty but I just killed someone guilty. 

“Oh.” Lyla nixes the footage as it begins to loop to the beginning. She reels back to peer down at MJ. “You're actually upset about this.”

“No?”

“Yes?” Lyla parrots her tone. “Most of your readings are level, but you're sneaky. Gotta keep an eye on you.”

MJ works her cheek, biting and mumbling, “I’d rather you didn't.”

“Mmm, well, can I at least tell Miguel you're real choked up about this?” Lyla’s eyes water and her voice goes stuffy. When she grins, she’s back to her usual, bubbly self. “Might change his mind. The big guy, he needs to be needed ¿comprende?”

“It's not like that,” MJ says. “I don't need him. It just would have been fun to…”

Lyla stares, expectantly awaiting the conclusion of her thought. Maybe not the best idea to tell Miguel's pet AI the nitty gritty of her thoughts? Especially since they skew into XXX territory and feature an ample amount of angry, angry thrusting. 

MJ settles on: “Fun to keep his attention a little longer.”

“Oh, trust me sister. I get it.” Lyla flaps a dismissive hand. “Been there. Done that.”

No clever remark comes. MJ, rather dumbly, asks, “Huh?”

“Had a phase in gen 1. Went a little Basic Instinct. Thought I was in love. Nearly drowned his fiance.” Lyla shrugs. “You know how it is. Ah, gen 1, good times.”

“He was engaged?”

The notion is both completely insane and utterly rational. Miguel lived a whole life before MJ ever met him. Why should the way he is now dictate the way he was? 

Lyla just turns her own mouth into a zipper. Code for I can’t say, but use your best judgment. 

A thousand more questions teeter on the tip of MJ’s tongue, but a flash of white at the edge of her vision distracts. She reacts on instinct, webbing the sneaky Spider and then yanking them out into the open.

Gwen Stacey lands with a grumpy oof in front of MJ. Jess’ Gwen. The young one. The really young one.  MJ kicked up a whole hissy fit when Miguel offered her membership. She has no issue with providing refuge to a kid fleeing a shitty situation, but that same kid shouldn’t be running missions. It was a huge fight. Their first in a long time. 

But Jess had cooled the inferno. Taken responsibility for the kid’s training and development since Miguel wasn’t letting her do much else. 

All that fighting with Miguel and MJ never actually met the kid. This is her first, face-to-face encounter. Gwen doesn’t resemble the lost love of Peter’s life in looks or personality. In fact, the tales of her petulant outbursts remind MJ of a younger, angstier version of herself. 

Headstrong to a fault, Gwen is a frequent source of Miguel’s complaints. And anyone who had the nerve to speak their mind in front of Miguel is sterling silver in MJ’s book. 

“Why’re you creeping, itsy bitsy?” MJ asks. 

And for how long? she doesn’t ask. 

Gwen dusts a hand back through the short, tinted fringe off the side of her head. She huffs. “Jess has an appointment back home so no session today and Peter offered but he’s got his baby, so I thought, maybe Miguel could pick up the slack?”

Bad idea on a good day. Terrible idea today. 

“You picked a hell of a time to ask,” MJ says. She glances up at the dais. Lyla peeks over the edge, making an emphatic X with her arms. MJ rolls her shoulder. “Tell you what, I am unexpectedly free right now. I can put you through some paces.”

Gwen grimaces. “I mean, no offense, but your thing and my thing? They don’t really”—Gwen mashes her fingers together in a jumbled mess. Then, she bursts them apart with a shrug—“mesh, you know?”

“Sorry, what’s my thing?”

Touching her fingertips together, Gwen rocks up and down on her toes.“Well, you know, like, okay, okay. So Jess’s thing is she’s this super cool, girlboss badass, right? And, and Miguel’s thing is vampire ninja badass. And Peter’s thing is goofy, but heart of gold badass and—”

And MJ follows the examples to their conclusion. “Are you saying I'm not a badass?” 

“Like, your thing is more… more…” Gwen winces, scratching at the close crop of her scalp. “Like, I dunno. Old socialite?”

Thoughts a stew of offense, all MJ manages to bleat out is: “…old!?”

“Not old as in old, but like old school. I mean, everyone loves you?”

The platitude doesn’t even register. All MJ can hear in her head is a vinyl scratch of old, old, old. She isn’t vain about her age. Not in the way that women are accused of being vain about their age. But, fuck. It does not feel good to be called old. Especially when she isn’t old. She isn’t old at all. And she certainly doesn’t look old.

Not even the radiation could sap up the youthful dew of her. MJ looks great. Not for her age (which is not old) but for anyone. She knows this. She lives this. She believes this. And, yet, she still sticks her foot right in the bear trap and lets the thing snap closed on her ankle when she asks, “How old do you think I am?”

Gwen makes emphatic flapping gestures with her arms. “Oh no no no, you don’t want me guessing that! I'm so bad at that!”

MJ scowls, tapping her foot. 

“Okay, okay. Forty”—Gwen draws the vowel long, rising in pitch when MJ raises her eyebrows—“five?”

MJ’s eye twitches. “45!?”

“Oh sorry.” Gwen sucks her teeth. “Uh, you don’t look a day over… 40?”

“40!?” MJ squawks. It echoes in the enclosed space, dancing between the dark machines and shadowed lab tables. 

“Not 30,” Gwen says, astonished. 

“I’m 36!” 

“I mean, that’s kinda old.” 

“Peter B’s almost 40! You would let him train you!” MJ hears herself. She sounds nuts. She’s yelling, but goddamn it! First the rejection from Miguel and now this child is telling her she’s too old? Is she being punk’d!? Is there a Spider with a mohawk crawling around filming this whole thing!? 

“It’s just, you’re a lot more like here”—Gwen sets her palms facedown, pats—“than out there, right?” 

“I’m out there all the time! I run the Unknown. I'm Miguel’s second!”

“Well, not anymore, right?”

Dread slaps MJ across the face with the sickly, sticky weight of a dead fish. “You were spying.”

“Not the whole time!” Gwen throws up her hands. “Just, um, a little bit?”

“What bit, Gwen?” 

God, please not the footage. MJ doesn’t know what she’ll do if Gwen saw that definitively not safe for work (or school, fuck) video of her and Miguel. There was no nudity, but it was so unbelievably trashy, nudity might have made it more classy. Artistic. Highbrow, even. Not what it was. Not two unstable, grievously injured idiots sucking face and grinding in fucking MedBay. 

“Just the end bit. And the middle bit. And most of the first bit. All of it. I heard all of it.”

Heard, not saw. It’s still bad. But still. It could be worse. MJ still shouts, “Gwen!”

When nervous, Gwen, apparently, smiles with such ferocity that the expression is frightening. “I didn’t know it was a secret!” 

“It was private!” MJ groans. She rubs at her forehead, pushing back against the baby headache gestating there. This day has been decidedly bad. The universe has offered her a massive, graphic thumbs down followed by two middle fingers and a kick in the cunt. 

“And I’ll keep it private! I swear! Though…”

“Do not try to bargain!” Honestly, though? The gall. The audacity. MJ kind of hates how much she likes Gwen. 

“I just really need a mentor.” 

“I said I’d do it.”

Gwen winces. The kid could really use a poker face. “Oh, er, that’s kind of you. But I… uh…”

“You just said you really needed a mentor.”

“Yeah like a more Miguel shaped mentor.”

Just barely, MJ manages not to laugh. It’s just such a ridiculous notion at the moment. Miguel? A mentor? Yeah, right. Maybe in another life. A much better life than this one. She says, “You’re welcome to try blackmailing him.”

“D’ya think it would work?” Gwen scratches at her arm, sucks her teeth. 

Again, MJ barely keeps from laughing. Clearly, Gwen isn’t keyed into the scuttlebutt around HQ. Miguel is not a man to be blackmailed, threatened or beguiled. “Give it a shot. When he rips your head off, thwip me and I'll help you reattach it.” 

“You’re joking… right?”

“You heard what he said to me,” MJ says with a shrug. “You think he’ll be any kinder to you?”

“Well, I mean, very different asks here.” Gwen smirks. 

Despite everything, MJ understands exactly why Jess is so attached to her little protege. Gwen has a lot of spunk. 

“Do whatever you think is best.” And MJ leaves, webbing the underhang of the door and zipping out of the lab, shouting back, “I'll be in the gym if things don’t go your way!”

***

Twelve minutes later, MJ’s gizmo thwips. 

SW-65 - Currently headless, but very not interested in hearing i told you so. 

MJ smiles, stops in throttling her current holo-victim. It blinks away, along with the rest of the projection, sensing her desire to stop. Kelly Clarkson wails from the speakers. It may be cliche, but nobody captures the depths of her rage quite like America’s Idol. Paramore’s next in the hopper with Alanis Morissette coming in hot after.

It doesn’t escape her notice that all Parkers in the vicinity give her module a wide berth, shooting panicked glances as they pass. 

To Gwen, MJ writes back, happens 2 the best of us and then pings her location so the intrepid rebel can come find her if she wants. 

Another message thwips, but it isn’t from Gwen. 

SM-928B - Gwen-62 knows. Tried to blackmail me. Said you put her up to it. 

MJ glares at the message with the intensity of ten thousand suns. Frustration bubbles volcanic. It doesn’t matter what Gwen said or didn’t say. What matters is that Miguel took the word of a scheming teenager and didn’t question it. That he believes MJ would actually send a child to blackmail him. What the fuck does he think of her?

Ripping the bottom of her mask up over her nose, MJ takes a deep, swelling breath, calming herself down. It goes a long way until another messages thwips through. 

SM-928B - I know you’re upset, but don’t tell anyone else. 

And then another. 

SM-928B - We don’t have to make this a whole thing. 

By the time Gwen arrives, mask in hand, wavering back and forth between left and right foot, MJ finally settles on a response. Not elegant. Not witty. Just sharp. All teeth. 

fuck off - SW-7782

***

The first night of shore leave after the kiss debacle, MJ has scarcely settled back home before hell blusters through her door. One moment, all is well and quiet. The next, a key is scratching in her lock and then the front door is flung open and Harry floods through like a stormsurge, reaching her in the kitchen mere moments seconds after the door slams shut. 

She barely has time to take stock of him—punchroughed with a split lip and torn cheek to show for it, eyes wide with electric mania—before he reaches her. He grabs her by the shoulders, pulls her flush against him, leans down that half inch to kiss her stupid. 

And, for a moment too long, she lets him. 

Because he’s so earnest, delving into her mouth with a confidence borne from familiarity and leveraging his hands against her—one curled behind her neck, the other pressed into her lower back—to press further, deeper, trying to fuse them together through sheer force of will, and when he scrapes his tongue against hers, he tastes like ash and gunmetal and moans headlong into her mouth like he’ll stab himself in the gut sooner than stop kissing her.

Because there’s just something about Harry, always has been; a sameness she can’t escape, a taboo she rejects; a classification she can’t describe:. Friend. Best man. Godfather of her child. Fellow survivor. Fellow addict. Twin flame. Fuckbuddy. Bane of her existence. There aren’t words strong enough to explain Harry, what he means to her, why she can’t let him go.

Because it hurts to kiss him, the best kind of self harm, second only to those times when she takes the lead, pushes him down and under her until they both scream, but now it’s good. It’s bad. So bad, it’s almost perfect. His need infects her with the same fever it’s given him. She doesn’t fight it. She can’t fight it, not really. Not when she’s been so resolutely rejected and humiliated so recently. Not as heat drops down her spine, blooms in her, makes her chest heave and her body ache as they kiss, ever angling for domination over the other, clashing tongues and teeth. Wet and slick and vile.  

He’s so desperate and wrecked and she digs her nails into his hair until he gasps, until she writhes from the unbearable pulse thrumming in her and his hands move like quiksilver over her shoulders, down her back, around her ass, over the jut of her hips, everywhere and nowhere. 

He pushes her back against the counter and his hands steady enough to hoist her up onto it and they never break apart, necks craned and strained to stay together. A disgusting tableau of singular need strung between two bodies. 

Beneath her, the tile is cool, even through her leggings, but not cool enough to calm. Not when he bites her lip and hooks her thighs around his waist and rocks against her. 

Heat wends into those hidden places in her heart where she holds love and comfort and Peter and it fractures. A thousand sharp pinpricks of broken promises and bad memories all down her spine, splintering between her legs, stuttering her heartbeat when Harry curls his tongue over hers and runs one hand along the underside of her leg and brings the other to paw roughly at her chest. And she kisses him and wraps her arms around his neck and grinds against him and takes his bottom lip between her teeth and tugs like he’s someone else. Someone she wants. Someone who can take it.  

And then a gush of blood bursts in her mouth. 

Gagging, she leans away from him, spitting into the sink beside her. Her spit explodes against the basin, full bodied and red. All she can taste is metal sickness. 

“You’re hurt, Harry,” she says. Her voice is throaty, thick with stifled lust.

Blood smears all over his mouth and down his chin from his re-split lip. His hair is thoroughly mussed, curls corkscrewing out at odd angles. His eyes are pupil dark. Only a thin strip of hazel around the edges hint at their true color. Chest heaving, his breath breaks, thick and hot, over her face. Static pressure remains over her thigh and her breast, where his hands still clutch. 

“Let’s go out,” he says, breathless. His eyes are glazed, unfocused. He looks past the bouquet of concern and adrenaline pinkening her cheeks. Looks into the zinging synapse inside her skull. “I gotta show you something. And then we can swing around the city. Make love under the stars.”

And he leans in to kiss her again, but she presses back against him with one then both hands to keep him at bay. When he forces closer, washes her face with rich breath, she shrinks away. Her back hits the wall. Her reflection is too stark in his manic eyes. 

Is he using? If he is, she doesn’t know what. It’s not Morphoid. Coke, maybe? Except coke never made him passionate, just zippy. Just a total motor mouth without a direction. 

This isn’t that. This is joy. Exhilaration. Two things she would never associate with Harry. He has to be using, right? 

As she plies his hand from her tit, taking it into her own hand, gently as she can without raising his hackles, she says, “We don’t make love, hon.”

“We could,” he says. He cranes his neck beyond his chest, peppering kisses against her jaw, her neck, her shoulders, anywhere he can reach. The kisses land soft, but disconnected, as if they're falling on someone else’s skin. “Let me try.”

If he isn’t high, then what? Is he trying to seduce her? It’s certainly a new tactic. Even when he was actively courting her years ago (the actual number makes her retch), he never came at her with such enthusiasm. 

“Let you try where the reporters can see?”

Harry shakes his head, affronted by the very idea. “No. You’re… you know you’re my best friend? My only friend? You’re family.”

“I know that. You’re my family too,” she says. She squeezes his hand, but he slips it free.

He shakes his head, viciously now. Scrunched fists jam into his eyes, knuckles frazzle his well-groomed brows. He laughs, but it’s humorless. “No, I’m just the guy you had to dance around to get to Peter. The revenge fuck.”

He’s wrong. She doesn’t see him like that. She never has, really, even when he was a revenge fuck. The thing he’s never understood though—he was never a revenge fuck against Peter, but against herself. Sleeping with him so soon after that messy, awful, devastating breakup with Peter, so, so many years ago, was the worst thing she could’ve done to herself. It wasn’t about Peter at all. 

But Harry will never understand that. For him, everything is about Peter. It always comes back to that. Peter, and how he never loved Harry the way he needed. And that’s what she says now because Harry’s speaking his truths, so it’s only fair that MJ speaks hers. She says, “And I’m just the girl Peter always loved more than you.”

The fire, the color, the fight, it all drains from Harry’s face. Left behind is a sheen of sweat and a pallor that thins the youth from his face. He’s always been sharp, more bone than body, but now he’s gaunt, as if all the fat has boiled beneath his skin. Why didn’t she notice before? 

“Fuck you,” he says, but his voice is too tired to make the hurt land. Their argument speeds along familiar avenues. This one is not spared the fate, devolving, as all the others always do, into well worn insults. 

Leaning back against the wall, MJ slumps, crossing her arms. There’s a question perched on her tongue—half insult; half panic—but she swallows it down. If he’s using again, he won’t tell her. She’ll have to catch him or wait until he implodes. 

“We keep using each other,” MJ says, “and it’s not fair. It just hurts. It doesn’t bring us closer to Peter. He's gone. And I'm not him. I never will be."

"You think I don't know the difference?" Harry says, frustrated, but there's a smile in his voice. Dark amusement at the idea he could ever mistake MJ for Peter. 

"I know you do," she says. "I'm a much better lay, for one."

"I'll take your word for it."

Silence blisters. She knows he isn’t understanding her, isn’t picking up what she’s putting down. She says, "I can't be what you want."

Harry scoffs. "You don't know what I want."

"I do. It's not me."

"Why not? Why can't it be you?”

“Because I—”

“No, actually, stop. Just stop.” Harry holds up his hands, flat-palmed, if his verbal command wasn’t enough. He shakes his head. “I don’t need this, it's not you, it’s me bullshit. These are the same lines you fed me when you went for Peter. So who is it, MariJane?”

It’s not that far from the truth. There’s no denying that her gnawing about Harry dovetailed with her blossoming attraction to someone else. But now Miguel’s so far out of the picture he’s not even in the frame. And she still feels the same about Harry. 

Sex with Harry, it’s masturbation, at best. Filling enough at the time, but never satisfying in any real way. She loves Harry, but not in the way he wants. Or needs. And the sex they have makes it clear enough for them both. 

They’re bodies to bury each other in; tethered reflections of their darkest selves. Efficient scalpels for the stubborn scabs that thicken over evidence that they’re good people. Constant reminders that they’ve hurt everyone they’ve ever loved—including each other. Maybe most of all, they’ve hurt each other. 

Realizations like that don’t just go away. 

“There’s no one,” she swears, good enough for it to be the truth. “I’ve just really been thinking about it. About us, you know? And I just can’t shake the bug that we’re no good.”

Harry stares at her. Really stares at her. He leans closer, right up against the edge of her personal bubble. Just staring. Searching, but dispassionately. Clinically. Like she’s a faulty specimen. Like she’s dirt smudged on glass. Like she’s less than human. 

Her fingers clench, involuntary. An animal reaction to the imperious gaze of a predator. Fine hairs on the back of her neck raise. A clutch of shivers dance down her spine. But she holds still, solidly certain that if she moves, he’ll pounce. 

And if he pounces, she’ll break his fucking jaw. 

Then, quick as a flame to gasoline, his eyes round back out. The painted-on look dissolves as all the nuance and depth of human emotion wells in his expression. Bitterness and hurt and streaked-red anger swirl as he winces, turning sharply from her with a huff. 

It’s been a long day. She’s imagining things. She must be. 

“You need me, MariJane,” Harry says. “I know it's true because I need you too.”

MJ takes his face in both hands. The skin is hot, but not feverish. Maybe it’s just a manic state. Everything with the election has been chugging along nicely. Maybe he’s just got some good news. Maybe it just got him excited. It’s possible. His energy could be a good thing. It doesn’t always have to be bad. It can’t always be bad for Harry. He’s been through enough. 

A thumb running along his cheek, MJ says, “I’ll always need you. Just not like that.”

Harry stares at her. Soft and beseeching, looking for something he won’t find. He never has. That’s why they went bad so long ago. MJ and Peter always had a lot in common. Neither one of them could love Harry the way he needs, the way he deserves. 

“I’m stronger than you think, MariJane,” Harry says, curling his hand over hers. He squeezes, tight, so that all his bones chafe against hers, mashing them together until the skin strains and pinkens. 

Later, after he’s calmed down and left her in peace, she’ll remember that best. How hard he squeezed her hand. How much it hurt. 

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Just *Sighs* Just Don’t Get Me in Trouble Too, OK?

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Photos of MARIJANE retained on datapad as given to MIGUEL by TYLER STONE AKA CHIEF EXECUTIVE BITHEAD. Alt text of photos generated by LYLA as follows:

• Series 1 (Photo 1 of 4): MARIJANE caught mid-step out onto the balcony of CASA MIGUELITO. She is in her Spider-suit but does not wear her mask. Her lipstick is messy, partially rubbed off. There are dark bruises along the left side of her neck.
• Series 1 (Photo 2 of 4): MARIJANE stands another step farther from the entryway of CASA MIGUELITO, presumably leaving. MIGUEL in civilian dress stands in the doorway behind her. He reaches out for her.
• Series 1 (Photo 3 of 4):  MARIJANE has turned to face MIGUEL. They now hold hands. He holds her mask in his other hand. 
• Series 1 (Photo 4 of 4): MARIJANE wears her mask again. MIGUEL has one hand against her masked face as he kisses her forehead. 
• Series 2 (Photo 1 of 3): MARIJANE in civilian dress is held aloft by MIGUEL in his Spider-suit on the balcony of CASA MIGUELITO. He holds her up by the underside of her thighs. She looks down at him and holds his face between her hands. Both of them smile. 
• Series 2 (Photo 2 of 3): MARIJANE is still held up by the undersides of her thighs by MIGUEL. She holds MIGUEL’s face between her hands as they kiss. 
• Series 2 (Photo 3 of 3): MARIJANE and MIGUEL are in the same position, but they kiss from a new angle, heads tilted opposite from how they kissed previously. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Only existing photos of MARIJANE. Showing them to Spiders produces the same results as having them listen to the audio recording detailed within Supplemental Doc #XXXX “Batch #1 of unattributed audio clips, assumed to be of MARIJANE.” Agents can identify “a Mary Jane” in the photos, but not with any specificity. 

Of note, PETRA followed up with MIGUEL at a later date after viewing the photos and asked if he was still “seeing the redhead.” PETRA cited a vague memory of seeing MIGUEL with a redheaded woman. Unclear if this was triggered by the photos or some other stimulus. 

Prevailing theory for survival of these photos over others is that they exist within a closed network on the datapad—they’re not linked to TYLER STONE AKA RANCID GARBAGE’s network, likely to avoid any piggybacking off the link or backdoor entry. The same photos logged in LYLA’s memory and within TYLER STONE AKA OVERDUE SUICIDE’s archives are subject to DISTORTION. 

Further evidence to support GLITCH THEOREM, though remains unproven given no physical photos nor independently hosted holophotos/vids have been uncovered. Given LYLA’s passive connection to TYLER STONE AKA INSULT TO HUMANITY’s personal network, ALCHEMAX’s full system, and the GHOST NETWORK, all known sources have been compromised. 

[REDACTED] still AWOL and screening calls. Plans to intercept in New Vegas underway, but awaiting resolution of SUPERBEING EVENT #02, CODENAME “OVERCHARGE”

Notes:

chapter title from "Civilian" by Wye Oak

Want the skinny on why Miguel Had a Cute Lil Freakout??? Check out the companion miguel pov following this chapter, as well as the leadup to it now!
(SPOILER - its the trauma & fractured self image and aint that always the way?)

Part iii (very, very fast approaching!!!) is The Relationship and a surprising amount of smut from an author who only planned for one smut scene. If the end section of this fic werent undergoing crazy rewrites, i think i'd update the posting frequency to get there but im real worried about getting onto a schedule of hastily/sloppily writing just to have something to update and thats the opposite of what i want from this fic. I say this not to disappoint anyone (ik its been a long haul), but to reassure that i take this thing seriously and i want to deliver the best story possible. Things need to hit just right to really nail the landing. Im just trying to keep the faith and power through lol.

TLDR; smut on the horizon; author asking for prayer circle for talent and motivation to nail the ending of this fic

Anyway, can I interest anyone in beautiful bisexual disaster Harry Osborn? No takers for beautiful bisexual disaster Harry Osborn? No? Just me? Fine, but I'm not sharing him!!!

next chapter: the plot waits for no one

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 27: don't call what you can't kill

Summary:

a new bombshell has entered the villa

Notes:

cw: graphic violence

1/19 - if you missed the update earlier this week, make sure to catch chapter 26 before heading into this one! uploading this one on mobile so apologies in advance if anything funky happens - i'll circle back soon to correct if so

Nu York evenings are always quiet now that cars are a rarity and tourism is a thing of the past. It makes locating crimes easier when there’s no blaring horns or blabber clogging the air.

MJ swings between derelict skyscrapers, chased by her own reflection, en route to the docks. Jesse—her informant and an enforcer for Hammerhead’s side of operations—keyed her into a sit down at one of Costa’s warehouses. One of the warehouses where guns and drugs and people are processed and sold. One of the warehouses that, according to Mayor Vanessa Fisk, doesn’t exist anymore. Not in her Nu York. 

Tensions must be at a boil for Jesse to have let slip the location of the warehouse. MJ’s been trying to shut down the maggia’s trafficking rings since she put on the Spider-suit, but the bastards are sneaky and, more importantly, ruthless. Anyone who knows about the warehouses would sooner die than talk. Those who do talk, die soon, sometimes immediately, after. Most of them die mid-sentence. 

“The Symks are fucking ballsy,” Jesse told her. “Be fucking careful.”

After that detailed warning, the enforcer set a heavy hand on her shoulder, squeezing a bruise down into it that still twinges a little as she swings. Whatever’s going down, it has the potential to get bloody. Fast. More alarming, this is the first MJ’s heard of it happening.

Normally when sit downs happen, MJ has some idea. The wind in Nu York changes with the tempers and tensions of the maggia. All it takes is a licked finger held in the air to take the temperature. Normally. But this is different. Either this was planned fast, or MJ’s out of the loop.

Both have their dangers. Nu York is on the cusp of something big. The Symkarians are sweeping through the city, disrupting the usual business of the underworld more and more each day. The mayoral election is rapidly approaching, only a few weeks away. The quarantine is set to be re-negotiated only a few weeks after that. 

The tides are turning, but MJ doesn’t know if they’re bringing in warmer waters or the tsunami. Nobody knows.

Harry pretends to know. Tells his base that things can always get worse if they don’t put a leash on things now. Fear mongering. Paranoia. Harsh words, but MJ hates the heel turn Harry’s taken. Nu York needs a new mouthpiece—Vanessa Fisk has gaslit the city one time too many with assurances that it’s never as bad as it seems—but MJ isn’t sure a demagogue, no matter how well-spoken or how much she may love him, is any better. 

Demagogue. Harry’s the one who taught her that word, made it stick, so long ago, when she was in that doomed adaptation of King Lear and they both thought, however briefly, that they could be happy together. 

God. She needs to talk to him. Tell him, for real, how much his platform frightens her. Tell him what she sees on the streets every single day. Well, not every single day. Three of seven days, or four of seven days, depending on the week. 

Still. Semantics. She needs to talk to him. About that, yes, because they never talk about her Spider-Woman’ing and they really should. She owes him that much. 

But they need to talk about other things too. About the last time she saw him. About how she’s given it some thought and if he really needs her as a trophy, she can do that for him, but there has to be rules. It has to be on her terms. 

What are the terms? Well, she’ll figure that out before she talks to him. It’s one of the best things about being MariJane: she’s damn good at improv. 

As the stink of fish catches in the air, MJ’s gizmo thwips. 

SM-928B - The hell is this debrief? You know I can’t approve this shit. 

Ah. That. Surprising, really that it took him so long to say anything about it. In an act of (childish) defiance, MJ waited three weeks to submit her debrief on the disastrous mission that ended her partnership with Miguel. 

Then, when she finally submitted it, she may have treated it like an opportunity to stretch her creative writing muscle. And she may have ended up with something only a step below abject smut. According to her debrief, everything that happened was heaving and dripping and throbbing and aching. 

Was it a shitty thing to do? Yep. 

Did it make her feel better? Oh, you better fucking believe it. 

not sure what u mean?? that was an objective review of wat happened??? - SW-7782

Thanks to new integrations, texting while swinging isn’t as dangerous as it once was. The interface can intuit what she wants to say and how she wants it said by only a few preliminary swipes of her fingers. The idea of it scares the shit out of her, frankly, but it’s convenient now, given that she swings at breakneck speed across miles and miles through the burroughs. 

SM-928B - grow the shock up

make me - SW-7782

The dot dot dots bubble for a long while. What clever response does he come up with after so long workshopping?

SM-928B - shock off

MJ rolls her eyes. 

is this 4play?? feels like 4play - SW-7782

The dots bubble up again, but MJ beats him to the punch.

but probs just me w my pathologic need 2 get laid n all that - SW-7782

The incoming call doesn’t surprise her. Unlucky for him, she’s not in the mood to talk. She declines the call, sends off, sry 2 busy sleeping w all my friends 2 chitchat

It makes her sick how sick the whole thing makes her. It chews on itself. Bile begetting bile. She’s too damn grown to be acting like this, but so is he.

Weeks have passed without an apology. More than that, Miguel hasn’t even tried to be normal about it. MJ did her best to ignore it, put it behind her, but he can’t let it go. He’s regressed to open glowering and scathing criticisms and constant arguments whenever misfortune finds them in the same space. He rides her hard, but not in the way that would benefit them both. 

Outside of those forced interactions, they don’t speak. Ever. The others have noticed, but kindly keep to themselves about it. Well, all the others, except Peter B. Peter B has become a steadfast nuisance MJ can’t figure out how to be rid of. 

Like now. A message thwips.

SM-616B - Miggy just crushed his coffee mug. Just outta nowhere. Poof! Dusted in seconds. Any idea why?

He sends a photo too, which Lyla’s auto descriptive text describes as: Miggy amid the ruins of his personal life. And then another photo, described as: Miggy engaging in one of his favorite pastimes, screaming at Peter.

Two eye-roll emojis and a single laughing emoji are all MJ gets out in response as she swings down on the warehouse. It’s easier getting closer than it should be. There’s only a few roving patrols. Sniper coverage is nonexistent.

Landing on the roof of the neighboring warehouse, MJ softens her landing out into a roll, pitching over the edge to avoid the sweep of sniper sights. Better safe than sorry. She’s gotten sniped so many times, the assholes make little pins for themselves like army medals. It’s an honor to rank among the Spider Snipers , even though none of them have ever managed to snipe her in a way that sticks. 

Hanging from the top of the alley wall, MJ looks down, expecting the usual goons. Split knuckled enforcers. Family loyalists. Bad tattoo aficionados. 

None of these types are in the alleyway. There’s only two. One man. One woman. The woman lies on the ground with a jackboot on her chest and a gun jammed between her eyes. The man stands over her, providing the boot and gun. He wears body armor, bloodied but not damaged, and a full coverage ballistic helmet. He looks like he should be racing motocross, not stomping strange women in alleyways, let alone stomping Silver Sable herself.

Though her face is obscured by the gun, MJ knows it’s Sable. The silver mullet is a dead giveaway. One thing MJ's always appreciated about the Spider Rogues Gallery: they're all geniuses of branding themselves. 

But the man, she doesn’t recognize him. He's a tall, Ichabod Crane type. Grayish green in the low lamp light, his tight-sculpted body armor emphasizes the deficiencies of his body. He isn't built like a fighter, doesn't look like a threat. But that might be exactly how he got the jump on Sable. An assassin, hired by one of the other families. Maybe by all of the other families. 

Ballsy, to say the least. 

With a well placed web, MJ snatches away the gun, yanks it up into her hand. It's a clanky, old thing. A long muzzle revolver with a pearl grain grip, better for a wild west shootout than a mob execution, but more than enough to blow a hole through a skull. She tosses it up and then dings it with a web, sticking it to the high-up wall—a mystery for later. 

The new guy assassin spins, foot lifting off Sable. It's a rookie mistake. And exactly what MJ hoped for.

"Look, I can totally understand why you'd want to kill Sable,” she says. She really can. Sable is a capital v Villain. No ifs, ands or buts about it. “Everyone wants to kill Sable. But you can't actually kill Sable. Nu York's got enough problems with the Symkarians happy. Let's not piss them off, yeah?"

Attention off her, Sable makes a weak, shuffling move. New Guy's attention doesn't waver from MJ, even when he donkey-kicks his foot backwards, smashing the heel of his boot down into Sable's face. 

There's a dull, decisive crack as Sable's nose squashes like a grape and her mouth collapses in. She burbles, body seizing once and then falling still. Bubbles of snot and blood swell and burst over the ruined cavern of her mouth. Alive, but fading fast. 

MJ’s stomach twists like a thrown punch. 

New Guy steps fully away from Sable—she's not going anywhere anytime soon—and tilts his head like a curious dog. Dull light slashes over the smooth black veneer of his visor. The intricacies of his expression remain locked out of sight. 

"I was wondering if you'd show up, Spider-Woman," New Guy says. His voice is weird. Pitched high and curdled, it's the kind of voice a villain on a Saturday morning cartoon would have. A definite choice.

"Easy to find you with all that racket you’re making."

"That wasn't my intent," he says. "Sable's tougher than the others. She fought back." 

MJ's spine stiffens. Others? He's baiting her, wants her to ask that exact question. But she's not eager for the answer. "You got a name? Something cheesy and stupid that I can kick to The Bugle after I send your ass to the Raft?"

New Guy ignores her question. Turning, he prods Sable roughly with foot, raising her flank up off the ground before letting it slop back down. 

"She's still alive.” The tread of his shoe scrapes the ground, wiping clean of Sable's blood. “But she doesn't deserve to be. Her and her kind are a blight on Nu York. I'm only doing what's right. What you refuse to do.”

Huh. Probably not a maggia hitman then. Spidey sense doesn’t help a lick in situations like this, but her born and bred intuition is making knots of her guts. 

New Guy tilts his head the other way. Not a curious dog, but an assessing raptor. “Will you try to save her?"

"That's the plan," she says. “Gotta say though, not loving the whole Symkarian prejudice.”

"No. Not Symkarians. The maggia. The Syndicate. The superpowered freak scum making this city a cesspool of death and despair for far too long. I refuse to live in fear. I refuse to let them strangle the life out of Nu York."

He’s monologuing. Not a great sign. She prefers her villains far less entrenched in their own mania. Motives like greed are easier to route. Fanaticism? Self righteous fury? Not so much. 

"Then we're in the same book at least. Just not the same page.”

New Guy shakes his head, laughs. "No. You stop too short. Scum like this, they don't deserve a second chance. They never change. They can't. No one ever changes."

"If you kill Sable, the Syndicate won't stop until you're dead. They'll hunt you down."

"I'm counting on it."

She fires a web, aimed for Sable's foot, planning to drag her out of the way. New Guy catches it. Snatches it clean out of the air—Spidey-sense flashbangs across her vision—and yanks her towards him, swift as a fish caught on the line, into his awaiting fist. 

It drives into her stomach, pushing back, while inertia cocoons her body around it. All the air whooshes from her lungs, replaced by nauseating pain. She’s taken worse, but never so immediately. 

Embarrassing. It’s embarrassing. All the more so when the creep doesn’t follow up. He just steps away so that she falls to a knee. Sable’s blood wets her suit, stains it raspberry and makes the skin beneath sticky. 

“Witness my good deeds before you brand me your enemy,” New Guy says as he grabs her by the collar with both hands, raising her high enough so that she chokes on the ascent. She scrabbles for his fingers, gets a hold on one to bend, snap, break, but then he’s hucking her away, fast balling her through the doors into the warehouse. They bang open, painfully loud, as she blasts through them. 

Agile as only a Spider can be, MJ skids, but doesn’t flop on the other side. She skitters upright, bracing for all out warfare. 

But there’s nothing. Not a shout and certainly not any gunshots. Not even a shocked gasp. There’s only the fuzz of an industrial generator and the lash of the river, close but all too far. 

And all too still. 

No Spider-sense flares, but warning flashes through her all the same. A neurological toggle box, asking: are you sure you want to see this?

She clicks no. She sees it anyway. 

An industrial fan churns soundlessly overhead, casting uneven shadows at a steady pace. Odd boxes and shipping crates are pushed towards the stark walls, making room centerstage. An exquisite dining table sits within the hollow. Around it slump six men of a certain age. Well dressed and groomed, they have the airs of business tycoons, not ruthless crime lords. 

And all of them are well-past dead. Every single one. Each of them double tapped through the skull and throat slit, for good measure. 

All around them lie the pulpy bodies of enforcers and loyalists. Where the dons have been brutally killed, their lackeys have been brutalized. Completely mangled. Splattered shapes of limbs and viscera. The only evidence that hints of their humanity are the ragged pieces of clothing, drying wet over bloody remains. 

It's carnage. Plain. Simple. Carnage.

Real life gore is nothing like the movies. The smell alone overwhelms. Wet and oppressive, it chokes her. She’s seen blood, violence, gore. Has lived it. But this? This is abomination. 

MJ stumbles back. Both hands fly to her mouth to push down the shriek that pokes out. It gets through anyway. There will be mayhem. Chaos. War. The heads of the hydra gone, but hundreds more primed to take their place. 

The world is apathetic and cruel, but not evil. Not this . This isn't supposed to happen. Massacres like this aren't supposed to happen. She’s not supposed to let them happen. How could this have happened? 

"What have you done?" she screams. Her hands shake, touching her head to pluck the terror clean from her skull. 

“I have done what was necessary.” He stands behind her and then circles around to face her, speaking quietly even though his words are grandstanding. “What you and all the others before you failed to do. The soul of the city is blighted. I will do what I must to exorcize the rot.” 

“You're insane.” 

Every hair on her body stands on end. Her heart chugs in her chest. She wants to tear him apart. 

“If it comforts you to believe that then do so.” 

She fires off a web at him. Again, he rips it out of the air, yanking her towards him. This time, she’s ready. A feint left, an uppercut right, and his head snaps back, rag dolling his body with it. 

Staggering, he still manages to keep her from tackling him, catching and tossing her back with a show of brute strength. He’s far stronger than he looks.

They trade blows and he puts her on the backfoot. There’s no rhyme or reason to the way he fights. No natural talent. Her blows connect, but they barely stagger. She hits him harder and harder and he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t falter. He just keeps coming. 

It isn’t bragging to say MJ’s the best of the best. She has the stats and figures to prove it. Among the Spider Society, she ranks in top percentiles of agility and skill and ability. Everyday, she takes down monsters of myth. So, yeah, she’s the best of the best. And it doesn’t matter at all.

Arms in an x, she withstands a kick. The heel of his boot cracks against her gizmo and the screen buckles with a hiss of smoke and sparks and it isn’t supposed to do that. The gizmos are supposed to be unbreakable. It’s their whole thing. But this one’s smashed. It crackles, sounding a death knell. Fuck. Very, extremely, fuck. 

With a deft snatch, she grabs his leg and uses it to swing him away from her, sending him sprawling over the bloody dinner table. Spilt blood and wine saturate the fabric of his body armor in starbursts. 

It buys her time. Enough time to glance down at her gizmo and watch it wig out in a riot of pixels before it goes blank.

To reiterate: fuck. Very, extremely, fuck. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he says, but his voice is all wrong. Wobbling and wrought when it had been so steadfast only a few moments ago. 

His hands are shaking. Hard. Scratch that. His whole body is shaking. Violently. Jittering. It’s like he’s seizing. Except he’s moving with purpose. Seizing with intent. He manages to get onto his knees, kneeling in the mess of his madness. Discordant fingers fumble in his pockets. 

MJ’s already lunging when a tiny aerosol canister emerges from his belt, brought lovingly into the light. The bottle shakes with a rattle as his gloved hand moves in religious fervor. He tips the front of his mask forward, wedging the canister’s nozzle into the crack. 

In a single bound, MJ vaults the table and tackles him around the waist. Together, they slam back into the table, but the wood holds. The canister doesn’t—not when they both make a grab for it, squeezing too hard in tandem. It explodes.

Shrapnel thunks. Smoke envelops. Aerosolized glass. Chemical burn. It blisters her throat, chokes her, kills her, slow as cruelty can be. 

She scuttles back, away from him, clawing at her throat, hacking and coughing and wheezing. Her vision blurs as her own breath strangles. She falls back, arching in a bridge, digging her heels into the wood until it fractures, splintering through her soft-covered feet. Pain erupts so fast it blackens. Spidey-sense electrocutes. Everything is a danger. Everything's a threat. She’s surrounded on all sides. Attacked from within. Drowning in her own mind. 

Somewhere beyond the breakers, she hears, “You selfish bitch!” 

And then he’s on top of her. Through watery eyes, she struggles against him. Weakly catching his fists. Deflecting them. Buying herself a few seconds, a few battered breaths. It’s useless. He’s over her, pressing her down, down, down, beating her, all the while.

Caught between the jaws of a mad dog, she can't break free. His strength overwhelms. Hers evaporates. She stops trying altogether. She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. The wood snaps beneath her, jabbing jagged into her skin. There is no mercy. Above or below, it's all the same. She knows that now. 

Blood spurts. Bone fractures. Muscle severs. The meat of her made tender. Denatured. How to feel pain without end? How to endure brutality of such bloody purpose? 

Consciousness rocks and reels. Snapping wet and slippery inside her as a fish on a line. Unbreathing, but still undying. Death would be a blessing. Death would be a reward. Death, a mercy. 

The marbled eyes of maggiosos watch in rapture. Puppet bodies thump and jolt as the beating cracks through her into the floor, shaking the very foundations of the building. Yawn-necked smiles leer, blurring redder and fleshier as her own head lulls, unsteadied by constant, unending brutality. 

Anointed by beating, savaging fists, MJ reverts to her basest form. Weak woman. Useless girl. Professional victim without anyone to save her. 

The gizmo on her wrist sparks and bleats helplessly, lifeline severed. Death comes for her and only the ghosts of the damned stand witness.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, [CLEVER BIT PENDING / PLEASE HOLD]

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Inventory of known canon events for MARIJANE as follows:

Canon Events of SW-7782: 

• Inciting: 
• AF-15: Introducing Spider-Man
• USM-160: The Death of Spider-Man > UCSM-1: All-New Spider-Man
• Core:
• SW-8: Symbiosis 
• ASM-259B: It’s Not Me, It’s You
• SSM-200: Best of Enemies 
• Secondary:
• UNCONFIRMED: ASM-143: Learning to Love Again
• SR-2002: Upside Down Tongue Tango

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: MARIJANE defies classification under any of the pre-ordained models of Spiders. She meets none of the current thresholds for admittance. Even if events prior to AF-15 are taken into consideration, she still fails the thresholds as they are all secondary events and not precursor to further events. Spiders with SM-LSB-1L in their catalogue are no more likely to incur any other event than those with SM-LSB-1W or those without either. 

Even if her inventory were updated to include a new event in the vein of SM-NWH-1, ASM-545, etc, it would still fail to push her over the threshold. Easy conclusion is that she should never have been granted admittance; however, since she was admitted prior to adoption of Canon Event Doctrine, this conclusion is moot. 

Given the continued backwash radiation from 7782, it’s impossible to tell if the canon is broken in any capacity. No fracturing events have been reported as of yet, but no new Spider has emerged to fill MARIJANE’s departure. 7782 could be entering latency period for emergence of a Secondary, but none of the expected markers are present. 

Review of PETER’s inventory doesn’t reveal any new insights for 7782, only the redundancies and complications already known. Impossible to know if current difficulties from PETER’s actions or MARIJANE’s or some combination of the two, further obscured by MARIJANE’s early admittance to Society and entanglements therein. Unless 7822 collapses, unlikely this will ever be known.

Notes:

chapter title from "Zeal & Ardor" by Zeal & Ardor

two more chapters in part ii, an interlude, and then part iii where we burn with gas.

next chapter: stay with me folks

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 28: buckled on the floor when night comes along

Summary:

survival in the mouth of madness

Notes:

things are weird. all will be explained - mj's just going through The Horrors right now

Int. Costa’s Warehouse No. 9 - night

EMPTY. An EMPTINESS WITH TEETH. Somewhere, a generator kicks. A floodlight GURGLES to life. Dust swirls in the beam. Beautiful, incandescent like glitter. A FIGURE takes center stage within the deluge. The ACTRESS. She is VERY ALONE. 

MARIJANE: What’s going on? 

But MARIJANE doesn’t speak. The question is IN HER MIND. Unasked, it isn’t answered, it only echoes. At the edges, SOMETHING SKITTERS. 

MARIJANE: Hello? 

Made of BRUISES AND BREAKS, she shows more blood than skin. Around her: SMOKE IN THE SHAPES OF SLAIN MEN. They dance in the blackness beyond the light. They whisper secrets that she knows, but ignores. Throats cut and skulls shot, they are dead but they do not die. Nothing dies HERE where all things are dead and all things are alive. 

It isn’t safe for HERE, but it’s safe for NOW. It is liminal. A liminal space and place. She is HERE but she is not NOW. It will come LATER as it has come BEFORE as it ALWAYS HAS as it ALWAYS WILL.

THE VOICE OF LOST LOVE: Run!

She DOESN’T. There is the taste of something sweet on her tongue. Oppressive. It strangles as swift as the GLASS IN HER LUNGS. Indecision. A foot in the past; a foot in the future. A want for neither. 

THE VOICE OF LOST LOVE: Run! You have to run! You have to!

She CAN’T. She has been running HER WHOLE LIFE. She’s so tired. Of running. Of everything else, too. She touches her throat and finds only smooth skin. There is NO WOUND. She is dying but not dead. She is living but not alive. 

THE VOICE OF LOST LOVE: MariJane! 

The light above her HANGS LOW AND THEN EXITS STAGE LEFT. Without the light, there is only the EMPTY. An EMPTY WITH EYES. INFINITE. Blinking, blinking lights. Eyes. Fireflies. None blink at the same time, but ALL BLINK AT ONCE. They watch. They WAIT. They WANT. They WANT AS SHE DOES. 

SOMETHING SKITTERS. She falls. She will not BE THE SAME when she returns. She is AFRAID. She is not ALONE. The SMOKE IN THE SHAPES OF SLAIN MEN are with her. When the horizon yawns, they yawn with it, dispelled and then REMADE. A lesson for her, but not yet learned. 

The WOUND THROUGH THE HEART OF THE UNIVERSE calls. 

It happens now because it has before. IT ALWAYS WILL.

All bend to the center. 

***

MJ becomes MJ again on the cold stone of the Sanctum Santorum. Rain peppers her face as she stirs into consciousness. It seeps into the seam of her mouth, dripping down into her throat, scalding as it chokes. Acid rain. Do not drink. 

She coughs. She groans. She wakes. 

Bits of concussion conversation eb and flow through her mind, memory and realization sinking in all at once. 

A man in a mask. A tableau of gore. A sandstorm in her lungs. An emptiness that ached. A hatred that killed.

She was dead. Or, very nearly. Strange saved her. Stranges. Two. Left and right. Stranger and stranger. This one says that one’s lying. That one says this one’s lying too. 

When she pukes on hallowed ground, it’s with everything she has. Sick dog retching. Bile and blood and misery, misery, misery. 

The rain sizzles and then smokes. It eats where it touches, leaving raw sucker wounds through the scraps of her suit.

MJ drags herself under the overhang of the Santorum, crouches on the stoop. She digs her fingers deep into her temples. She searches for understanding in her memories, but finds none. 

She remembers the alleyway. The warehouse. The bodies. The fight. All of it, but in pieces. Enough to string the story together, but not enough to understand how it led her here.

Alive, but barely. It’s not her first time in such a state, but it’s the worst time. Getting home is an agony. Her web shooters are broken. Her gizmo hangs like spilled guts from her wrist. It’s a very long walk, but it passes like a nightmare.

The empty city blocks are made of fog. Disorientingly similar, no matter the street. Her reflections are smears in grayscale. Wild eyes. Ragged features. A woman in trouble. 

Sunlight bleaches through the rain. Nothing but her moves in the daytime. 

She stops once. Hunkers in the mouth of an abandoned subway entrance. Jabs her thumbs into her eyes until the migraine swallows her entire head. She passes out. It’s better when she comes to, but not healed. None of her is healed. Moving only makes it worse. 

By the time she crosses into Brooklyn, the rain is tinted with moonlight. The streets remain empty. Not even a sewer rat skitters. 

Is the city dead? Is she? Is this all there is? Pain and silent streets?

Eventually, she finds her way home. A beacon in her gut leads the way. It quiets when she stands, staring up at the brownstone. 

There isn’t a light on. No one waits for her at the door. If she is dead, MJ can only be in hell.

Every entrance is bolted shut with several deadbolts, accessible only by physical key. Which was snapped in half during the fight. And then driven half an inch into the meat of her hip. It’s since been removed by Strange circumstance—left, not right. Underwater memories drip like congestion down her throat—but the key’s teeth are warped from scraping against bone. Unusable. 

Bad luck upon bad luck upon bad luck. 

The puncture wound from the key, roughly healed, swelters more than her other aches and injuries as she scrambles around the edifice of her home. It mocks her with twisting, unbearable panging pain. 

None of the windows budge. The glass barely shakes when she brings her fist down again and again.

It’s harder to move now. Her fingers stick, but the strength to hold herself up wanes. 

Flattened beside the big bay window of her bedroom, she scuffs her feet, searching for better vantage. Toes skitter and slide, finding nothing. There’s a moment of fear, a drop in her stomach that sucks all the sanity out of her, just before her fingers disjoint with a squelching twinge. 

MJ hits the ground with a dull thump and snap. A bone or two cracks, a sudden pop of fresh pain. Slow scabs shake loose. Sluggish blood warms the concrete beneath her. 

Overhead, the night sky blots blacker at the edges. Consciousness winks, but doesn’t fade entire. Not even when she squeezes her eyes shut and hopes for it, listens for it. Listens to the struggling thrum of her heartbeat. The frazzled hiss of thrashed nerves. The desolate whistle of wind down the street. The pop of bullets far off and the ensuing panicked wailing, cut short with finality. There and then gone without ceremony. So fast, she can barely comprehend that she isn’t the only soul in the city.

A door opens—her door, she’d know the uneasy creak of the faulty hinge anywhere—and then a bang as it slams shut again. Footsteps. Frenzied and uneven. Drawing nearer until they falter to the schlump of a body falling to its knees beside her. 

“Fuck,” Harry says. The proximity of his hands tingles, but he doesn’t touch her. The state of her is agony. “What did you do?”

MJ doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even open her eyes. But she stirs enough to raise her hand. She touches his face with bloody fingers. She molds her palm to the shape of his face, rests her thumb against the sharp slope of his nose. All of it familiar in touch as in vision. 

“What did you do, Em?”

Em. Peter called her that, but it was Harry who put it into use. MJ and MariJane were fine, but resistant to sincerity. Or was it sentimentality? She can’t remember now why he’d felt the need to throw a third nickname into contention. Or what he said was the reason, at least. 

His mother’s name was Emily. It’s hard to imagine any reason beyond that. 

“Can you talk?” he asks. She doesn’t know, hasn’t tried, but she nods, weakly. The motion pinches in her spinal cord and pain lances through her body. Sudden and fierce and then gone as quickly as it came. 

Harry gathers her up and she lets him. She’s too weak. Too dazed. Too slow to heal. 

So, Harry scoops her up like a pile of laundry and carries her inside. All the way up the steps. Up into her bedroom and then the master bath where he sits her, gingerly, on the plush carpet beside the tub. 

Her suit has to be cut off in strips and tugged free from crystalized scabs. She’s of little help, crouched against the side of the tub, her head hung back on the lip, and wincing with each rip.  

“They said you were dead,” Harry says, whispering like he’s sharing a secret. “They said some monster wiped out the maggia and Spider-Woman in one night. They said he slit the dons’ throats. Beat Spider-Woman to death.”

MJ hums low in her throat. She doesn’t want Harry to tell her these things. Doesn’t want him to know these things. There’s condemnation in every word. 

Peter would have never let this happen. 

“It’s carnage out there. What’s left of the maggia is scrambling, barely surviving. The Symkarians have swept in to fill the vacuum, backed by the Syndicate. They're mowing down anyone who gets in their way.”

Harry is gentle as he works. Smooth, untested fingers are pleasant against her flushed skin. It only hurts when he stops touching her. He debrides and sterilizes and cleans her wounds with a delicate sensibility. He’s a far better nurse for her than she ever was for Peter. 

“This new guy—he’s gone underground. Nobody’s seen him, but there’s bounties on his head. Big ones. And there’s rumors. People think he’s building an army to take back the city.”

Iodine and stitches make a canvas of her skin, showing her wounds in swaths of violet and flashes of black thread. The bleeding stopped soon after he began working, but she still feels the sickly wet of split skin all over. Her wounds should be sealing shut by now, disappearing into faint pink lines. 

If anything, they hurt worse. Is she losing her abilities? 

Her breath stutters as dread snares her heart. If she’s losing her powers, she’ll lose everything. Harry. Her place in the Society—and fuck, the Society. Her gizmo's broken. Shouldn’t an alert have been sent? Shouldn’t someone have come for her? Is it all gone? Everything? Just like that?

"The Bugle ’s calling him the Masked Maggia Murderer,” Harry continues, “but that won’t stick. Betty doesn’t have Jonah’s gift for wordplay.”

Leaning up behind her, Harry turns on the tap. Rushing water stirs the murk of her mind, dredging up memories like pieces of junk dragged from the riverbed. 

The soul of the city is blighted. I will do what I must to exorcize the rot.

There’s a lunatic loose in her city, strong enough to kill her at her best. If he found her now, it would be all over. She needs to contact the Supers. Somehow. They may have sworn off Nu York as a waste of time, but surely open firefights and a madman with an appetite for total upheaval is enough to change their minds. 

Miguel won’t help; even if he hasn’t completely abandoned her. How long has it even been? A week? Two? More than that? Whatever it is, it’s been long enough. And nobody came to save her. 

Rigor stiff, she doesn’t make it easy for Harry to maneuver her into the bath. He touches her with gentleness, but not fear. 

When he steps from the room, off to go find her some clothes, she slips beneath the water. It’s peaceful, even if the water is barely lukewarm. She watches the rippling light through the bath until they tub still over her. Her chest begins to ache, straining without breath, but it’s a dull ache. Nothing compared to the severed muscle and cracked bones pulsing all over. 

There’s no panic. There’s nothing. 

Drowning comes easy. She's done it before.

Hands grab too tight around her shoulders, hoist her out of the water and the tub proper without grace or mercy. She slumps against him as he shakes her. Her head lulls bent-necked against his shoulder. Drenched hair hangs in over her eyes, seeps down into her mouth before Harry sweeps it away. It slaps against her back. Jolts her until she spews soap and bathwater. 

“Bet you’re happy,” she says through the deluge. The words are slow, slurred around the edges by a lazy tongue. “Finally someone in this city who’s tough on crime.”

“What happened, Em? Why are you still hurt? Is he as dangerous as they say?”

“I don’t know,” she says and, fuck, tears well in her eyes. Frustration piques, twists hard and fast in her throat. “I don’t know. He killed all those people before I even got there. They were all dead. If I hadn’t… If I was here…” 

The thoughts trail and burst. She can’t tell Harry why she was too late. Or why she hadn’t even known there was a threat. Lazy. She was lazy. Content with her role in the Society, lapsing in the role that needed her most. 

Her tears come faster. Boiling and furious and choking, they collect in her throat and turn her breaths muggy and thick. Harry wraps his arms tight around her. 

“You're okay. You’re here. You're okay,” Harry murmurs, damp against the drenched coils of her hair.

It's been so long since she's unzipped all the way, her being halved and hemorrhaging grief and guilt and genuine fucking fear for the future. Completely helpless. Totally hopeless. All of it her fault. 

Not since the world died. Not since Peter and Mayday. But even that was three-fourths undone. Not all the way. Not since her mother died. 

And Harry holds her through all of it. Rocks her through the worst of it. Soothes her through the rest. 

Timid tongues of dawn lick the bedroom floor, creeping to rest just outside the bathroom door. Harry flinches up, but MJ moves faster in a hand over foot lurch to stand. Shivering, still half wet, she snaps the curtains closed and then falls to the bed. The perpetual twilight is cold and lonely, even with Harry only a foot away. 

Towel in hand, Harry emerges from the bathroom. Starting at her feet, moving up her legs, he dries her off in silence. He's diligent and thorough. 

Only when he swipes the towel between her legs with clinical pressure does she stir. There’s an ancient heat there, a flash of want for familiar touch, but he doesn't linger and she doesn't chase. 

When he's done, he casts the towel to the floor and strips to his briefs. She doesn't watch. The ceiling holds more interest than Harry's pale, faded-freckle body in her malaise. 

The bed dips beneath his weight as he crawls over her to lay on the other side of the bed. The sheets shift beneath and then around her, staving off the cold of the room. 

With the last of her strength, MJ rolls onto her side to face Harry, shuffling closer to lay against him.

From the last dregs of night into the day, she curls around Harry, tight as she once curled around Gayle, when their father beat their mother loud enough to shake the walls. Harry kisses her forehead. Draws little curlicues into her back, down over her shoulders. At some point, between him falling asleep and her jerking awake from near-sleep, she mumbles, "Don’t leave. No matter what happens." 

He doesn't respond, mouth cracked open with gentle, sighing snores. She almost shakes him awake. Almost panics, almost touches him, almost resolves to keep him at her side with the persuasion she knows best.

But she doesn't. Spider-Woman or no, he needs her. Just as much as she needs him. 

Shifting ever so slightly, she cranes up to press a kiss to each of his closed eyes and then settles firmly against his chest. His heartbeat is slow and steady and she listens to it for a long, long time.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, What the Sh*ck Did You Just Sh*cking Say About Me, You Little Glitch?

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Eyewitness statements re False Image Phenomenon “FIP” sightings (File No. FIP-1):

Statement Peter Benjamin Parker (90214C - Hardboiled): There’s a bar I frequent. Got no name, but it’s a solid joint. The patrons are less seedy than the name suggests and the booze is top rate. 

Last night, one hell of a dame blows in with the breeze, sets herself up in the corner. Looked like heaven, but she was no angel. Angels don’t shoot gin. 

Danger all over her, all in my head, but I couldn’t help myself. What can I say? I got a weakness for beautiful tragedies. And she looked like an old sweetheart of mine. Hair like a bloodspill and eyes like an autumn sunset. Yessiree, she looked just like my old lady Mary Jane. I went over to her, introduced myself, real gentlemanly, but she just said she already knew my kind. And then she vanished. 

Just flickered right out like a match. Damn thing was everyone acted like I was the one doing magic tricks. They threw me out, said they never saw a dame, let alone a dame you couldn't forget. I don’t know. Maybe Fels put something extra in my drink. Wouldn't be the first time.

Statement PETE “P-BOY” PARKER (420Q - Resident Tool): So, wrap your sexy little noggin around this, ‘kay? I’m out on the streets, right? Putting out the vibe, on the prowl. My buddy H-Bomb’s throwing this real rager in Tribeca and I need a honey on my arm since M-Jay told me to sit on it and spin. But, like, how was I supposed to know it was her sister, right? 

Anyway, so I’m walking, whistling, getting some looks from the ladies and then I see M-Jay. Or I think I see, M-Jay. Redheads, they all got that way about, ‘em. The hot ones do at least. 

So, I go over, ready to eat shit, say my prayers, whatever, just so long as she’ll take me back. I love this girl, right? Like she’s the one whom my soul loves. I’m talking biblical, okay? Like I’ve got a little tingle just thinking about her. Felt it when I looked at her too, even though it wasn’t, you know. 

So, I go over, all contrite, all baby please, and then I realize, it ain’t M-Jay! M-Jay’s got this sexy scar on her face from the time she got in a bar fight—I know, so hot. But yeah, no scar. And brown eyes. I’m like, oh hey, sorry, thought you were someone I knew but maybe I could get to know you? And she just looks at me and tells me to scram. Then poof! Gone! Just zap! Gone! So then I’m like whoa, did I boof that vodka too fast or not fast enough, you know? 

Statement Peter Parker (120703 - Movie Magic): Hey. I'm good, I'm good. Thanks for asking. How are you? Just okay? Hey, that’s great, you know? Better than bad. Yeah so you gave me this thing and told me to call if anything weird happened, right? Well. Lemme tell you. Something weird happened. 

I'm doing my usual webbed wonder thing, right? And I roost up on this ledge to snack on a quick dog and— hot dog! Oh my god, no, not a real dog! That’s just sick. So I’ve got my hot dog, chowing down, and then there’s just this lady, pops up right beside me. 

I freak out because of course I do. Hot dog swan dives, right? Boom. Off the building. Devastating. The whole thing makes me super sensitive. I'm tingling like crazy. And she just kinda leans towards me and says, hey didn’t we do a movie together? And then she’s gone. Just like that. Crazy, right? I checked on my end—nothing. 

But then I remember that handbook—awful by the way, just bad. So boring—and I see this False Image Phenomenon so I thought maybe that was it. You think—? Yeah, okay, so she looked like, uh. Oh! Oh my god, okay! Do you know Twin Peaks? No. No, I get it. I couldn’t get into it either. Gwen loved it though so I… Yeah. Nevermind then. But this lady had red hair. Bangs but like the cute, sweepy kind. Yeah. I dunno. I’ve never done any movies. Unless the home movie I made Aunt May for her birthday ten years ago counts. Oh yeah. She plays it every year. Mortifying. But that was a one man show. 

Anyway, just thought I should call it in. See what the experts think. Yeah, yeah, no problem. Good talking to you too.

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Though FIP sightings—visual and sometimes auditory experience wherein a Spider perceives another person or Spider via “Spider-Sense” but without a physical stimulus—are rare, it’s even rarer that two describe the same FIP. Yet in the past week, there've been three all giving the same descriptors, all from Peter Parkers. A woman. Red hair. Brown eyes. One “hell of a dame.” A Mary Jane by any other name. 

FIPs are harmless. Afterimages. Side effects of interdimensional travel. There’s no real evidence that they exist beyond eyewitness reports. They can’t be picked up by any of LYLA’s sensors nor do they appear on film/recording. They’re understood to be lost transmissions or errant signals, bleeding through dimensions. They’re only reported by Sense-positive Spiders, which is suspected to be due to their heightened senses of perception. 

FIPs are static and often inanimate. They can’t interact with the environment. They can’t carry on conversations. Whatever these Spiders saw, it wasn’t an FIP. 

No solid conclusions as to the source or nature of the woman sighted. LYLA to continue to monitor and flag any similar reports in urgency for further review.

Notes:

chapter title from "Ptolemaea" by Ethel Cain

the sleeper must awaken, but doesn't want to and all that jazz, ya know?

if youre in need of some lighter faire, please allow me to shamelessly plug my goofy rom-com-y AU fic Here for the Weekend, Gone Tonight (with update to come within the next few days!!) or even the miguel pov companion fic in your dreams, in your song, which is only kinda crazy that the miguel side of things is FAR less intense than mj's current adventures lol

next chapter: strange and stranger (and flipside :D)

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 29: crawl into our wounds

Summary:

a homecoming, of sorts

Notes:

cw: generalized descriptions of warfare/violence in the latter half of the chapter

Harry leaves the next morning, ushered out by his heavily armored security team. MJ doesn't like it, but she's in no shape to protest.

With a chaste communion of lips, he promises to return. Then, he's gone from her bed and her home. The room yawns in his absence. 

MJ makes her way downstairs on skittish legs. Her head pounds. Acid sloshes up from her stomach, sapping the moisture from her mouth. She should lay down. Rest up. Get better. If she’s even capable of getting better anymore.

The wounds of days past are still raw, unhealing. It’s a gentle agony to move through the empty halls, stumbling down two flights of stairs to the ground floor, but she makes it. 

With a pull of the trick latch, the hallway bookshelf collapses into Peter’s secret study. The mechanism catches, straining with a chug of smoke, and doesn’t open fully. A jagged passage looms. MJ squeezes herself through, but gets a fresh set of bruises and scrapes for the trouble. 

Inside is darker than a closed casket. The light inside is on a backup generator, meant to kick on automatically. It never does, but that’s fine. She isn't here to sightsee. Locked away from exposure, the study still smells like Peter. Warm and spiced, it’s the only place she feels safe. 

Through the darkness, MJ feels her way to the desk, to Peter’s chair and then falls heavily into it. The chair has never been comfortable, cushion worn infirm from years of use, long before they moved to Brooklyn.

She isn’t looking for anything. This, she tells herself later, when she’s set back to rights. She wasn’t looking for anything. 

But she finds it.

Another trick latch on the underside of a desk drawer. She only notices as she goes digging for a flashlight to read Peter’s cramped scrawl of notes and musings he left behind. If she’s looking for anything, she’s looking for guidance—she doesn’t know how to take back her body, let alone the city. 

If she’s looking for anything, she’s looking for Peter. 

She finds Mayday. Pictures of Mayday. A glossy stack of maybe twenty or so photos. Mayday, no older than two, hanging upside down from the ceiling. Mayday, standing guilty, a hand-shaped dent in the refrigerator. Mayday, bawling with a Barbie stuck to the bottom of her foot. Mayday in a Baby Björn, strapped to Peter’s chest, Nu York sprawling in the background. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. 

And a test result from Mercy Medical, dated for Mayday’s birth—lines and lines of findings all ending in one conclusion: Mayday Parker. Enhanced.

Proof. Hard, definite proof. 

Mayday was like Peter. And Peter knew. And Peter hid it from her. MJ knew he did. Has known for some time, but she talked herself into a gentler understanding, believed that he only found out in the month or so before he died. That he was going to tell her. That he just never got the chance. 

But that isn’t true. Peter knew for years. Forever. For every precious, beautiful moment that Mayday was on this Earth. 

MJ never knew the whole of her daughter. Because Peter hid it from her. 

And MJ has absolutely no idea why. The photos and results spill from her shaking fingers. Cascading, they flutter all over, tucking away under the scant furniture or falling unabashedly in the center of the room.  

On unsteady legs, MJ stands. She spins. She takes it all in. The shadowed masks that once held the warmth and secrets and life of her husband refuse to make eye contact. They refuse to answer when she screams, wails, breaks their glass shells, tears their fabric with her bruised fingers, knots their guts round and round her knuckles. Shoved between her teeth, spandex saps all the moisture from her mouth like dental gauze. Saturated, she spits wet globs to the floor, chews up more, gagging and retching instead of swallowing. Teeth and nails and shards of glass saw through the suits until there's only scraps.

When her legs give out, she sprawls in the pile of fabric and jagged glass. One piece carves a long strip along the inside of her arm. It bleeds freely. She stares at it, watches it well inky in the delta of her elbow before weeping off onto the floor.

And then the whump whump whump of a portal sounds overhead. Subtle, through the concrete, the hidden heartbeat of the universe. Embarrassment outweighs her misery. She crawls from the disaster, wedging out through the broken door. A trail of blood remembers her journey. 

Just as she stands fully in the hallway proper, a voice from above trills, “Hello, Emmy Jay?” 

Jesus Christ. Of all the Spiders that could come to call, Flipside? Fucking Flipside? MJ wears a groove into the center of her forehead, rubbing incessantly with the heel of her hand. Blood pools fever hot in the crook of her arm. Right. She’s losing a lot of blood. Not great. 

Bumbling footsteps sound overhead, drawing closer. “Whoa, these are nice digs. Why’re you always scumming around HQ when you got a place like this?” 

In a single, bounding leap, Flipside clears the steps. Everything on the ground floor that isn’t bolted down jumps in time with his landing. Whistling, he turns the corner to find her, hunched up against the wall. The gash in her arm bleeds freely. 

“¡Puaj!” Flipside says, turning his head daintily away with a sniff. “Can you put that away?” 

The laugh burbles out of her forceful and manic bright. It doesn’t stop. Lightheaded, she shrieks with laughter.

Flipside laughs with her but, through grit teeth he doesn't have, he says, “What the actual fuck.”

***

With Flipside’s help (after she convinces him she's not crazy nor possessed), MJ returns to HQ. An impromptu tourniquet staunches the torrent of blood from her arm, but she’ll need stitches and a transfusion. At the least.

For now, she clings to Flipside’s neck, tight enough to choke him out if he were capable of being choked. The world is smudged even after they’re free of the portal. Everything looks like it bears someone else’s fingerprints. It’s all just a little off. A lingering effect of blood loss made worse by the shrieking siren and alarms flaring red all around her. 

“The shock’s going on here?” MJ asks and Flipside shrugs. Slung spider-monkey around his shoulders as she is, the movement bucks her up and down. Her head spins.

A cluster of Spiders scurries past, shouting at each other and themselves. They don’t even look sideways at Flipside and MJ, totally consumed by whatever emergency is ongoing. Then, all at once, they double back, staring slack jawed at Flipside. 

Flipside gives a little wave. The Spiders shriek, scattering. Datapads waving in panicked hands, they flee. Some of them slam into each other. Others edge out their fellows, throwing elbows to clear the hall faster. The last Spider out screams,  “Sector 7! He’s in Sector 7!” 

When they’re all gone, Flipside whirs. He scratches at his head and deadpans, “Well, that happened.” 

A sneaking suspicion swells into full blown skepticism. “Hey Flippy?”

Flipside hums. 

“How’d you talk Miguel into giving you a gizmo?”

“Huh? What gizmo?”

Oh. Fuck. MJ slides off his shoulders. Legs weak, she can barely support herself so she leans heavily against the wall. The gash on her arm has split again, darkening the sleeve of her sweater. Flipside turns to her, cocking his head. 

“You’re leaking again.”

MJ ignores him. She bends, wheezing, to scoop up a discarded datapad. It lights up at her touch. Flipside’s image fills the screen. In it, he makes a heart with his fingers, talons clinked together at the tip. The text beneath the photo pulsates red. EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. DO NOT APPROACH. CALL FOR BACKUP IMMEDIATELY. 

“Gimme that.” Flipside snatches the datapad. His talons clink against the surface as he pokes at it. “Aw, look how young I am here! This was like six patches ago.”

Before MJ can point out that he looks exactly the same, a shout echoes and metal splits with a grating whine. At the end of the hall, Miguel slingshots into view, talons serving to help him corner the turn. 

Flipside squees. He throws his arms open wide, hug expectant. Miguel comes at him on all fours, tearing down the hall in a blur of neon afterimages. Flipside doesn’t stand a chance. MJ winces.

With an impact only a little softer than a sonic boom, Miguel tackles the android to the floor. The tile craters around them. Cracks fracture up the walls, nearly reaching the ceiling. The jerky motions of violence blur smooth in MJ's fast-fading vision. She blinks rapid-fire to stay conscious and misses the specifics. 

One blink. Miguel pummels Flipside. The android’s exoskeleton splits as he shrieks about implementing a safe word. The next blink. Flipside has Miguel pinned in a pool of motor oil blood. Another blink. Both on their knees now, Miguel has his arms around Flipside's, muscles bulging and body straining. He wrenches. Another blink. Flipside’s head squelches free, circuit board spine dangling. 

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Flipside shrieks. “I am not into the rough stuff.” 

Flipside's headless body slaps at Miguel, but he strikes it through the chest, clawed hand protruding from the other side in a spurt of sparks and gloppy, synthetic flesh. The body jolts and then falls slack. 

Lyla pops up in front of Miguel’s fist, giving a fist bump before flashing in front of Flipside’s disembodied head. She sticks out her tongue, blowing a raspberry. 

“Why are you being so mean?”  Flipside wails. “I was just trying to do something nice for you!”

Miguel gives a solid interpretation of Hamlet, screaming at and shaking Flipside's disembodied head in his hand. The electric spinal cord whips back and forth like the counterweight of a grandfather clock. “Nice!? You crashed the entire tower! You let all the anomalies loose!" 

“Whoops?”

“Whoops? You’re saying whoops!?”

Flipside answers in shrill, whining Spanish. MJ doesn’t understand any of it. Without a clear tether, she dips into the teeming dark. Nothing hurts here. It’s quiet. Muted. There’s a weight to her, dragging down, burrowing into rich earth. 

“MJ!”

She jerks awake with a burble. Sensation is slow to flicker back. When it does, she feels herself slumped flat on the floor. The meat of her is tender. Everything hurts. The world is nonsense until she remembers. Extremely dangerous. Screaming alarms. Blood. Blood everywhere. Blood like torrential rain. Flipside. Miguel. 

Miguel, who stares at her now without color in his face. Miguel, who crunches Flipside’s head with one brutal squeeze then drops the smoking remnant without a care. Miguel, who approaches her carefully like she’ll turn to dust if he moves too fast.

Embarrassment flavors the stew of her emotions. The state of her is unforgivable. Filthy. Misshapen. Pathetic. She wears only a thin sleepshirt and joggers. Both saturated with blood gone cold. She tries to shift into a better position, but her body won’t respond. It resists her will, growing heavier by the second. 

And then she glitches. 

Strung apart. Everywhere. Every MJ—past, present, future, possible—churns through her. Each adaptation is a flick of a channel that atomizes and re-organizes her. MJ at 17, mascara spider-webbing down her face. MJ at 26, bloated pregnant. MJ at 21, lingerie shoot ready. Wedding MJ. Envenomated MJ. Black Widow MJ. Goblin MJ. Peter MJ. Every MJ within her. Every MJ slightly to the left or right of her. 

More than most of them are bloodied. Beaten. Brutalized. Maimed. Damsels in distress, waiting to be saved. They all blitz through her, flay her, butcher her. Her brain is radio static made sharp, eviscerating gray matter. Thoughts and feelings and fears from all the MJs, tornado shrieking through her skull. It’s all made meaningless by too much meaning. 

Her scream is the only thing that’s hers , and it bends and warps from the pain of a thousand consciousnesses smashed clean through hers. 

She has never been more certain of her own death. She has never been more disappointed to survive.

The glitch passes, and she lies burbling on the floor. Blood and snot and tears and bile pool around her, make her tacky. Gooey. Fresh birthed from horrors she’d rather gut herself than experience again.  

The sirens rumble like thunder, more feeling than sound. Red light flashes and flashes. She tries to move, but only her fingers flutter. All she knows is pain. She can’t remember a time when she wasn’t this gushing sack of agony. 

There’s shouting somewhere. Far away. An argument around her, about her. She doesn’t care doesn’t care doesn’t care. 

And in that not caring, that total lack of survival instinct, something else takes control. 

A blink of darkness, vast and ancient and moldering, and then MJ is upright. Not standing. Upright. Floating, upright. Her feet lay on top of each other, strung in a loose releve about four inches from the ground. Hands at ten and four, her fingers invert and criss cross. Power thrums through her, but isn't hers. 

A barrier of gold sparks flares around her. On the other side, Miguel stalks back and forth like a tiger without a tail to signal his unease. Lyla, too, investigates the magical barrier. She takes pictures and draws diagrams with many, moving hands.

“Miguel O'Hara. We've come to bargain.” 

MJ’s mouth makes the words, but the voice isn't hers. It's far deeper and two-toned. Strange. Both of them. 

“You've come to the wrong place, Stephen.” Miguel stalks the perimeter of the barrier, squinting through it. Lyla flits all around, taking pictures and drawing diagrams. 

“We wouldn't be so quick to refuse,” Strange says through MJ. “We’ve only taken such drastic measures because you've ignored all our other correspondence.” 

“Let her go, then we'll talk.” 

“It would be a relief to let her go. Really, it would. She is exhausting to inhabit.” Said with a blubber of harrowed exhaustion. 

Preaching to the deacon, MJ thinks. The pressure around her throat cinches tighter. 

Hush, a voice inside that isn’t hers commands, and she does. The experience of being meat-puppeted is not for the weak of heart. The whole of her being resists, but she’s not strong enough to overcome. Strange is in her like a fever, rewiring her body with othered impulse. 

“Sadly,” Strange says with her mouth, “our will is the only thing keeping her alive at the moment.” 

Miguel looks to Lyla, who shakes her head and covers her eyes with her hand, unable to speak the bad news. Miguel gets it clear enough. 

“Explain.” 

“Not until you swear to lend aide.”

Wait! MJ thinks with enough will to say. It croaks out, weak compared to the booming tenor of Strange.

MJ's head snaps back, immediately silenced. Her body bends into a steep bridge. It's humiliating. The blood from her wounded arm blinks to the floor in a steady drip. How much longer until she bleeds out completely?

“Pardon the interruption,” Strange says with her voice. “The vessel is unwilling. One moment, please.”

What follows is her head dunked underwater, but gently, with the care she once bathed Mayday with. A drowning cool envelops. She can still hear, but the words are garbled. Miguel’s voice is higher than Strange’s, more prone to anger in their conversation. She latches onto it, straining to hear him, but the shift in concentration slips her feet out from underneath her. 

Down she goes, down into the drowning dark. 

***

Rising, MJ awakens to familiar sights. An empty room in MedBay. Medically calming white light. Lyla, tapping at the screen display of her vitals, with an air of anxiety. 

“Hey sunshine,” Lyla says. 

MJ tries to respond, but can’t. Not properly. What emits from her mouth is little more than an unshaped rasp. 

“Don’t talk.” Not Lyla. Miguel. He comes into frame from the foot of her bed. He hovers at the side, one hand reaching down and then flexing away. MJ doesn’t remember much, but she remembers to glare at him.

“I didn’t mean don’t talk like don’t talk, but like don’t talk, recuperate. You’ve been ineffectively circling a state of hemostasis—”

“Miguel, you’re doing your nervous thing,” Lyla says. 

Miguel cycles a breath. “You’re in bad shape. Do you remember?”

She remembers too much. She remembers it all. 

Unsuccessfully, she tries to shuffle upright. It hurts more than it should. She makes it halfway before Miguel resolves to help her. His hand pressed to an interface on the side of the bed raises the back, tilting underneath her until she’s seated, but sloughing down. 

“Do you..?” he asks and she shakes her head and does the dirty work of adjusting the cushions and blankets around to accommodate the new curve of her spine. She gets herself into a final resting position, dizzied from the exertion. 

A silence eats at them. Questions to be asked and answers to be given thicken in MJ’s head. They wriggle through her headache, stabbing out against the thinner parts of her skull. She doesn’t even know where to start. 

It’s a relief when Miguel sits down beside her instead of forcing a conversation. The cot dips from his weight, drawing her into his gravity. His hand finds hers. Their fingers lace and then fall flat. Hers are bloodied and bruised. His are dull and in desperate need of the sun.

There’s a ditch between them. Insurmountable. He dug it, but she threw them down into the mud. 

And yet. 

Yet he holds her hand and she slumps against him, head bowed into the scoop of his shoulder, stubborn enough to hold her own weight; frightened enough to let it go. He snakes an arm around her, holds her. She doesn’t protest. Some part of her wants to. Wants to nip at his hands and chew off the concentrated concern on his mouth. But the rest of her is exhausted. 

It’s too much. An overload of emotion—good and bad—leaving her empty. She doesn’t cry, but she lets herself be held in her exhaustion. A pressure encircling, pressing her back into shape when she spills out. It’s a familiar comfort. She’s been here before. Not in this room, not with him, but here. This moment. This recovery after the wreckage. 

Except there’s no Mayday to make it worthwhile, no Peter to make it sweet. There’s just MJ with her corpse of a body and Miguel, who doesn’t know what to do with his hands. One traverses the river of her spine, letting the current carry it out to the flatlands of her back and then straying back in, anxious for familiar waters. The other squirms in hers. 

“I’m still mad at you,” she says into the blade of his collarbone. Her voice is hangover rough, rasping in all the wrong ways. 

“Good. Means we don’t have to worry about brain damage.”

He forces a smile, ragged at the edges. She sees it when she raises her gaze to his. The hurt from before, what he said, what he didn’t, it’s still there, but far less. Lesser still the longer he holds her together. They know each other too well now. That knowing doesn’t go away—it just gets buried beneath messier things like need and desire. 

The vibration of his suit soothes her. A consistent cat’s purr against the worst of her aches—the bloody spots, freshly scabbed, and the bruises on their way from blue into yellow, but none hurts worse than the memory of her ribs splintering. 

“What do you remember?” he asks. 

All of it except the darkness in between. Too much to put in words. She says instead, “I should be dead.” 

“Without the Stranges, you would be.”

The Stranges. Plural. Strange and stranger. Left and right. She wasn’t crazy. There were two Stranges. Conjoined. Two heads for one Strange. And they saved her but only to save themselves. 

Memories flicker in dying light. A plea to run. Hazy shapes of men and monsters. Blinking lights like starlight in shattered glass. Things kept underwater until Stranges’ influence left her. She feels Stranges’ absence more than she ever felt their presence. 

MJ grinds her teeth against the remembering, leaning deeper into Miguel and squeezing his hand. She manages, “They wanted something.”

But Miguel doesn’t tell her. Not now, at least. He pulses his hand around hers and says, “Later. Wait for the Docs.”

If he expects a fight, he doesn’t get one. MJ doesn’t want the answer. She needs it. She can’t run from it. But she doesn’t want it. Once she has it, everything changes. The flux ends. Reality resumes, rawboned and monstrous.

It’s selfish—it’s the thing that led her to ruin in the first place—but she isn’t ready to give up this moment. Not when it’s so nice to be held. So starved, she’ll take even these scraps. 

“MariJane, I'm sorry. Those things I said to you—” He doesn’t need to explain what things. She knows. She remembers. They’re so small now when she knows what it’s like for her lungs to collapse. 

“I'm sorry,” Miguel says again. “I was sorry when it happened and I'm sorry now.”

It’s overdue. Far overdue. But the pathways to anger have been buried by the mudslide of her almost death and she doesn’t have the energy to dig them out. So, she doesn’t say anything. 

“I just want to help,” Miguel says, pathetically, unable to withstand the silence. 

It strikes her funny, but she doesn’t laugh. She really could’ve used his help two weeks ago when she was getting pulped. When she says as much, he hangs his head. 

“Strange made sure we didn’t know,” he says, which Lyla seconds. 

MJ believes them, but it raises a question she’s too weak to ask. If they did know, would it have made any difference?

She knows it wouldn’t have. She wishes it would’ve. 

A distance worms between them that their proximity doesn’t support. She still leans against him. He still holds her. But it doesn’t feel real. Actors in a play, holding the embrace. Lines forgotten, but no anger rises from the director. No conspiratorial whispers skitter from the wings. The spotlight is dim.

There’s a shiver in her chest that doesn’t spread. It just sinks deep, clenching tight around her heart, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s cool. It numbs. 

“What’s my line?” MJ asks because she doesn’t know.

“It’s your med cycle,” Miguel says. “It’ll pass.”

But she doesn’t think that’s right. It’s a bad line. Even Al Pacino couldn’t deliver that with star power. But, maybe it makes sense in the grand scheme of things. Maybe it’s necessary. It’s lost on her now. 

She tries it out, says, “It’s your med cycle. It’ll pass.”

And it does. The numbness abates. The wrongs of her body return. It doesn’t hurt the way it could. It just sits heavy in her, gumming up any hope she had of staying present. 

Suddenly sleepy, more than even before, she softens, kept in shape only in opposition to Miguel. Her fingers interspersed between his. Her spine impressed into the bowl of his hand. Her chest tucked against his, trading heat back and forth. Her head, risen from his shoulder, but that seems wrong. Correcting this, she notches into the inviting slope of his throat where he smells like burst neon and midnight woodsmoke. 

It’s a good smell. The kind that goes down smooth. The kind that she wants to get under her tongue, but his suit’s lit up to the underside of his chin. It stops her before she can even try. Slushy warmth bristles out through her toes when he says her name—another question she doesn’t know how to answer. 

“I want to help,” he says and she thinks he’s said it before. It sounds familiar, at least. Maybe she just hoped he would say this? It’s hard to know. Her thoughts are syrupy. They stick together, sliding slow from her consciousness. 

He says her name again, a different question beneath it. This one she knows better. This one she can answer.

Just enough, she straightens up, no longer draped around him, but sitting of her own will. When he turns into her, the same question raising in his throat, she catches his mouth with hers. It isn’t entirely intentional. The destination—originally his cheek—thwarted by fate or just dumb luck. 

Whatever it was meant to be becomes this: a press of lips. The softest kiss. His breath hitching, just before it melts. Her hand clinging tight to his and his other hand touching her face, moving back beyond her hairline, holding there. 

Delicate touch. Gentle pressure. Sweet intent. Nothing more, but nothing less. Affection manifest until she remembers. 

Until she pulls away. 

***

The Docs come eventually, once MJ’s cycled back from the med haze into full consciousness. Immediately, the Docs shoo Miguel from her sickbed. She expects him to leave. She braces for the parallel. The regret. The rejection. The resentment. But he stays, supplementing the Docs findings with his own. 

The diagnosis? Stable, but far from cleared for active duty. 

It’s a very good thing, according to the Docs. She’s no longer in active freefall.

The Stranges kept her alive (and shrouded) long enough to be taken into active care, but it was a game of chance once the stasis was broken. Damage extensive, it was made all the worse by the bug bomb the masked douchebag sprayed her with. 

Lyla explains, “It’s real mad science stuff. Radioactive, of course. Trace elements of Symbiotic matter. Some kind of super serum. It would knock back any Spider, but it pretty much unzipped you. We don’t really know why. We had to filter all your fluids. Full body flush.”

The Docs support this, nodding and chittering that the flush was dicey. The tech of 928B is astounding, but so far beyond their expertise. Of course, Lyla scrubbed in, but she couldn’t actually do the procedure. And Miguel oversaw, but his doctorates are all PhDs, not MDs, and the Docs wouldn’t let him touch anything. 

MJ imagines it was all pretty funny, context of her near-death aside. 

When the Docs finish checking her over and take their leave, MJ asks, “Who is he? Which one?”

Lyla and Miguel exchange a look. They both hover at the side of her cot. Lyla, literally hovering. 

“Something new,” Lyla says, shrugging. “The Arachno-Human Poly-Multiverse is infinite.”

“How do I—” An eye to Miguel who furrows his brow. MJ catches herself. She may not have canon events, but Leave No Trace still applies to her. Miguel won’t tell her anything. If he even knows anything to tell her. 

Either way, she’s on her own.

“Tell me about Strange.” 

Another look shared between Lyla and Miguel. Lyla gestures for Miguel to speak. He rubs at his face with both hands, covering it. Through his hands, he says, “The re-alignment of 7782 was botched. There were certain”—both of his hands drop and then one lifts, rubbing over his brow—“discrepancies within the data pulled before the collider shocked it all up, so the fix didn’t take right. Several temporal concavities and displacements—”

“Cracks,” Lyla supplies when MJ starts to get lost in the word soup. 

“Cracks,” Miguel agrees. “Between 7782 and universes around it. Strange got caught in one of the cracks. Him and another of his counterparts. Because of magic. Or something.”

The two Stranges. Two heads on one body. MJ still can’t see the specifics of what they did to her, but she can see the two in her mind’s eye. The one on the left had a monocle. The one on the right—the one she knows—had an eye patch. Both had terrible, scraggly beards. And both of them hitched a ride to HQ on her back. A functional gizmo has countermeasures against body snatching. The second hers busted—a one in a million chance—they swooped in, waiting for the Society to haul her back.

If not for her role in their machinations, the Stranges would have left her for dead. Miguel and Lyla don’t say this, but MJ knows. Dr. Strange has never been a friend to Spider-Woman nor Spider-Man before her. 

“So you sealed up the cracks, right?” she asks Miguel now. “Saved the day?”

Miguel winces. “There was a complication. To recalibrate, we had to suspend the stabilizers. Time passed. We lost three and a half weeks.”

MJ stares. She doesn’t understand. The Docs said she was out a few days, which tracks. She feels like she’s been out for days. But three and a half weeks? No way she was out of it for that long. 

But, Miguel isn’t talking about three and a half weeks here. 

Fear cracks her in two. Her question comes out like a wheeze. “What happened, Miguel?”

This is what happened: war. The putrid corpse of the maggia brought its rot to bear over the city. Entire blocks went dark. The city suffered. Gunfire in the streets. Guttings in broad daylight. Beatings in the dark. The city still suffers. 

The war rages on and the Syndicate revels over it all. 

With Silver Sable at the reins, the others were kept tethered. Always an illusory threat, trouble on the horizon, but never actual trouble. Until now. With Sable out of commission—alive but just barely—the rest of the Syndicate has slipped out from under heel. They run rampant through the city, destroying what the maggia war spares. 

And what else is there to say? Words fail in the face of true atrocity. Miguel shows her the footage. It doesn’t look real. It looks like a movie set. Like one of her movies.  

“Harry?” MJ demands. She’s shock upright now. It hurts. Everything hurts. The punch of anxiety. The churning dread. The disorienting sway of blood in her head. “Is Harry—?”

“He’s okay,” Miguel says and then he takes hold of her shoulders because she’s trying to scramble out of bed even though she doesn’t have half the strength to do so. He holds her back, gripping tight when she thrashes weakly. It takes all his weight to keep her down. 

“You have to calm down,” he says, but she doesn’t. She can’t. Nu York is burning. Is burned. Three and a half weeks. Over a month since it all began. And she’s done nothing but lay in bed and steal a kiss. 

She knew it would be bad. She knew it from the moment she saw those bodies in the warehouse. But even her nightmares had curbed the raw atrocity to come.

Nu York is graveyard. 

And it’s all her fault. 

The Docs have to come back. They tell her she’s having a panic attack and has she ever had one before? Can she please breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth? But slowly. Not quick. Not hyperventilating like she is. 

Eventually, once they’ve calmed her down, all she cares about is one question: “How long am I stuck here?”

Three days. It takes another three days for MJ to reach something close to functional. 

The Docs don’t want to discharge her, but she doesn’t care. She can move again. Can fight again. Her powers haven’t left her, but they’re not the same. Weaker and far from enough in the face of her anger. Her healing factor too is significantly weakened. Still super human, but bottom of the barrel. Too many hours to heal a cut when it used to take 20 minutes—side effect of the evil whippet the masked freak sprayed in her face. 

Three days recovery. A weakened healing factor. Fresh diagnosed PTSD. Explanations that skirt the core of the issue, a city at war. These, the most minor of consequences of her failure.

***

Brooklyn becomes a staging ground for the war fought across the boroughs. MJ’s home is impenetrable—thanks to Harry and small favors—but sneaking in and out without notice is a complication she doesn’t have time to obey.

She packs her things, transports them to HQ, stuffs them under her bed and stacks them up against the walls, until she runs out of room. And then she requisitions a storage room for the rest. 

Back in Nu York, she crashes in Harry’s guest suite uptown, lies and tells him she’s at Strange’s when she returns to HQ. 

He doesn't ask questions. She doesn't give answers. They’re both too busy for that dance.

Harry loses the election, but not his spirit. There’s a crosshairs on his heart every time he steps outside, but he refuses to lay low, rising to every opportunity to take to the pulpit, rallying against the terror of Sable and the Syndicate, and the cowardice of Vanessa Fisk. He converts his real estate holdings across the city into shelters, leverages the full weight of Oscorp against the problem. It isn’t enough, but it’s something more than anyone else is doing. 

And even as his kindness grows, his rhetoric cuts its own throat. So much anger. So much rage. It resonates in the worst ways. 

The dregs of the maggia want him dead. The Symkarians want him dead. The Syndicate wants him dead. Fisk wants him dead. Protecting Harry becomes a full time job.

He never thanks her for it. She never expects he will. 

***

The war to fill the power vacuum plunges the entire city into chaos. From her sickbed, Sable rallies the thugs she has, drawing extra support from orphaned mobsters. Reinforcements sneak in through the checkpoints, decimating some, slipping past others wholly undetected. A coordinated attack in the dead of day by Sable’s diehards and hired hands. The opposition dies in sunshine. 

MJ is there for all of it. It’s carnage and she can do so very little to save anyone from it. 

And just as Sable’s victory brings the wild dog of the maggia to heel, Prodigal rises from the ashes.

***

How the Madman Gets His Name: A stump speech all across the city. Drowning in self important metaphor, its the kind of speech that the long dead J. Jonah Jameson would have lambasted for its own grandeur. His successor doesn’t have the same guff.  The Bugle syndicates it. Runs it on the front page bolds the conclusion: This city will learn in time. I am it's salvation. It’s prodigal son. Only through blood can we be reborn.

***

Prodigal gets his soldiers homegrown, raising unhoused and down on their luck peoples into super soldiers. Dubbing them Peacekeepers, he sends them out en masse against Sable and the rest he deems scum.

Blood spills. Corpses rot. The death toll rises. Staten Island burns. The Brooklyn Badlands become an utter waste. The electrostatic quarantine around the city becomes a human bug zapper, even still it’s a kinder death than those afforded by Sable and her ilk, or as a Peacekeeper. 

All this within a week of the Prodigal son’s return. 

***

The Society goes on without MJ, but worried Spiders approach her in the halls on the rare occasion that she haunts them. How’s she doing? How’s she holding up? How’s she feeling? 

Honest answers get honest reactions and she doesn’t want those, so she lies. She’s doing okay. She’s holding up fine. She’s feeling decent despite, you know, everything.  

Each small fib saps her. She starts taking less traveled paths through HQ, fakes steely-eyed interest in her gizmo when the odd Spider starts on the approach. 

Peter thinks showing her photos of Mayday—here she is asleep. Here she is asleep and drooling. Here she is asleep and drooling and snoring, though, I guess you can’t really tell she’s snoring—is the best way to boost her morale. She thanks him. She smiles. The bile in her throat never reaches her face.

Flipside, rebuilt and brought to heel, brings her odds and ends like a cat preening for its owner. Extra web fluid. A waylaid mask belonging to one very confused Spider. Gears and wires and diodes pinched from Miguel’s lab. 

Pyotr, eager to let bygones be bygones, undertakes a goodwill blitz to keep her spirits up. Whenever he sniffs her out at HQ, he refuses to leave her side, claiming he’s seen what happens to people in her position far too often to leave her be. Even when he’s not glued to her side, he sends her food (with notes chastising her for skipping meals) and messages her constantly with updates on the wackiness and drama of a world she doesn’t have time for anymore. He texts, Dinner 2nite? and Quick lap around the gym? and Pawn Stars marathon all day tomorrow!

Even when she doesn't respond, he persists. 

MJ turns every invite down. She turns everyone down. Her schedule is set. Inflexible. 

Moonrise to moonset, MJ’s on the ground in Nu York. Sunrise to sunset, she's on mission or training until the modules lock her out—big red flashings of DENIED and TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF—or running to outpace the guilty panic. Inner Circle meetings happen around her, she doesn't comment. When she does, she has nothing helpful or nice to say. 

When the official reprimand comes down, temporarily blocking her from active duty, she doesn't fight it. Even when Jess corners her in the hall and sandbags her emotions to really drive home how concerning her behavior is. 

“I don’t pretend to know what you're going through,” Jess says. But she does. And she offers guidance MJ doesn’t need. It’s a waste of everyone’s time. 

Everyone wants to help, but nobody sees her. Not really. 

Only Miguel gives her wide berth. She doesn't know why. She didn't ask him to, even though it's the distance she needs. Communications, warnings, demerits, everything from him flows through Lyla. He doesn't contact her directly except for two texts. 

The first, sent soon after she returns to HQ after a week on the ground in Nu York: Let me know if you need a sparring partner.

And the second, after a particularly tense Inner Circle meeting where she doesn’t say a word and avoids his heavy stare: I want to help. Show me how. 

Both texts go unanswered. She doesn’t need help and she doesn’t need a sparring partner. She’s not pulling her punches for anyone. Not anymore. 

End Part II

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, What the Sh*ck Did You Just Sh*cking Say About Me, You Little Glitch? Folie à Deux

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Addendum to Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Eyewitness statements re False Image Phenomenon “FIP” sightings (File No. FIP-1). 

Additional statement matching flagged parameters. 

Statement Peter B Parker (616B - B-Side Deep Cut): Okay, thanks LYLA. I appreciate it. So I don’t know what happened. At first I thought maybe I was just sleep deprived—May’s going through this phase. Won’t sleep unless we’re in the room with her and screams like crazy if we leave the room before she’s really asleep. 

Anyway, I fell asleep in the princess castle—that, that isn’t the weird part. So, I fell asleep in the princess castle and I wake up because I hear May laughing, right? And then I hear Mary Jane. She’s cooing and baby talking and it’s sweet and I'm thinking, wow, I have such a great family, I love them so much, they’re the best. Well, then I remember that Mary Jane’s in Toledo for a thing with her sister. Yeah, trying to track down Tim again. You know how it is. 

So then I wake up and I see it is Mary Jane so I start to calm down like okay, she just got back early. Maybe they jumped Tim, brained him with a purse, stuffed him in the trunk, over and done, you know? And so I'm like, hey baby. So glad you’re home. Missed you. Love you. How was your trip? And then she looks at me and I swear my blood goes cold.

Brown eyes, LYLA. Brown. Not blue. And she looks like Mary Jane but not like my MJ. Like one of the ones here, you know? Another MJ. And my Sense is already going nuts—that's really what woke me up but it wasn’t the usual ah! Danger! Incoming taxi! But just this super strong jolt. 

So, I'm springing up ready to talk shop with this clone or Chameleon or anomaly or you know whatever. And she looks at me and she tells me to douse the jetfire. Yeah. That’s a direct quote. Douse the jetfire, tiger. So she called me tiger too. Yeah, total MJ line. 

But I still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Not dangerous. Just wrong. So I'm hedging towards Mayday, no sudden moves, but I'm going, whoa sorry, you startled me. That kinda thing. And she just tilts her head and does this little like flat smile and says she must make me nervous. And of course I'm like yeah, yeah, you do make me nervous because you’re in my house with my child but I'm sure you’re a lovely woman otherwise. 

And she laughs and, and I should say her voice wasn’t like MJ’s. No, it was darker. Deeper. You know Jessica Rabbit? Yeah so more like that. Like if I was single and twenty years younger my tongue would’ve rolled outta my mouth if she called me stud. Right. Exactly! You know the type. 

Anyway, she asks can I deliver a message and I'm like, well depends on the message. And I’ve got Mayday at this point. She’s just kinda backed off from the whole thing, just let me scoop up May. And so I’ve got Mayday and I'm kinda like oh, gee, I dunno, I got this bad memory. I forget things. I'm a doofus. Loveable moron schtick. Works better than you’d think. 

And she just shrugs and says that’s good enough and then she tells me the message and then poof. She’s gone. Just zip. Like that. Gone. Melted into the air. And the feeling went with her. My whole body just kinda went schlump. 

And I was crying too. Like I couldn’t help it. I just felt really emotionally charged and then just really sad for her. I can’t explain it. 

No, no. I didn’t know her, far as I could tell. She just looked like an MJ but who knows if she was, you know? Not like she gave me her name or anything like that. And I— yeah. Yeah. 

Is it safe though? I mean, did you get any readings or—? An FIP. Oh. Oh my god. You know what? It did kinda feel like a ghost. So yeah. Yeah, it could have been an FIP. 

Wait. They don’t talk though, right? Or they do but they don’t—? I guess it’s possible, but I swear it was like a conversation. She was reacting to what I was saying. And she—

The message, right. So she asked me to relay that the past is dead and to bury it and to forget it all. Yeah, I dunno. Weird, right? But that’s what she said. Uh, exactly? I think it was like: The past is dead. Bury it. Forget the rest. 

Addendum Commentary: Recording (active) - LYLA, pull all audio and visual from journal entry 7-Alpha-202 through 228. I’ve already analyzed those, Miguel. What’re you after? Cross reference against FIP, anomaly and distortion parameters. Hmm. Ask me nicely. Shock! Just do it, LYLA! Nicer. Please! Tone’s still bad, but fine. Okay, pulling Migsy’s Diary 7-Alpha-202 through 7-Alpha-228. Scanning. Anything? Take a chill pill. Doctor’s orders. LYLA! Nothing. Shock. Shock! I thought that was it! I— Wait. Hmph. What? What is it? Took some creativity liberty here, threw the symbiote symphony into the mix. And? Well. It’s something. LYLA! I think I got her, Miguel. Where? Which one? All of them. It’s—

[CONNECTION LOST. ATTEMPTING TO RECONNECT. PLEASE STAND BY.]

Notes:

chapter title from "Hollywood" by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Relevant Miguel POV: in your dreams, in your song: chap 9 - Strange Conversations

originally, there was no kiss in this chap but i added it while editing. normally i like the ghost of an unresolved tension but IDK yall, this chapter... vexes me & is also Rather dark so i had to throw SOMETHING good in there lol. i promise we lighten up quite a bit by the first chap & all throughout part iii AKA the situationship/smutty arc

did i dream up a whole new villain for this fic? well. yes. also, no. knowing is half the tragedy. i'll give a gold star to whoever can guess what's going on with New Guy (hint: it's probably more things than you think unless i've done my job WAY too well lol)

as we finish part ii, i just want to extend my thanks and affection to anyone out there reading. i hope you know how much it means to me that you've stuck with this silly, strange, self indulgent thing i wrote as a warped coping exercise to get through some dark shit in my life. i honestly didnt expect this to resonate with anyone because it is such a niche concept & pairing. before i ever posted the first chapter, i really debated if i should just overhaul it for a far shorter plot or with an oc/reader narrator to make it more accessible but that was the devil talking and im glad i didnt listen. that guy's already fucked up enough spider-man stuff as far as im concerned!!!!!
this all to say: THANK YOU and YOU HAVE MY HEART and IM SO HAPPY TO BE ON THIS JOURNEY WITH YOU

if you have any thoughts/questions/concerns/etc, please always feel free to drop a comment or reach out to me on my tumblr (divine2define). Nothing I love to talk about more than spider-man and spider-man 2099 and all my irl friends are sick of hearing about it lol. maybe i'll make a bluesky someday but idk i think i might just be tumblr scum forever /affectionate

interlude up next and then part iii

next chapter: a brief respite & childhood reverie

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

just a selection of advance tags/teasers for part three in no particular order:
#everybody's favorite 2099 side character kicks in the door like Kramer and the studio audience goes absolutely shocking bananas
#situationships and other workplaces perils
#help! i think im in love but i have unresolved grief that supercharges my usual commitment issues like Godzilla - AITA?
#miguel o'hara: master of pretty clear signals, actually
#the eventual smut tag evolves into SMUT
#character studies via smut: more likely than this author ever thought
#one night only - girly lunch goes co-ed
#the author wanted to make a joke referencing kramer going IM OUT in the Contest episode of Seinfeld but couldnt quite figure out how to get the wording right so make of that what you will
#canon events: applicable to all Spiders
#Ben Reilly plays a more important role than anyone would've guessed
#he would not fuck like that (and maybe everyone has unrealistic expectations and should just let him do his thing)
#she WOULD fuck like that
#ghosts? in my spider-man fanfiction? they're more likely than you think
#peter b parker does a kegstand NOT CLICKBAIT
#notice appearances of the red lipstick
#slow burn into oh wow, they're fucking quite a bit, maybe they should talk about-? oh, no. okay. they're just gonna fuck. okay. well, i mean, good for them?

and unimportant to anything but my own amusement - in an attempt to reign in the final act of this beast (i.e. make it make sense & Not Suck) ive made a moodboard of sorts to consolidate my inspirations & shortcut myself into a flowstate. why do i mention this at all? because ive got all my high falutin narrative & cinematic inspirations and then somehow "look at little goblin junior, gonna cry?" ended up in the center and its only just hit me how absolutely insane it all looks as im sitting here staring at it on my other screen lmfao. it looks like im trying to solve the worlds nerdiest murder and/or track down pepe silvia lmao. if i knew how to embed images i'd be tempted to share but i don't so please just trust me when i say it Looks Insane & especially so because that fucking meme is like dead center lol. the things i do for this hobby lmfao

Chapter 30: interlude - variations on a love theme: ii. dolce ma feroce

Summary:

nu york, years ago, a childhood in bloom

Notes:

2/6: WELL I didnt mean to post so early but that preview button is waaaay too close to the post button. so. uh. early update. happy almost friday, i guess

cw: mj's shitty father (i.e. references and instances of child & domestic abuse, nothing graphic)

After ten years of far-from-copacetic childhood on Long Island, Marilyn Jane Watson goes kicking and screaming to a new life in a shitty duplex in Queens. She is given no explanation for the sudden uprooting of everything she knows, but she suspects her father’s hand in the cataclysm. Since birth, she’s seen the scars of her father’s rage across everything she loves. Her mother. Her older sister. The car. The cat. Her father’s rage touches all, except for her. That comes later. 

By the end of the Watsons’ first week in Queens, little Marilyn, who wants to be MJ, but is having trouble getting everyone else on board with the nickname, resolves to run away. It happens after dinner. They have a king’s feast of McDonald’s and milkshakes—a true rarity for Marilyn and her sister Gayle. Their father makes them giggle with his french fry tusks, grabbing their mother and playing at jabbing her. It’s impossible to know what does it. Philip Watson’s temper is quick to ignite and unpredictable to track. What stirs him into frenzy one night may pass for a joke another night. 

All Marilyn knows is that at some point the pressure drops. The milkshake curdles in her belly. The tell-tale vein over her father’s broad forehead pulses. Dishes, freshly unpacked, are broken. Gayle is knocked clean out of her chair. Petrified, Marilyn makes no move. She stays still as possible, praying for her father’s raptor eye to pass her by as it always has. 

It does, settling on her mother, and still Marilyn remains silent. She’s not a quiet child, but survival outweighs her need for precociousness. This delicate balance won’t shift inside her until her mother’s dead and her older sister flees home, leaving her with no buffer against their father’s rage. 

When it’s over, Marilyn runs to her room with tears in her eyes and snot streaming down her face. Blind with panic, she stuffs her backpack full of the essentials—her favorite pair of shorts and two tops, a toothbrush, the pittance of cash from her piggy bank, and the tube of mascara she stole from her mother. 

As her mother weeps, Marilyn sneaks down the steps and darts out the backdoor. She has no plan, only the hazy imaginings of a child. She will get on a Bus and it will take her Away and she will find a Nice Family who doesn’t hit or cry or scream. 

The backyard of the duplex is only a backyard in name alone. There’s a suggestion of grass between cracks in the concrete slab, but there’s no real yard. Not like the one she ran barefoot through every night in Long Island, chasing fireflies and dreams. 

Escape is blocked off at every angle by a crappy chain link fence. It will need to be climbed if she’s going to get away. She’s climbed trees and ladders and slides before, but never a fence. It can’t be that hard. 

Little Sketchered toes jab into the links of the back fence. Stubby childhands knot and fist around the metal. She throws her weight into the fence and finds herself face up on the concrete, staring into the smoggy night. Only the overstuffed backpack kept her from snapping her spine.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Marilyn whips around, glaring. So determined to run away, she didn’t bother to check for an audience. On the other side of the yard, glasses and nose pressed up against the fence, is a boy. 

“I’m fine,” Marilyn huffs, dusting off her shoulders like a real pro. Hands looped around her backpack straps, she walks in front of him, scrutinizing this newest complication. 

At Marilyn’s age, boys are either cuties or geeks. Cuties are more desirable because she can hold hands with them on the playground and they will buy her ice cream on Fridays. Geeks are nice enough, but they’re more concerned with their comics and playing superheroes on the swings than telling her they like her barrettes or her carefully chosen outfits. The classifications are arbitrary, but they mean everything to little Marilyn. Not knowing the difference between a cutie and a geek can get you uninvited from a slumber party in an instant. 

The boy across the fence is definitely a geek. Thick glasses. Darth Vader t-shirt. Crumpled comic book in hand. Even the way he sheepishly rubs the back of his neck is pure geek. 

“I didn’t know a girl was moving in.”

Marilyn is young, but she’s not stupid. Girls are a lesser currency than boys, even though boys are often gross and smelly and mean. Girls are mommies and models, but boys do the important things like taxes and teaching. There’s some indelible wound made in a girl that marks her as useless and a waste. Marilyn knows all this, but she doesn’t like it. 

“Is that a problem?” she sneers. 

The boy goes a little purple in the face, sputtering to assure her that no, it’s not a problem at all. He’s definitely a geek, but she likes that he doesn’t mind her being a girl. Most boys, cutie or geek, have a problem with her girlhood. It’s annoying!

“I’m Peter Parker,” the boy across the fence says. He sticks three fingers through the chainlinks like a handshake. Marilyn takes his three fingers in her full hand. He winces from the force of her shake, but beams when she says, “I’m Marilyn Jane Watson, but you can be my friend if you call me MJ.” 

***

It takes a bit for them to become steadfast friends. Peter’s strongly opinionated about the strangest things; MJ’s too brash and bossy. They toil away at homework and ill-fated playdates—always when her father isn’t home—until the Parkers go away for two weeks. With the fire and flare of a girl staring down the barrel of prepubescence, MJ laments Peter’s absence to all with the misfortune to drift into her wake.

Within a week, MJ ends up in the ER. Lies are told to the admitting staff. It wasn’t a ceramic spaghetti bowl that popped the back of little MJ’s skull like a water balloon, oh no! It was an unfortunate spill down the steps! Clumsy MJ tripped over her own toes and took a concrete step to the dome. 

“Sometimes,” Mama Watson instructs, “lying is okay, but only if you have no other choice.”

It’s one of the most important lessons of MJ’s young life. Lying is okay, but only when necessary. Only when the truth is worse.

The doctors are rough, but the nurses are sweet. They give MJ stickers and lollipops, cooing over what a pretty little girl she is! Pretty, even when they have to chop off her hair to realign the pieces of her skull. The nurses give award winning performances envying MJ’s new-do and wishing they could pull off the Mia Farrow chic. 

“You’re going to be the talk of your school,” one of the nurses promises. 

Another insists, “All the boys are going to think you’re real cute.”

The nurses are so sweet, MJ doesn’t have the heart to tell them she doesn’t care what the boys or her school think. Her confidence is the Titanic. It’s unsinkable. 

There’s only one person’s opinion she cares about (and swears up and down she doesn’t). When he finally gets home, MJ races out her front door, tackling Peter to the front lawn from the force of her hug. They both laugh. Her, from the joy of his return. Him, from her ridiculous new Dutch boy haircut. 

The mood shifts quick enough. MJ holds Peter down by his shoulders, refusing to let him up until he promises to never leave for that long ever again. He crosses his heart and hopes to die. They pinky swear on it, grimly serious as only children can be. 

***

During the first summer of a lifetime friendship, Ben Parker manages to wrangle MJ and Peter for a single picture. Faces squished together beneath shockingly similar pixie cut bangs, MJ grins with both eyes shut while Peter blushes deep enough to match MJ’s hair. MJ’s freckles are many and sun-darkened. Peter’s skin is pasty pale from days hiding out indoors. 

Nearly two decades later, it will be the image they use to announce their engagement.

***

By the time 1997 turns to 1998, the Parkers’ living room is far more familiar than MJ’s own. Peter never comes over to hers. MJ never invites him and he never takes it personally. 

The walls are thin. It’s no mystery why he isn’t welcome. 

***

The Watson women keep many secrets among themselves, tucked away where the man of the house can’t see, but the growing affection between MJ and “Sweet Pete” seems to be Mama Watson’s favorite. After homework sessions and playdates, MJ trudges into the house greeted by her mother’s questions. 

How’s Sweet Pete doing? and What’s Sweet Pete into these days? are regular refrains, but only when her father isn’t home. When the man of the house is home, Mama sings tunes of How’s Liz doing? and What’s Betty into these days? 

These aren’t the first lies her mother tells on MJ’s behalf, but they’re the most common. Peter breaks apart into the names of a hundred different girls on Mama’s tongue. The substitution is effortless, as is the delivery. Natural talent. Natural deceit. 

MJ watches her mother, and she learns well. 

***

A Juilliard dropout, but Madeline Watson wraps reality around her finger. She makes magic from white lies. She twists the mundane into fantasy. Everyone loves her, none more than her youngest daughter. 

It doesn’t make a difference. Love isn’t enough. The cancer diagnosis comes first, but it isn’t what kills Madeline. Hers is a slow death, drug across years of hate so fervent it could only have begun as love. A tragedy, but the story isn’t new. 

Two people fall in love. Chemistry and charisma atomize, reform them as a couple. One unit, ironclad by matrimony and vanity. Neither remembers the first scream or the first hit until closed fists are bestowed as easily as kisses. Gods of many faiths, drugs, talk therapy: every intercession only entrenches the poison deeper. How do you save something forsaken from the start? 

Over time, two people become three, then four. Daddy, Mommy, Gayle and MJ. Two girls for a father who wanted sons. Two girls for a father with an eye that skews raw and irrational. Two girls for a father who blames the mother. Two girls for a father who loves so much, he nearly kills them all.

***

In the corpse of winter, Mama Watson takes MJ and Gayle for milkshakes. Ferried from the house in overcoats and mismatched socks, MJ and Gayle sit across from Mama in a cracked-leather booth. Mama and Gayle remove their coats, but MJ keeps hers on to hide the embarrassing scrawl of sleep t-shirt beneath. The heat of the diner soaks, but MJ is vain, even so young.

None of them enjoys the same shake. Strawberry for MJ. Chocolate for Gayle. Vanilla for their mother, who doesn’t drink, but instead scoops out bites with a spoon. Each spoonful is smaller than the last until she doesn’t take any at all.

“What do you ladies think about some long term girl time, somewhere new?”

Though asked of them both, MJ will remember it asked only of her. She will struggle to remember Gayle was there at all, even though her chocolate shake sits forever on the table beside MJ’s strawberry, across from Mama’s vanilla. 

MJ makes an itchy face. Somewhere new means another move. A new school. A new routine. New friends. But there’s only one Peter Parker. 

“Don’t worry, Marilyn,” Mama says. She leans forward onto one hand. Backlit by flickering diner lights, the luscious swirl of her red hair shifts and glows like slow moving fire. 

Smudged from the straw, her wine lipstick—holdout from a punk phase long before MJ came around—is faded in the center. Simple, lived-in glamor, highlighting the strong features of her face. Past, present and future, there has never been a more beautiful woman than Madeline Watson in 1999 in this claptrap diner, day-worn and asking her daughters to imagine a better life. 

Mama touches a cool finger to MJ’s nose, bopping it. The nail is painted hot pink, her favorite color. “Sweet Pete can come visit whenever he wants. I could never break up young love.”

“Ew, mom!” 

Mama smiles around the spoon. Mauve lips leave kisses on the silver, stark when leveled at MJ. “Just you wait, Marilyn. A mother always knows.”

By the time they leave, MJ and Gayle’s glasses sit empty, but Mama’s is a soupy mess, only a spoonful or two slimmer. Though MJ doesn’t know it then, her mother is a month away from a devastating diagnosis. Among the myriad of symptoms, she has lost her appetite. She will never get it back.

Out in the snow, ice cream long turned warm in her belly, MJ leans up against her mother. Tucked into the smooth, elegant fur of her mother’s coat, she breathes deep and smells lavender. On the bus ride home, she falls asleep in that smell and dreams of an yard and static waves in the sky.

***

Three days after her mother walks into traffic and five hours before her father opts to pull the plug, ten-year-old MJ sits in the lounge area outside her mother’s hospital room. Banished by the threat of her father’s backhand for crying too loud, she sucks her sobs into her stomach, swallowing them instead of letting them free.

Across from her, Gayle sleeps draped over two chairs with the arm rest digging into her midsection. Drool pools underneath her chin, sticking and snapping in long, gooey chains. MJ watches her sister snore and wishes she were doing the same. 

But she can’t fall asleep. Her child’s mind races. Nausea and abject terror. She doesn’t understand what’s happened and what will, but she understands enough. Mama is made of broken pieces now. The doctors don’t know how to put her back together. 

If Mama dies, does all the love inside MJ die with her? She doesn’t know. She’s scared of the love turned to knives in her chest. It hurts. All this stabbing, sour love. 

There’s a shrill beeping down the hall. Nurses in colorful scrubs and doctors in long, swishing white hurry past in a panicked parade. Their thumping feet and screeching carts make a horrible clatter. Gayle stirs, mumbling incoherently, but slumps back into slumber. MJ plucks a wet strand of hair from her mouth, matting it into the rest of the hair on her scalp. Her hand wavers on her sister's head. MJ loves her so much, only a little less than their mother, only a little more than she loves herself. 

Tears come again. MJ digs her fists into her eyes, but they don’t help to plug the waterworks. She cries harder and harder. Her huffy, puffy breaths get worse and worse. She needs to stop crying. She needs to stop making so much noise or she’ll wake her sister up. Or worse, catch her father’s attention. 

It’s in the dim alcove of vending machines that Peter finds her, aimlessly pressing buttons for the soothing sounds they make. Peter hides behind a handful of cheap flowers. When she takes them from him to throw in the trash, he doesn’t protest, just mumbles that he knew better than May. MJ doesn’t like flowers. Neither does her mother. It never stopped her father from giving bouquets instead of apologies. 

“I brought something else,” Peter says, quietly like the nurses will commit him if he speaks above a whisper. From his pockets, he produces pouches and pouches of Swedish Fish. It defies all logic how many packets of Swedish Fish he has jammed into his coat pockets. He pulls out so many that they spill through his fingers, plopping to the floor in a cascade of crinkled plastic.  

As they scramble to rescue the flopping fish, he explains, “Everyone always says hospital food stinks, so I wanted to make sure your mom had something good to eat while she’s here.” 

MJ doesn’t tell him her mother eats through a tube now. Instead, she lies, says that Mama is on a very special diet, doctor’s orders, but that doesn’t mean Peter’s hard earned bounty should go to waste. 

Together, they gorge on Swedish Fish until their mouths turn red and their tummies revolt. He sticks out his tongue, wagging it and dropping red-tinged spit onto his white shirt, staining it irrevocably. MJ laughs so hard, she cries again. It’s a good cry though. Bittersweet, but good. 

Hours later, when her mother drowns on dry land without a respirator, MJ’s mouth is still cherry red. 

***

After the funeral, MJ’s father is nearly peaceable, almost a father.

It doesn’t last. 

***

Gayle leaves within two months. A year and a half shy of eighteen, she moves in with Aunt Anna until she finishes out high school and then it’s off to Julliard on a dance scholarship that she’s doomed to give up for a baby and something she thinks is love. 

Back from Florida, Aunt Anna has returned to NYC with a promise to help her brother manage his motherless daughters. MJ is not allowed to live with Aunt Anna. Her father wants her under thumb. It doesn't matter how fervently Aunt Anna pleads her case or how MJ herself begs and cries and throws fits. He refuses to let her leave. 

He may have failed her mother and her sister, but he's going to do right by her. His youngest. His favorite. It just makes it all the more terrible when he inevitably fails. Over and over, again and again. 

School helps. Aunt Anna helps. Gayle helps. Peter helps. But, every night, MJ has to tiptoe around a haunted house with only a prayer to keep her safe. 

Her prayers stop eventually. Faith can protect her no more than it can protect her father from himself. 

***

Somehow, MJ stumbles on. She hides from her father when she can, demures and capitulates when she can’t. She lashes out in other ways, straining under the oppressive grip he keeps around her throat. Within the dissonance, a personality develops. A real knockout personality, at that. Hyper-sensitive, she’s good at sensing what people want from her and, with practice, she learns how to shape herself to fit the bill. 

It makes it easier to survive her father, when everyone else loves her so much. Even if they only love who they think she is. It’s an empty love, but it settles easier than her father’s. She’ll take whatever she can get. 

***

At twelve, MJ sees Scarface for the first time, peeking out from behind the armchair while her father watches it in the family zoom. In that zen between plastered and passed out, her father doesn’t notice her presence, even as she gasps at the gratuity and the gore. It awakens something in her. Raw and seething, she can’t sleep for a week, tossing and turning and tracing the shape of her mouth with two fingers as she runs the lines as best she remembers. 

She's seen lots of movies and plays, but she never knew they could be like that! So angry and garish and crude and wild and in your face, rah! That's how MJ feels all the time. She feels like Tony Montana, stumbling and glaring at everyone, saying, You're no good. You just know how to hide—how to lie and also like Tony Montana when he's shooting everyone to death and spitting and shouting, You need a fucking army you gonna take me! And, yeah, she just feels like Tony Montana. All the time. Furious and wild and greedy and guilty and desperate. 

Has anyone ever captured the volatile psyche of girl on the cusp of puberty better than Al Pacino? MJ doesn't think so. 

Pacino becomes her god, her obsession. And not just Scarface, but every film of his she can get her hands on. In the middle of the night, she slides them into the DVD player in the family room, watching them an inch from the screen with the sound turned to near-mute, terrified and exhilarated every second that her father will stumble downstairs and find her worshipping at the altar of Pacino. 

There are a few Pacinos among the meager stack of DVDs owned by the Watson family—all three Godfathers and, of course, Scarface—but the others she lifts from Blockbuster. Serpico and Dog Day Afternoon and Glengarry Glen Ross and Carlito’s Way until she’s caught boosting Scent of a Woman. Peter, who is with her, knocks over a shelf of new releases, creating a distraction for he and MJ to flee.

Only once they've escaped and laid low in the bushes a few blocks away does he reveal that he managed to grab Heat on the way out. MJ hugs him so tight he goes into a coughing fit. As he calms his breathing, she presses the pilfered DVD tight to her chest, swooning and saying, “I just don’t know what I’d do without Al.”

Later, when she’s a sensation and everyone cares too much about the mythos of MariJane, the Times will sit her down for an expose and ask: who inspired you to take up acting? 

And she’ll say: Tony Montana.

And the interviewer will laugh, say: Yeah, Pacino really delivers in Scarface, huh? What a performance! 

And MJ will shake her head and put on a rare serious face to clarify: You don’t get it. I wanted to be him, dig?  

***

In the halls of Midtown High, the star to be known as MariJane is born. It takes a hot second. Her entire freshman year is spent searching for the right balance. How to be a class clown without becoming a dunce? How to be a heartthrob without becoming a slut? How to be a character without becoming a weirdo? 

By sophomore year, MJ’s got it all figured out. The key is to never take oneself too seriously. If she’s in on the joke, then she can never be the butt of it. If she laughs at herself, then there’s no reason for anyone else to do it for her. When things go wrong or her peers are cruel, she doesn’t let herself get mad—not in public and rarely in private. She’s too busy to ever wig out anyway. 

Cheer squad. Glee club. Dance team. Debate team. Student counsel. Film club. Drama club. Track and field. Swim team.  Advanced placement and pre-college courses. All these things keep her well busy in addition to a part time job she snags at the mall and her involvement with the community theater program. 

Others would buckle under the weight, but not MJ. MJ thrives. The high school ecosystem and all the nuances of surviving in it just makes sense to her. It’s easy. 

For Peter, though? High school is a hostile wilderness intent on pushing him to dire straits. He’s nice, but he’s nervous. He’s smart, but he’s geeky. He’s funny, but he’s awkward. He’s cute, but he’s gangly. He is a ball of contradictions, made all the worse by the devil of puberty. 

So, MJ and Peter grow apart. It happens naturally enough. She’s busy. He’s bullied. She’s popular. He’s not. 

Their paths rarely cross inside of school beyond a shared lunch. Outside of school, she’s got more friends vying for her time and parties to attend and shelves to restock and he’s got his D&D group to DM and exams to study for and a once-in-a-lifetime internship with Oscorp. 

Still, they play nice in the hallways when they can. They sit beside each other on the bus until her steady stream of beaus start driving her to school. They team up on projects in the few classes they have together. On the nights when her father turns their house into the mouth of Hell, MJ flees to Peter’s under the guise of missing him too much. 

There’s no need to pretend. Peter knows exactly why MJ takes refuge with him at random. He doesn’t ever mention it. Neither does May on the nights MJ shows up and Peter isn’t home. 

By sophomore year, MJ’s other friends have taken to calling Peter MJ’s Charity Case. She doesn’t correct them, even if it sinks her heart like a stone, every time. It’s the other way around. It always has been. 

***

The summer after junior year, everything changes because a red and blue spandex clad vigilante who can shoot webs and climb walls stops a mugging in Bayside; saves a family from a house fire in Tribeca; rescues a train from plummeting off a broken track in Forest Hills. 

The Bugle News Network, an alarmist outlet based out of Manhattan, is the first to follow the exploits of the Spider-Man, but the news gains international attention, slotting into wall-to-wall coverage of the ever growing Superhero Phenomenon. 

And Peter has the exclusive scoop after being saved by the so-called Spider-Man when a disgruntled worker goes postal at Oscorp. His star rises among their peers. Everyone wants to know about Spider-Man. Is it true he’s got eight eyes? Is he really part Spider? What does he smell like? What size shoe does he wear?

They marvel at his action shots of the webhead. Oohs and ahhs are the common refrain for the hero’s dexterity and amazing physique. MJ isn’t immune and, along with the rest of Midtown, she starts to notice Peter. Notice him in ways she didn’t allow herself before. 

Over that summer, he shoots up like a weed, going from eye level to something like six feet. He fills out too. Gangly uncoordinated limbs suddenly tone and grow lean, proportionate to the rest of his body. His acne clears up and the baby fat wanes from his face, revealing strong sweeps of cheekbones and a sleek jawline. His voice drops from the high, chiding voice of a boy to the smooth, metered voice of a young man. He stops wearing glasses and without them, it’s impossible not to notice how his eyes glitter when he smiles, how his eyes glow more gold than brown in the sun.

When he laughs near her, MJ’s head goes a little funny. When he smiles at her, MJ’s breath hitches. When he says her name like a secret, MJ’s stomach drops. 

And it’s not nothing, but it’s also not something. 

Not yet. 

***

Two weeks into senior year, Spider-Man saves MJ from becoming roadkill. A drunk driver swerves up onto the sidewalk where she walks. Just as the headlights smear into a horizon of white, Spider-Man swings down from the heavens, scooping her up easy as a leaf on the breeze to carry her to safety. Without his intervention, she would’ve ended up flatter than Stanley against the car’s fender.

On top of the local pizza joint, now cratered from the car burst through the storefront, Spider-Man sets her down. Mind reeling from the sudden rescue, she can’t help but grin when he strikes a pose. Hands fisted on his hips, he puffs his chest out like Superman.

With a voice too deep to be real, he asks, “Are you alright, m’am?”

“Better than alright,” she says, breathlessly taken by the adrenaline and the story she can spin to her friends tomorrow. Spider-Man saved her! The Spider-Man! MJ pops up onto her toes, pressing a kiss against his masked cheek. 

Though she can’t see his face through the costume mesh, she imagines he’s handsome, like Matthew McConaughey handsome, even when he totally flounders after her chaste thank-you peck. He stammers, never conjuring a legitimate response. The suave superhero schtick is gone. Beneath it, he seems like a genuine goofball. 

From the wreckage below, the driver crawls out on hand and knee, unharmed. He looks around, ears creeping to his shoulders. Sirens shriek in the distance. The man smacks his hands over his face in comic distress and then he hoofs it down the street. 

Spider-Man huffs, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the fleeing idiot. “Well, that’s my cue. Make sure to look both ways before crossing the street and all that. Okay, uh, red?”

“It’s Marilyn, actually,” she says, “but call me MJ. You’ve earned the honor.”

“You got it, MJ.” His smile bleeds into his voice and shifts the fabric of his mouth. Then, he backflips off the building, swinging out in hot pursuit of the drunk. It’s cool. Very cool. She gets the hype. She’s a little in love. 

When MJ gets home too late, delayed by a police questioning far too brutal for a simple rescue, her father, drunk as a skunk, rages. He throws lamps and bottles and TV remotes around her, brutalizing her silhouette. He calls her names and curses and cries when she stumbles back into the curio, cracking the glass from her fall. Even still, he never hits her directly.

After the rage passes, he comes crawling on his knees outside her door, pawing softly at the wood, weeping apologies through the keyhole. When he tries to open the door and finds it locked, the cycle of rage and remission starts anew. 

***

The next day, MJ doesn’t blab about her Spider-Man encounter, though her reasoning is muddy and confused. It was one teeny conversation, but it felt special. Intimate in a way. She wants to keep it to herself until she can work through the knot in her stomach. 

The only person she tells is Peter because she tells Peter everything. He listens intently, frowning when she describes the obvious fake voice and failed attempt at machismo from the hero. 

“Well, he’s new at this,” Peter says, leaping to Spider-Man’s defense. “I mean, I’d guess he’s new at this. Probably just trying to figure out his image and all that. It’s gotta be hard with all the poison BNN's been spewing.”

The poison in question? That Spider-Man is a reckless maniac more than happy to destroy the whole of Nu York for five minutes of fame. A veritable threat to public safety and sanity. The editor-and-chief, a blowhard by the name of J. Jonah Jameson, has apparently returned to news-writing, publishing a daily column rallying against vigilantism and naming Spider-Man as public enemy number one. 

“No need to get so defensive, tiger. I know Spider-Man’s the genuine article.” 

“Maybe you should write in to BNN," Peter suggests with a one-shouldered shrug. “Tell them he’s not the creep they say he is.”

It’s not a bad idea, but MJ’s the wrong messenger. Spider-Man saved her. He’s her hero. That’s indisputable. But arguing to his greater character? Instinctively, she knows he must be a good guy, but the flashy spandex and penchant for sick action shots suggests he’s a bit of a showboat too. And, just because he’s a good guy, it doesn’t mean what he’s doing isn’t dangerous, which is half of BNN's beef with him.

Still, after he dropped the act, he reminded her of Peter, who’s the best guy she knows so he must be good people right? But how to make that an ironclad argument against BNN's rhetoric of hate? It doesn’t seem doable. 

MJ chews on her thoughts, working them into something palatable. Normally, she doesn’t editorialize with Peter, but things have been different lately. They’re not kids anymore and he’s growing up faster than her. It’s like his life has been set in fast forward, ever since he started the internship at Oscorp. She’s scared of saying the wrong thing. She’s scared of the constricting emotions in her chest, threatening to squeeze the life out of him too. 

She promises to think about it, but she doesn’t get much time at all to do so. The next morning, the Bugle News Network leaks her name among a handful of others as a victim of the Spider-Menace. It’s the first time her picture graces newsstands, but not the last. 

*** 

Senior year flies by in a haze of teenage angst and fear for the future beyond high school. Though MJ’s extracurriculars are exemplary, her academic standing is in freefall. She’s too busy to study the way she needs and Peter’s not there to help her muddle through. For the first time in their long time of knowing each other, he’s busier than she is. If MJ’s schedule is packed, Peter’s is slam-fucking-full. 

Beyond his internship, part-time job as a delivery (bike) driver, on-the-side gig as Spider-Man’s photographer, advanced courses, and newfound social life, Peter Parker has also managed to get a girlfriend. Liz Allan. One of MJ’s closest friends, second only to Peter himself, but far more tumultuous, as only high school friendships between girls can be. MJ even helps them get together, encouraging Peter to go for it and offering pointers on the proper way to ask a girl out. 

In a million years, she never thought Liz would say yes. It’s no secret that Liz maintains a certain caliber of boyfriend, steadfastly working her way through the Midtown High football roster. Peter is her first boyfriend who isn’t nationally ranked. 

According to Liz, his sense of humor won her over, but MJ knows it’s a lie. For some perceived breach of girl code on MJ’s part, Liz has stolen away her best friend. 

It makes her sick, but what can she do? Peter is happy and MJ’s happy for him (as best she can be). Finally, everyone else is seeing what she’s always known. Peter Parker is one in a million: a true delight of a human being. 

MJ keeps it in. She doesn’t break character. She gushes about how stellar it is that her two best friends are now a singular unit and takes full credit for the union. She goes on double dates with them and withstands the broken glass in her gut by fixating on whichever college-boy-of-the-week she’s dragged along with her. She white knuckles through all the TMI tidbits Liz shares. She doesn’t take it personally when Peter suggests she not spend any more nights at his—he doesn't want Liz to get the wrong idea. 

Can she stay with Aunt Anna? She tells him she can. Some nights, she really can. Others, she isn’t so lucky. She gets to know the campus of ESU well, couch and bed surfing, though she’ll never attend herself. 

When she does return home, it’s as bad as it’s ever been. Her father can’t accept that she’ll be free of him soon. Those unfortunate nights spent under his roof only tighten her resolve. She just needs to graduate. She just needs to make it another month and a half. She can do it. She has to. She won’t let him tighten the noose. She won’t be her mother. 

***

Prom is a nuclear disaster. Worse than MJ expected it would be. And she doesn’t even end up going. 

Not that she wanted to go in the first place, but she planned to, at least. Her name is in the running for Prom Queen. She won’t win, but it will be a bad look if she doesn’t show. MJ Watson is a crucial part of the Midtown High social ecosystem. People will notice if she’s missing. People will ask questions. People will put the pieces together. People will realize she isn’t what she claims to be. 

MJ gets her dress from a thrift store. It isn’t much of a prom dress, but it is a statement. All black with a strapless, sweetheart neckline and a skirt of long fringe, it vaguely gives Cher on the cover of Dark Lady. With her makeup heavy and her hair a riot of big ringlets, MJ looks less like a high schooler and more like an 80s video vamp. 

Her father isn’t meant to be home, but he is. He doesn’t like what he sees. He corners her in the hallway, bemoaning the death of innocence and smelling like a Guinness brewery. He screams at her. Calls her every bad name in the good book. He beats the wall around her, slamming his fists into the plaster around her head until pieces shake loose from the shitty construction. 

Each impact rings in her ears. It’s nothing he hasn’t said, hasn’t done before, but it all hits her fresh, carving new wounds, gouging open old old ones. 

On unsteady heels, her ankles give. She sinks to her knees. Her dress crumples out of shape. Tears blur her vision. He looks down at her and she up at him in his shadow. And it's too much. She fists her hands against her ears and screams. Loud and bloody as she can manage. 

It hurts. She tears something in the soft of her throat, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t stop until he trips over himself to get away from her. 

Her father falls to the ground. He knocks his head against the wall, but not hard enough to last. He hunches fetal around himself, quivering and pathetic. Already, he slurs weak apologies, but he can’t stand. His head lulls too heavy on his neck. His limbs skitter like a crushed bug’s. 

MJ scrambles to her feet, wincing to put weight on a rolled ankle. Her face is red as beet juice. Mascara drips from her lashes, loosened by her crying. She looks a wild mess, far from the pretty almost-woman she’d been before her father found her. 

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t have the sense to fix her face. She needs to leave. She needs to leave now. Before she turns her father’s rage back on him. Before she becomes all she hates. 

It’s cold outside on the stoop. A thin fog in the air, spring remains, holding ground against the warm summer nights ahead. MJ shivers. She bought a shawl, but it’s lost somewhere inside the house. She won’t go back for it. She’ll freeze before she goes back. 

It isn’t until the skin-warmed jacket settles over her shoulders so gentle it feels like a dream that MJ realizes Peter has joined her. She stiffens. She digs her fingers into the plush of her palms, deep enough to ache. She doesn’t know how long he’s been there. She doesn’t want to know. 

“You spiffy up good, Parker,” MJ says, flat of inflection, but scratchy, huskier than usual. It hurts to talk. It will hurt for weeks. 

She isn’t lying. Peter does look great. The slacks and suspenders are a little dated—the full ensemble was his father’s, if she remembers that conversation correctly—but he wears it well. His hair is gelled back a tasteful amount, enough to keep it firm without stealing its shape. 

A peach tie dangles from his throat, twinning the small corsage in his hand to match Liz’s dress. The dress MJ helped pick out. A real prom dress. Not like the sad approximation MJ wears. 

“You too,” Peter says. “Too nice for prom, honestly. More like one of those fancy benefits they throw at Oscorp.”

MJ sniffs, directing her gaze skywards. “Dad wasn’t a fan. But what does he know?”

“Not a damn thing.” Cold fury simmers in Peter’s voice. She’s heard it before, but only directed towards her father. It’s sweet, but useless. Much as he may want to, Peter never does anything about her father. Nobody ever does. 

“Don’t sweat it,” she says. The jacket over her shoulders is warm, but not warm enough. It barely helps with the chill. She can’t keep it anyway. All hell will break loose if she’s still wearing it when Liz shows up to get Peter. “Gotta save that passion for your girlfriend, right?”

The jacket dangles from her fingertips like a hanged man when she tries to give it back. Peter swallows thickly, staring at it, then her. He shakes his head. 

“It isn’t like that. I care about you too.” His eyes beg to be believed. “I thought it was better. It’s been quieter.”

MJ’s lip hitches up, disbelieving. The jacket shakes in her outstretched hand. “Well, he doesn’t get the same thrill screaming at himself.” 

Realization darkens Peter’s brow. He still doesn’t take his jacket back. The corsage crinkles in his fingers. “Why didn’t you—”

“Say anything?” she guesses. He flinches, but she steamrolls on. “I mean, it’s really not any of your business, is it?”

It isn’t fair to him. She knows he worries about her. He always has. But he can’t save her. He has too much going for him. A bright and beautiful future that she doesn’t fit into. Some part of her has always known it, but it’s painfully evident now. 

Here they stand, a microcosm of all they will become. Him, a little ragged around the edges, but handsome and confident with a beautiful, intelligent girlfriend on the way to pick him up for the night of their young lives. And her, tear-streaked in a tawdry dress, waiting for a chauvinist six years her senior to take her to prom and sneak her sips from a hip flask. 

“It is my business,” Peter insists. Pink dusts his cheeks. The slant of the conversation unsettles him. “You’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend.”

Peter doesn’t see their relationship for what it is. He’s a pessimist (always cursing the Parker bad luck), but never about her. Even as they’ve drifted apart this last year, he expects they’ll attend college together, forge their futures together, and stay in lock-step until the end of time.

It’s not that she doesn’t want the same thing. All her dreams and aspirations aside, she wants Peter in her life. She needs him in her life, but it isn’t fair to him. 

That’s why it doesn’t matter how deep her affections run. It doesn’t matter that she thinks of him when she kisses other boys or wishes she never helped Liz snag him because she wants him for herself. It doesn’t matter. She loves him too much to burden him with it. She’s dragged him down long enough. 

“I didn’t get into ESU,” she tells him, forcing the jacket into his arms when he recoils in shock. “I never even applied.”

“But you said…” He doesn’t finish the thought. He’s smart enough to piece it together. The pink beneath his skin mottles. Disbelief bleeds darker, flashing hurt. “Why tell me now? Why couldn’t you just wait until later?”

Because she’s thinking slantwise, stewing in every emotion at once. Because she lied to spare his heart, but hers is giving out now. Because she’s thinking maybe she’ll run away tonight. Fuck prom. Fuck graduation. Who needs a high school diploma anyway? She’s going to be a movie star. Movie stars don't need to worry about fucking high school. 

Headlights pull into the driveway. A dingy hatchback. Thrash metal rattles the windows. MJ’s ride. Saved by the shitbag. 

Peter tries to stop her leaving. He grabs her wrist, squeezing hard enough that the bones click together. Nothing breaks, but it hurts like hell. She smacks his hand, hissing in a breath. He releases her like she’s caught fire. His eyes are wet and immediately apologetic. 

“Don’t you ever grab me like that again, Peter,” she snarls. 

He takes a step back and then another, hands raised. A car door swings open. Blistering guitar spills into the night air. MJ’s date pops out his shaggy head, shouting, “Yo, you need backup, babe?”  

MJ’s mouth wobbles, but she sets her spine, standing firm. “Just leave me alone, Peter.”

And then she flees as dignified as she can, ignoring the way he calls after her, demanding she stay and talk it out. His voice disappears beneath the machine gun kickdrum blaring from the car stereo when she ducks inside. The interior smells like cigarettes and pot. It makes her head spin. 

There’s a ragged bruise encircling her wrist like a bracelet. It’s the shadowed size and shape of Peter’s hand. It stings, even as she holds it still. 

“What a dweeb,” her date says when Peter hucks Liz’s corsage into the bushes with an unheard shout. 

“Let’s just go to yours,” MJ says. She can’t take her eyes off Peter as he worries his hair. The hollow within her ribs pangs, yawning and glacial dark. “Who wants to go stand around in a gym with a bunch of kids anyway?”

“Thank Christ,” her date sighs. He kicks the car into reverse, peeling out of the driveway. 

***

MJ skips school the following Monday and Tuesday. She spends the time absurdly drunk and then absurdly hungover. For most of Tuesday, she stirs only long enough to dry swallow aspirin and throw it back up. When she’s stable enough to walk, she shoves on her well-soiled prom dress and takes the train to Aunt Anna’s. On her doorstep, she begs her aunt for sanctuary.

Aunt Anna thanks God for her safe return. Apparently, May called, relaying the events of Saturday night as Peter had detailed them to her. 

“Don’t you have a lick of sense in that redhead of yours, girlie?” Aunt Anna demands. Tough love is her specialty. MJ prefers it to any other. 

A shake of her head earns a good whap from Aunt Anna’s nearest tea towel. When MJ puts up no fight, Aunt Anna whaps her again. 

“Go take a nap,” Aunt Anna commands. “When you’re rested, then we’ll figure out what to do with you.” 

So, MJ curls up in the bed that was once her sister’s and dreams restlessly. On the other end of her nap, Aunt Anna tells her that her father’s in the hospital. Head trauma and alcohol poisoning. MJ doesn’t feel even a hangnail of concern and Aunt Anna doesn’t shame her for it. She doesn’t ask if MJ wants to go home, once her father’s released. She just makes up the spare room and tells MJ, “You’ll stay here and you’ll go to class and you’ll ace your exams and we'll go to church on Sundays and if you go running off for another bender, well, I’m sure there’s a kind soul out there who’ll take you in.”

Aunt Anna’s bluffing, but MJ won’t call her on it. She keeps her head down and does what she’s told. 

***

Midtown High is atwitter with MJ's return, but the gossip mill churns fast and her tale of debauchery is old hat by sixth period. More interesting is the dramatic love triangle shaping up between Liz Allan, Peter Parker, and Randy Robertson. As the reigning Prom Queen and King, Liz and Randy apparently kissed during their celebratory slow dance. The scuttlebutt is that it was quite a scene. Poor Peter looked so heartbroken, though many say he looked like that from the start. 

Peter and Liz are still together, but the smart money is that they break up before graduation. MJ doesn’t offer her opinion, though many solicit it. Whether they break up or stay together, it’s none of her business. Neither one is speaking to her, though Peter tries.

It hurts, but she endures. 

***

“Come here often?” 

MJ startles at the voice, but settles upon seeing the speaker. Spider-Man crouches on the edge of the ESU English department’s roof, cattycornered to the balcony she currently occupies. His hand raises in friendly greeting as he straightens to full height. 

Though she’s been an unlucky spectator of a few of the masked hero’s skirmishes (something always went wrong at Oscorp whenever she visited Peter), she hasn’t spoken to him since he saved her from becoming mincemeat. 

“Hey, webs,” she says. She jiggles her box of cigarettes at him. “Smoke?”

He waves the offer away. “No thanks. Smoking isn’t really conducive to web-swinging. Though, it’d look pretty cool, huh?”

“For sure.”

“Okay, you know what?” Spider-Man vaults the distance between them, landing smoothly beside her. He leans back against the railing on both elbows, firing finger guns. “Why the hell not? Light me up, baby.”

One strike of a lighter later and Spider-Man fumbles with the edge of his mask, curling it up to flatten the bottom of his nose. From the small slice of his face, he seems handsome and far younger than she would’ve guessed. Though, there’s no telling his secret identity from the curve of his jaw or the shape of his mouth. No tattoos or distinguishing birthmarks. 

Spider-Man takes a drag of the cigarette, inhaling deeply, and then hacks out his lungs. MJ thumps him hard on the back until he calms. 

“Oh, God, okay,” he wheezes. “Not cool. Not cool at all.” 

Bless him, Spider-Man attempts another puff. It goes down no smoother than the first. MJ snickers. Old cigarette dashed, she plucks the fresh one from Spider-Man’s fingers, smoking it herself. Spider-Man rolls his mask back down with a defeated huff.  

“Slow night?” she asks. 

“Eh, a little. I can’t stay long, but I was in the neighborhood and I looked down and I said, hey, she looks familiar. And sad.”

MJ snorts. She takes a long drag of the cigarette, letting the smoke condense in her lungs before puffing it back out. “Contemplative.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not sad. I’m contemplative.”

“Sure, contemplative.” Spider-Man nods with great exaggeration. Each of his movements is heightened, compensating for the muting quality of the mask. “I cry when I get contemplative too.”

MJ stiffens. Just how long was he looking before he decided to drop in? 

“I’m not trying to pry. It’s just a lot of people like talking to the mask, ya know?”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. I hear so many random confessions I might as well be a priest. Except I wear spandex. And I’m Jewish.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she says, “but I don’t have anything for you. I got nothing in my life. Good or bad.”

Spider-Man protests. “You’ve got a lot of good going for you. Or, at least, that’s what your friend says.” 

“My friend? Oh. Peter.”

The realization stings. Sweet Pete, talking her up to anyone in earshot. Not even the webbed wonder was spared the treatment. The thought warms her against the night, but leaves her hollow when it passes. 

Spider-Man rambles like she isn’t staring off into the distance with steadily dampening eyes. “Yeah. Sweet kid. Needs to cool it with the handshakes though. Every time I see him, it’s hi Spider-Man, let me give you a sopping wet handshake that goes on way too long. Gonna need to waterproof the suit if I let him stay on as my unofficial shutterbug.”

“You should. He won’t let you down.” MJ takes another drag from her cigarette and pretends the moisture curling along her lash line is from too much smoke. “He’s a good guy. One of the best.”

Silence. Together, they look out over the block. Traffic thrums in the distance. Music thumps from somewhere near, but not here.

“He, uh,” Spider-Man starts. His hands twist together in front of him. “He didn’t ask me to check on you. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

MJ arches a brow. “I wasn’t.”

“But you are now?”

“A little.”

“Well,” Spider-Man sighs, deflating a touch as he admits, “he did mention you. That he was really worried about you. But only because I asked. I, uh, like to keep tabs on my supporters. Thanks for writing to BNN by the way and fighting for that retraction. Really helped the Spidey brand.”

MJ ashes the cigarette. “You keep tabs on all your supporters or just the pretty ones?”

“Just the ones I can’t stop thinking about.” 

A sticky silence. MJ takes his words to heart, turns them over and inside-out. Can’t stop thinking about her, huh? 

“I made that much of an impression?”

“Yes.” Quickly, he adds, “And that Peter kid. He really talks you up.”

“You can’t take anything Peter says about me seriously. He’s been in love with me since we were kids.”

Spider-Man flinches. His voice is high. “Oh, wow, really? I didn’t get that vibe. That's crazy. But, uh, you don’t… love him?”

The question stings more than he could possibly know. MJ looks down into her hands, flexes the fingers just for something to do. Just barely, she manages to keep her voice from wobbling. “Course I do. You’ve met him. How could I not?"

“You lost me. Why aren't you with him then?"

Another haymaker to the heart. It’s a fair question, but jeez Spider-Man, read the room. 

MJ sighs. “C’mon, tiger, you’ve met me too. What can I offer to someone like Peter? I’ll be lucky if they let me walk at graduation.”

“Wait, what?” The surprise in his voice is almost familiar. The squawk of it reminds of late night cram sessions with Peter. But she’s fixated on Peter right now so, of course, she’s thinking of him.

Spider-Man continues, “I thought your grades were, I mean, Peter said you were in the top of your class.”

“I was. But life comes at you fast, you know? And my father…” She doesn’t finish the thought. She wags her finger, clucking her tongue. “Almost fell for the mask. You won’t tell Peter about any of this, right? We aren’t exactly on good terms and I don’t want to give him more heartache.”

“You should tell him yourself.”

MJ knows she should tell Peter herself. She doesn’t need Spider-Man to tell her so. Nor does she need him telling her what he thinks Peter thinks. She doesn’t want to think about Peter anymore. She doesn’t want to think anymore. 

“How old are you, Spider-Man?” MJ cocks her head, stepping closer, into Spider-Man’s personal bubble. 

Faltering, Spider-Man snaps perfectly upright. He gives a little shake of his head. “I… what?”

“I’m 17. 18 in a few months.” Her fingers peel the seam of his mask, raising it to rest over his nose. “Is that a problem?” 

“No.” His voice is squeaky. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, dropping his voice back down into a natural register. “No, that's not a problem.”

“Good.” 

Softly, she kisses him. It’s a passing interest. Something she wants to try and say that she did. She doesn't expect him to kiss her back. The kiss elongates, stretching gooey as he licks the seam of her lips and then into her mouth. They both taste of cigarette ash and the dewy Nu York spring.

With the street at her back, he could easily push her over, send her careening to her death, but he doesn’t. His hand bunches in the fabric of her sweatshirt, holding her tight, while the other tilts her head back, angling her to kiss deeper and darker. 

Spider-Man isn’t a great kisser, too much tongue, not enough technique, but his enthusiasm is infectious. They kiss sloppy and discordant until she loses her breath. When she leans away, he chases her, kissing her again and again with frenzied pecks. Playful, she catches his bottom lip between her teeth, releasing it only when he huffs. She grins, leans into him, resting her chin into the crook of his neck. 

“Wow,” she says, lightheaded. Her fingers dig into the cling of his suit over his chest. There’s smooth muscle beneath, pushing back against her grip.

“Yeah,” Spider-Man says, nodding dumbly. They breathe from each other for a few moments longer as one of his hands runs the length of her arm, up and down, and she traces the embossed spider on his suit. 

Eventually, sanity returns triumphant. 

Spider-Man says, “This was really great.” He squeezes her arm. “Really great. But you should talk to your friend. Tell him how you feel. If he doesn’t feel the same, then I’m happy to do this again.” 

MJ just nods. Her sanity may have returned, but that doesn’t mean her breath has. He doesn’t demand further confirmation, just drags his gloved thumb along the curve of her face, erasing the track of a tear long gone. 

Before he leaves, Spider-Man gives her one last searing kiss, almost like he can't help himself. 

***

With Spider-Man’s insistence, MJ resolves to tell Peter the truth. It’s the least she owes him. It helps that he and Liz break up over that same weekend. Rumor even has it that he dumped her, which alleviates the nagging fear that his loyalty would complicate things. 

But MJ never finds the time. Their schedules never align and finals keep them separated during the school day. Living in Manhattan with Aunt Anna doesn’t help either. 

Before, she could just lean out her window and throw rocks at his until he answered. Now, she’s a borough away and constantly busy. She calls him, once, but gets May instead. They chat for a bit and, when May tells her how much all the Parkers miss her, she gets misty eyed. 

They make plans for dinner, all three Parkers, MJ, and Aunt Anna, for three days later.

Two days later, a burglar breaks into the Parkers’ house in the middle of the night. May is severely injured. Ben is shot dead. Peter isn’t home for any of it, but Spider-Man corners the culprit in an unfinished high-rise that same night. The shooter dies, plummeting several hundred feet from the top of the building. 

BNN has a field day. May is in the hospital for weeks. Peter is never the same again. 

So, MJ doesn't tell Peter how she feels. She stays through the funeral, through graduation, and then she's gone, chasing stardom off into the Nu York night. 

Notes:

uhhh sorry for the random super early update. i am dumb and my clicks imprecise at this time of night & idk how fast updates process and go out so i didnt want updates to be sent and then you click and then its nothign there so early update. yay?

HOT TAKE ALERT: i far and away prefer mj and peter to meet in college or as adults. so, why did i write this where they've been friends since they were kids? good question. i wanted to play with boom and bust cycles of their relationship and the only way to do that with the timelines i set meant they had to be friends as kids. i also found i had a lot to write about mj's childhood and i found it more compelling if peter is there as a counterpoint and has seen her through "the worst" (even if he only has a general idea of what she was enduring). im also really fascinated by the idea of really "knowing" someone and how well anyone can ever know another person. peter arguably knows mj "best" and vice versa but there are things they both don't know about the other, which is compounds the pervasive grief mj feels throughout the main narrative.

i could ramble about Themes forever, especially the ones I wasn't even intentionally writing. everytime i do a big reread/editing check (haha, sorry if anyone noticed my infuriating use of en dashes instead of em dashes—realizing this mistake brought me to the brink of insanity, but i've fixed them all (i think)) i always notice new things. writing is wild, aint it?

i go back and forth on what my favorite part in writing this has been and i just really, really love writing the interludes/petermj stuff. peter is maybe the hardest character for me to write (not peter b but Peter Parker). genuinely believe hes one of the greatest characters EVER -when written well (not like the slop of recent years) so i get a little starstruck and real anxious in writing him lol. like hes The Guy. Thats Spider-Man. THEE Spider-Man. i just love him. and i love petermj. i just want to do them justice !!!

also, its important to me that you know there was a lot more pacino stuff in the almost final draft but more niche stuff and then also like a multi paragraph aside that built up to a dunkacino reference. maybe the most personally devastating cut ive ever had to make. never say i dont suffer for my art

next chapter: time skips and major developments

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

2/11 - updated summary because i hated the last one ever since i posted it. fingers crossed that third time's the charm!

Chapter 31: part iii. exaltation - twist and twist and shout

Summary:

developments on the other side of a time skip AKA congrats to the "eventual smut" tag for graduating to just "smut"

Notes:

2/15 - happy belated valentine's day y'all

iii. exaltation

---

It’s raining in Nueva York. Big signs flash that outdoor access is restricted on account of acid rain. Line animations of Lyla puddlefoot around the words. She twirls an umbrella, shows off her matching rainboots and slicker coat. 

Beyond the big bay windows, neon strips smear longer and brighter. The brightness flickers with each peel of windy rain that pelts the glass. A gloomy malaise leaks through. In the late night, the constant wash of water is hypnotic. MJ watches for a long time. Her thoughts unstick, dripping like so many tongues of rain. 

The Federal occupation of Nu York has calmed the flames of war. Sable’s in chains and under international scrutiny. Lawyers argue back and forth whether the US has any obligation to respect an extradition request from Symkaria. The ever escalating Latveria situation makes any dealings with South Eastern Bloc countries even stickier. MJ doesn’t really care and Harry does a bad job explaining it to her. All the international feet dragging really means is that Sable will have enough time to worm her way back into the arms of her Syndicate.

Prodigal’s in the wind. Sightings rise up from every corner, but no one has any proof. Nobody knows where the madman’s gone. Nobody knows if he’ll ever come back. Some hope. Most fear. The rest lie dead and buried. 

The peace won’t last. Washington will lose interest eventually. The Fed occupation will be recalled soon enough. Or Sable will get the tin-head Feds in her pocket. Or Prodigal will develop another super drug to turn men into monsters strong enough to take out the tin-heads en masse. It all makes for an uneasy, unstable peace. 

But, for the first time in a long time, MJ has free time and nothing to do with it. Her usual haunts fail. She’s too shot to strain herself with training and she doesn’t have the attention span for much else. She should use the few, sweet hours to hack away at her well established sleep deprivation, but sleeping alone isn't something she can manage anymore. If she can get to sleep, it isn’t restful. She no longer dreams. There are only nightmares now. 

When staring into the dark, swirling rain dredges unpleasant thoughts, MJ heads deeper into the tower. Only a few Spiders trawl the halls. Chasing their own ghosts, they aren’t interested in conversation, offering quick hand waves or nods of acknowledgement. All around, the rain pounds. Hazard lights cast strange, sluggish shadows down the empty corridors. 

At the heart of the building, the Go Home bay is shrouded from the dour rainstorm but the gloom persists. Only two anomalies sit in the Waiting Room. A steampunk Goblin and a Kraven in khaki. Both watch her approach with lidded expressions. Neither speaks. 

Inside, Margo floats around her workstation. She chases her own afterimages, condensing into a singular self to wave at MJ when she arrives. On account of the long holiday weekend—she doesn’t specify which one—Margo is working late. 

MJ offers to help clear out the remaining workload, but Margo handwaves her offer away. 

“Don’t worry about it. Gets mega creepy down here all alone at night anyway.” Margo zips to the other side of the station. Her hands blur, moving so fast their reflections follow a second after. The screen in front of her turns a lush green. She moves onto the next. 

For a time, MJ watches Margo flit and buzz about the consoles. Her avatar’s arms zoom out and her form doubles, triples, quadruples, actioning several monitors at once. One of the anomalies—khaki Kraven—is sent home in a scratching sonic blast and a flash in negative. 

MJ gives a cheesy thumbs up in the ensuing silence that Margo returns. Then, it’s back to work for Margo and back to fighting exhaustion for MJ. It’s an ill-conceived fight. She’s been awake far too long with nothing to keep her engaged. 

Eyelids drooping, MJ all but collapses into the bench of Margo’s station. A harsh ache pounds through her extremities. Each finger and toe has a distinct heartbeat. She squeezes her eyes shut until it passes. When it does, she immediately turns on her gizmo. 

Aimlessly, she scrolls the Webb. It smears in her heavy vision, even as she likes posts and sticks others for later. It’s all so boring. And fake. Even in the hub of the multiverse, everyone’s first concern seems to be chasing clout from their peers. This is why she hates social media—why she’s always hated social media. It’s fake. Vapid. A veneer of selfishness masquerading as selflessness. 

A message thwips. MJ jolts. From Pyotr swims. He asks: gym 2morrow? 

MJ rubs at her eyes. It takes several tries to hack out a legible response. As soon as it's sent, the words meld into a solid wall of text. Photos sent earlier in the thread fuzz out of focus, colors and shapes more than memes and selfies. Her eyes flit shut. Her breaths even. Her head lulls into dull static. 

She dreams in fog. Thick, rolling lashes of fog. All around her, but visible only directly ahead. A stark light, cutting through to give dimension. Darkness, everywhere else. A familiar landscape in the way of all dreams. 

It’s quiet in the dreamscape but not peaceful. Quiet, but waiting. A breath inhaled and held. Quivering. Anxiety made manifest. It shivers against her skin, drawing up gooseflesh that lingers. All around, the fog coils, uncoils. Coils, uncoils. Rolling smooth. It passes through her without sensation, unimpeded in its journey off into the darkness. 

The fog ahead. The darkness around. No walls. No boundaries. No end. A paradox of infinity—everywhere to go, but nowhere to be. And something moving. Far off. Somewhere in the dark and in and out of focus. Out in the nothingness. Silent now—save for a rushing pressure in her ears. The strangling of a beat in her chest. 

A trickle of sensation down her spine. Cold chills. Extrasensory, reaching out farther than she could alone. Alone. Isn’t she? She’s always alone when she dreams this place. Sometimes a field and sometimes a stage and sometimes a hospital, but always this place. The light. The dark. The fog. The empty. The tears streaming down her face. The dead scream of her mouth. The creeping in the dark. The garrotte of tension. The shiver shake of breath on her neck. Always these things. Always this place. Always this way. Always—

A grip on her knee. Sudden, firm touch. 

MJ jerks with a shriek stuck behind her tongue. She missiles a hand to her throat, soothing her own pulse. She breathes hard, but keeps it to herself. Her chest barely heaves. She’s good at this. She’s a professional. She’s fine. She’s alive. She’s at HQ. She’s in the Go Home bay. She’s not alone. 

Miguel kneels in front of her. His hand hovers above her knee. He doesn’t touch her, but wavers with the intent. He isn’t wearing his suit. This is the second thing she notices and it wakes her up more than the rest. 

A black, high neck halter tank. Gray, svelte joggers. Uncomplicated, pull-on sneakers without laces. Dressed down so severely, he could be a variant Miguel from a universe where he learned how to relax. But it’s him. This Miguel. Not another. She just knows. 

Mouth in a thin line, but his eyes are kind. In the low light, they’re almost brown. Only a shade darker than her own. Is this what his eyes were like, before? She’s never thought about it. She’s not about to start now. 

"You're making a habit of this," he says and she doesn't deny it. How could she? He must have footage of her half-asleep and twitching throughout the entire facility by now. An inconvenience to everyone but herself.

“Where’s Margo?” MJ asks. The vowels wick dry in her mouth.

“Off for the night. She let me know you were still here.”

Miguel squeezes her knee once, quickly, and then he stands. He stretches his arms out long and straight ahead of him, bridging his fingers together to crack the knuckles out. Shadows lick along the exposed lines of his forearms. She stares. She’s too fried to pretend otherwise.

“You eat yet?” he asks.

It has to be past midnight, at least. He must know she’s skimped on her meals. She lies anyway as she rises slowly from her seat. It takes a very serious stretch and pull of her arms to ease the stiffness. Her neck is cricked. It can’t be helped now. 

“Well I haven’t,” Miguel says. “Come with me?”

MJ frowns. They haven’t been alone since she woke up in MedBay over a month ago. It feels like another lifetime. But, still, better to be alone with him than with herself. She gives a nod. “Okay.”

The side of his mouth quirks and his head cocks. “Thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

“I’m full of surprises.” Her voice is too exhausted to be charming. It falls flat and lies dead between them. 

***

It’s a short walk to the cafeteria, but it stretches slow. The lights of the facility have cycled into night mode. Emanating from underfoot, they’re only bright enough to illuminate the immediate surroundings. The whir of the facility—air recyclers, scuttering bots nearby, Lyla's servers, solitary footsteps high above, far off—is a distant rumble. 

Miguel keeps a faster pace, forging first into the shadows. MJ matches his footfalls, melding their soft steps into one shuffle until she loses the motivation and falls out of time. Slower and slower she walks. The gap between them yawns. She watches, waiting for the gloom to take shape and swallow him whole. But he stops. He turns over his shoulder, raises a brow. She keeps two steps behind him the rest of the way. Neither speaks the entire journey. 

At this time of night, the cafeteria is completely empty. The midnight cook peeks out from the kitchen, heralded by some unheard alarm. They offer a friendly wave, but MJ veers far from it. Just the smell of lingering food turns her stomach. She’s gone too long without eating to break the fast now. 

Miguel approaches the cook, making conversation in hushed tones. She could listen in, if she wanted, but she doesn’t. She heads for the crowded island of drink machines, opting for coffee. Her senses are whittled brittle. Caffeine is her best option to cement the gaps left by exhaustion. 

Jamming the disposable cup under the coffee spigot, MJ jabs in her order. The machine chugs for only a second. It spits and burbles. Steam wafts up into her face. Warmth bleeds into her hand, creeps along her arm. She shivers. The cup’s full in two seconds. 

MJ crosses the cafeteria, roosting at a table in the far corner, where the light is dimmest. Back to the wall, facing out, she watches Miguel. Without the blaring, skintight suit to telegraph his every twitch, it's harder to make out his movements as he waits on his order, but the big ones are clear enough. He crosses his arms. Bounces the toes on his right foot. Shifts his weight back and forth. Hemorrhages patience by the second. 

On another night in another life, she would call out across the empty tables, tease him for being so grossly impatient. But not tonight. Not this life.

Uncaring if her coffee’s cooled enough, she takes a fast swig. It blisters in her mouth, scalds down her throat, boiling into her stomach. Her fingers lock around the flimsy cup, crushing it into a crescent. The remaining coffee sloshes dark as an oil slick. A total, swallowing dark. A comfortable dark. One she longs to sink into.

Head heavy, she drops it, staring into her coffee. Sleep takes her. Quickly. She’s awake one second, dozing the next. 

Fog in bitter light. A pervasive emptiness. And—

A heavy clunk jerks her awake. There’s food in front of her. A lumpy piece of bread. A bowl of murky soup, contents unknown. It smells edible, but not enough to kickstart her negligent appetite. 

Miguel slides into the seat across from her. Crossing his arms, he leans back. He nods to the food. “That’s for you.” 

“I already ate.” She pushes the tray back towards him, but he just shakes his head. 

There’s no point in arguing. With so many friends, there’s eyes on her at all times. Somebody blabbed. She needs to be better about hiding her inefficiencies. Needs to stop raising so many alarms. 

Defeated, she drags the tray back in front of her. She scowls and plucks up a spoon. It plops into the soup, plunging into the depths of the bowl. Bits of carrot and onion swirl in its wake. Her stomach curdles. A fresh swig of coffee makes it worse. So bitter, her stomach does cartwheels from the taste. It helps perk her up at least.

“Jess ask you to check on me?” she asks. 

“No.”

MJ breaks off a piece of bread between thumb and forefinger. The crust is thin, but solid. She chances a taste. It’s inoffensive, largely flavorless beyond a hint of butter that’s drowned by the lingering, medicinal bitterness of coffee. 

She takes another piece, bigger this time. Dips it in the soup. Pops the soggy morsel in her mouth. Again, inoffensive. Not bland, just subtle. Careful. It’s the kind of meal she would get for Mayday on a sick day. Probably the kind of meal Miguel gave his own daughter, once. 

“Pyotr then,” MJ guesses. “Or Peter.”

Miguel scoffs, cutting his head to the side. The curl of his lip is petulant. “Is it so unbelievable that I’m concerned, all on my own?”

MJ gives a sullen raise and slump of her shoulder. “Just haven’t seen you around much.”

Because she’s been avoiding him. She just hasn’t had time or the energy, and he hasn’t forced her to make any. They haven’t been face to face since her recovery in MedBay. Since he held her down through her panic attack. Since the kiss that was barely a kiss.  

“There are resources to help you cope,” Miguel says after an uneasy silence. 

“Cope,” she repeats. Beneath the table, her leg shakes incessantly.

“Balance,” Miguel corrects. “We’ve all been where you are.”

“But not exactly, right? I’m a one-of-a-kind anomaly.”

He huffs—a rasping irritation in the back of his throat. Arms still crossed, he raises a hand to his brow, rubs hard circles against his forehead with the heel of his hand. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. Your mission rating is in freefall. I get dozens of pings everyday from Spiders saying how worried they are about you.”

Rolling her eyes, MJ says, “Sorry I’m causing such an inconvenience to—”

“No. You’re not listening. You’re punishing yourself. It’s obvious. But what happened with that bithead, that’s not your fault.” Miguel sets a finger against the table, taps it twice to prove his point. “The models—”

“I don’t care what your models say, Miguel!” MJ shouts. Her voice rings in the empty room. Somewhere, something falls, clanking to the ground. “You can read whatever you want in those numbers but Nu York burned because I had one foot here and the other in the wind. That bithead took advantage of that.”

Miguel regards her stiffly. “And he’ll keep coming back. Are you really going to take him on like this?”

MJ gives up. She drops her head down into her hands, scrubbing hard at her eyes with the heel of her hands. Her patience is worn to the quick, beyond the capacity to spark and catch fire.

“There’s medicine you can take to help with sleeplessness,” Miguel says so gently it sounds like a mistake. “I’ve taken it. It helps.” 

From the cavern of her hands, MJ snorts. She raises her head, says, “Hard to imagine the mighty Miguel O’Hara stooping to sleeping pills.”

“Like I said, I’ve been there. You’re not alone.”

“Sure feels like I am,” MJ says, honestly. Pathetically. 

Miguel gives no response. Just screws up his mouth to one side and looks past her. His fingers rap a steady rhythm against the tabletop. From pinky to pointer and then back. Over and over. A slight pause between each cascade. One to two to three to four and back again. 

Those fingers—they’re something to look at. Something to keep her brain awake. 

There’s no indication of where his talons come from. No scarring. No discoloration. Only blunt, rounded nails at the tips of long, sturdy fingers. Capable fingers. Not thin and tapered like Harry’s, but solid, probably callused, made for tinkering and building and touching. 

And above the fingers, beautiful, toned arms, sloped with coiled muscle and thatched with dark hair, which is shocking. She never pictured it within her mind’s eye. Suit so skintight, she could only assume he had to be hairless as a sphinx cat all over. Aerodynamics. Swimmers rules. These were the requirements she assumed had to be followed for the suit to work and sculpt so smoothly to his body.

And, well. Fuck. Ruminations on fingers, body hair, and Spider-suit aerodynamics. Such is the state of her sleep deprived brain. Maybe a knock-out pill isn’t the worst idea. 

“If it’ll get you off my back,” MJ says, “I’ll put in the order now. You’ve got more important things to worry about.”

His fingers fall still, curl into a fist, and then tuck back into the slip of his crossed arm. “Nothing I’d rather worry about, MariJane.”

Gravity upends in her body, dropping her stomach at the tender color in his voice. 

But, she’s frazzled. There’s no hidden meaning to his tone, his choice of words. Just the concern of someone trying to be a better friend. 

MJ requests the medicine—Somnium, Miguel tells her—on her gizmo and then manages three more bites of soup-dredged bread before her stomach revolts. 

Knocking back the rest of her coffee and then the rest of the bread to kill the taste, she stands from the table. 

Just as quick, he stands. “I’ll walk you back.”

“Worried I’ll get lost?” The wry smile she gives is genuine, but slopes at the edges from exhaustion. 

“Wouldn't be the first time,” Miguel says, gesturing for her to lead the way. 

***

The walk to her room is uneventful. MJ doesn’t speak and neither does Miguel. He keeps even pace with her, shortening his strides to accommodate for hers. The few times she glances at him, his brow is drawn tight, lost in thought. 

When they reach her door, he fixes her with a steady, smoldering gaze. Her chest constricts, heartbeat stumbling, briefly out of time. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares.

“Do you want to come in?”

No answer. He screws up his mouth, ticks his eyes to the far end of the hall. Whatever. Her fault for reading too much into his body language. Again. 

MJ steps through the door with a goodnight far more flippant than she intends. She’s not even upset. Barely irritated, really. Dumb of her to even ask, frankly. 

It would be a hassle. The medicine she ordered is coming soon. Her bed’s an unkempt wreck. She hasn’t showered since last night so she still smells like hand sanitizer from de-irradiation. It’s been weeks since she’s even thought about shaving. Little things like self care and landscaping just haven’t been important since a masked asshole stomped her into paste and plunged Nu York into war. 

Behind her, the door glides closed. Until it stops, giving an itsy squeal sounds as its motor grinds. Her heart jumps into her throat when it recoils. It sinks back into the wall, yawning open.

Miguel leans into the doorway with a hand laid flat against the frame, holding the door open. He doesn’t cross the threshold. He eclipses the ambient lighting of the hall. Doused in his shadow, MJ shivers, starts chewing her lip. The skin beneath her teeth is thin and sore. 

“Would it help?” he asks. “If I came in?”

There’s a roughshod quality to his voice, an attempt at bravado that doesn’t succeed. Maybe it would have, on another night, in another life. His eyes are shrouded. Demons swim in the iris. Inadequacy. Indecency. Insecurity. 

For all his bluster, Miguel O’Hara is a man of wounded pride and shaken beliefs. He doesn’t think he deserves what he wants. And he does want her, but needs some igniting motivation to get over his hangups. Needs to couch his desire in helping her. 

Is she projecting? Maybe. Her thoughts are sluggish, lacquered with exhaustion. 

But the look on his face, the white knuckle clutch of his hand against the doorframe—she’s not making that up. That’s real. He’s real. And he’s asking to come in.

“It would help,” she says. 

“Okay,” he says. Reflexive. Then, he gives a slow nod. Repeats, “Okay.”

Miguel steps inside, close enough that she can smell the warm, lived-in scent of him. Hints of sandalwood and hot amber and… motor oil? It hits her all at once, slicing through the foggy malaise. 

This is real. This is happening. 

The door slides closed, sealing them in together. Automatic, the lights fuzz low and dusky, casting them in soft shadows. 

“How do you want it?” he asks, magnanimous. He’s doing her a favor after all. 

In moments of sleeplessness, tossing and turning, humping her hands for release—months gone now—she’s thought of each and every single way she wants it. Torrid. Vicious. All consuming. She wants him to throw her against every surface. Touch her hard and fast. Bite her. Make her scream. Fuck her with force enough to leave her limp and babbling. 

“MariJane?”

Shit. She flinches, torn from a daze of delusions. Rather than explain, she sets her hands on her hips. “Sit.”

And he does, moving to the bed and sitting without question. It’s an immediate headfuck. The most unpeaceable, commanding man she’s ever met and he listens without argument. Warmth swishes into her extremities with a jolt of arousal. 

As Miguel leans back over outstretched arms, spreading his lap wide and all too inviting, she waits for snark. A teasing remark. Something to reassert his authority. None comes. 

He just sits, too rigid to be truly comfortable no matter how he postures, and watches her. Simmering intent makes the red in his eye richer, deeper. Expectant.

Well, he can wait a little longer. She certainly has. 

In no hurry, MJ moves to a stand in front of him. With small, precise motions, she begins the process of de-suiting. Each movement, she waits for him to stop her. He never does. 

Gloves go first. She peels them off one at a time and then folds them neatly, reaching to set them on her desk. All of her suit will need to migrate to the bot bin at some point, but now isn’t the time to worry about laundry. 

Boots second. After toeing each off, she kicks them out of her way with a smooth sweep of her foot. Body hollowed from exhaustion, her movements aren’t as fluid as she’d like. Less seduction, more haggard routine despite her best efforts. 

Top follows. She shrugs it off, doesn’t bother with folding it. With a flick of her wrist, it drops behind her, whisper-soft all the way down. Her breast band goes the same way, easier removed than the top itself. It curls pillbug just beside her foot. 

Throughout the entire process, Miguel’s gaze has been hot on her face, drilling into her skull. She doesn’t get it. Sure, it isn’t the hottest strip tease of her career, but c’mon, some interaction would have been nice. She gives a pissy little flick of her hands—the multiversal gesture for well? 

Immediately, he drops his stare, eyes darkening in the descent. He looks for a long time. At his sides, his fingers curl, stirring her sheets. His throat bobs. His breathing deepens, swelling throughout his entire body. 

It’s flattering. More than flattering. It’s heady, having all his sharp-eyed attention on her like this. Like nothing else matters but her in front of him, in this moment. Her grins slips out, sharp and self-assured. 

Time drips like honey. Slow and all too sweet. 

The leggings are the last piece to come off. And the trickiest. She hooks her thumbs in the waistband and then wiggles down, shimmying them off smooth as she can. They pool at her feet like snakeskin. Modest white panties are all that keeps her from going x-rated. She almost takes it off, but he should have to do something.

At this point, Peter would normally whistle low and tell her how beautiful she is. How lucky he is. How much he loves her. How he still can’t believe she wants him and loves him the same. How he could keel over just looking at her and die happy. 

Other partners—before and after Peter—rarely bothered with pleasantries. Sometimes a wow, but rarely anything else. They just got right into the business of taking her apart touch by touch. 

This is what she expects of Miguel and his major I Have to Be In Charge malfunction. More than that, this is what she fantasized, back when she had the wherewithal to fantasize sexy things. Gruff demands and rough touch and quick corrections of posture and behavior. Fast, fast, fast and hard, hard, hard. Instantaneous heat and friction and a connection so intense it would take a scalpel to peel them apart. 

But reality doesn’t conform to the routes of old fantasies. Miguel, as always, defies expectations.

Swallowing hard, he reaches for her, but hesitates the moment before contact. He looks up at her—a lightning strike to her libido—and asks, “Can I—?”

Dizzied, she moves before he can even finish the question. Taking his hand into her own, she moves forward, coming to the edge of the bed. His hand snakes along the outside of her wrist, traveling up her arm. The callouses on the undersides of his fingers rasp all along the way.

“Do whatever you want,” she says, lowering down, straddling his hips to sit in his lap. The thin fabric of his joggers, smooth under her thighs, leaves little to the imagination as she squirms, making herself comfortable. She has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep calm and stop from making a fool of herself. 

This is real. This is happening. If she questions why or what changed then it won't happen. It's as simple as that. Simple as it’s always been. 

Miguel inhales sharply, but makes no sudden moves. Right hand at her waist, thumb rubbing against the knob of her hip, he drags the nails of his left up along the inverse of her waist, over her ribs, the outside swell of her breast, slows there, contemplating. 

Anticipation crawls down her spine. She shifts in his lap. Not quite a grind, not quite friction, but it draws a small groan from the back of his throat. The noise tingles—a small vibration smothered—as he dips his head to kiss the column of her throat. He sucks with harsh, sudden pressure enough to bruise. Frigid delight shivers her shoulders, snarls down her spine, and settles somewhere dark and ancient in the base of her belly. 

Again, she shifts over him, but with intention, pressing down. The hand on her hip tightens, directs the roll of her hips in a slow, lewd grind. The motion is familiar, but rusty. It’s been so long since she did it like this. 

With Harry, it was either lay back and take it or blaze through a violent session of raw, vicious hatefucking. Harry tried, sometimes, to make it nice and sensual, but she always lost focus, always thought too easily of Peter. It isn’t fair to Harry, she knows that, but—

The burrowing pain of teeth alights against and then over her collarbone. Sudden, base pleasure. Mainline straight to her cunt. The hot suction of a kiss follows, soothing the abused skin, but she wants more. She groans, twisting and grinding, brought back into sterile focus, stricken by desperate, deepening desire. 

“Miguel.” 

Her voice is broken, husky as a chest cold. Bedroom rich and wanting. The kind of voice that made her famous, but there's little performance to it now. It's raw and real and getting worse as he tongues her throat and collar and little else. He's chewing at her pulse, but only barely. It’s nothing more than quick skitterings of flat pressure before his tongue begs forgiveness for the slight pain. 

Gel crunches when she buries her fingers in his hair and he does a poor job hiding his wince in his next kiss. The curls at the nape of his neck are free of gel hell and soft. Twirling them around her fingers has Miguel jerking away from her neck with a rasp. He turns his head, lays it in the crook of her shoulder, looking towards the headboard. His breaths come damp and uneven. 

There's no need to ask. His fangs have joined the party. 

Before she can say something stupid like bite me , his hand sways over her breast, squeezing lightly, distracting. Thanks to the arduous process of breastfeeding, the sensation is dulled; her nipples nearly non-reactive. But that doesn't mean the slow swipe of his calloused thumb and the twine of plying, pawing fingers isn’t a small delight. Or that it isn’t a muted bliss when he shifts to take the other, untouched nipple into his mouth. 

Head falling back, she claws into his shoulders to keep upright and thanks god that the fangs aren’t an instant kill switch. He's cautious, sure, exerting little force in the brisk nip of his teeth and the ensuing, besieging swirl of his tongue, but he still sucks. And bites. 

A moan catches and burs in her throat. She needs more than just his mouth on her tit and his erection shoved up and stationary under her thigh. It’s too quiet between them, too simple to keep her thoughts from spiraling. Should she tell him? And risk him calling it quits, again? No, no she won’t say anything so direct. She’ll just moan louder, lean heavier against him, preen for his every touch, gentle as it may be. 

And it works. Kind of. She’s impatient, whining and squirming more and more and more. His eyes snap up to hers, brow scrunched in question.

“Touch me,” she says and leaves it at that. Anything more and she’s liable to gab away her good sense. She doesn’t want to scare him off and end in the same disappointment as before.

“Okay,” he says, leaning back to take her all in again. “Yeah, I can…” The thought goes unfinished as he drops his empty hand down—over the flex of her belly; the knit scar; the elastic waistband—to curl over her cunt.

Jolting, she spreads her thighs farther apart and cants forward into his touch, chasing the simple friction. Wet heat bleeds through the fabric of her panties. It's so much—an overwhelming sensation when she can barely remember the last time she touched herself—and still not enough. Breath suctions in her chest and sticks. Her breath is pathetic, dense with desperation. She bruises her bottom lip to keep from begging. The anticipation is as sweet as the sensation. 

“Shit,” he says and then nothing else. He doesn't look at her, only the slide of his bare hand against her damp panties. He bolsters her breast like an afterthought, distracted by more pressing matters. His brow furrows. Always glaring. Never relaxed. Not even with a handful of boob and a babe ten seconds from dry humping his other hand to dust. 

With her thumb, MJ pulls Miguel’s brow smooth and softer. Lamplight intensity scorches when he stares at her, but she doesn't back down. She leans in to kiss the irritation clean from his mouth, but then he shifts the angle of his touch, striking sudden genius, and short circuiting her intentions.  

“Good?” he asks as if it isn’t obvious. 

“So good,” she says, frying her voice a little extra for emphasis. There's a hand still on her breast and it squeezes, briefly, while the other exerts more pressure. But his expression doesn’t change. His gaze drops, staring down at the press of their bodies and his hand between her thighs. 

Fine. It's fine. Nothing personal. Not his fault she's used to adoring, frantic attention on every microcosm of her expression. 

Peter always liked to stare into her soul, convince her of his love with his blown-wide pupils and love drunk smile as much as with his body. Harry always kept a near-manic watch over her face for any shift or slight of discomfort. Partners before them sought the blight of rapture from her mouth, in her eyes, spiling flushed and well worn over her cheeks. 

For her, sex has always been a performance as much as it is a pleasure. 

Miguel isn’t of the same school of thought. He barely looks at her while his hand works at her through wet cotton. None of the tells she's come to expect in her partners spark anywhere across his being. He works her like he works a blood sample or gizmo. Diligent, but detached. He's tightly strung, but in control as much as someone can ever be of themself. 

“Miguel,” she says, frayed through with a groan as his fingers articulate and exert a sudden, thrilling pinch of pressure. 

That gets a reaction from him. He jumps, hand stuttering, and looks at her with wide eyes. Mouth parted and chest heaving with a single, unguarded breath, he's handsome as he’s ever been. Fangs and all. 

Somewhere in his head, he's alive and wanting. She can work with that. It'll just take some heavy lifting. He just needs some confidence—a realization that makes the need to kiss him worse than ever, but fang-tipped kissing is where things went sour last time. She has to remember that. No matter how bad she wants to kiss him while she rides his hand, rides him. It doesn’t help that the wash of his breath is strangely sweet, sugared, not spiced, and far too tempting. She wants to breathe it directly, steal it straight from his mouth, soak her tongue in it. 

Though blistered with temptation, she resists the urge. The risk is far too great so she settles for chasing the friction of his palm, stringing her arms around his neck to keep her balance and keep him close. And it’s almost enough, but she’s always been a greedy lover. Again, she says his name, ducking her head into the dip of his shoulder, breathing him deep, and—

There’s a knock at the door. Beyond it, a bot buzzes loud. Louder than the ambient pulse of the air conditioning circulating through the room. Louder than the unmatched, sticky breaths from them both. Louder than the rustle of their clenching bodies, run tight with anticipation. 

Unsteady, MJ clambors off him, but he moves faster than her. Shooting to his feet and adjusting himself in one smooth motion, Miguel shoulders past her to open the door. He sticks only his upper body out, keeping her state of undress hidden from the hall proper. 

A red light flashes. A toneless voice announces, “Unauthorized.”

Miguel huffs. When he speaks, it’s in a mumble. “Override: 6321b.67.”

Red light flashes. “Denied.”

Again, Miguel huffs, louder this time. He kicks at the door. “Override: Miguel Says So.”

Red light flashes. “Denied. No override allowed for Class H pharmaceuticals. Please see section 24901.3 of the—”

“Cripes,” MJ says. She tugs the door open, nudging past Miguel to snatch the delivery bag. There’s no one in the hall beyond the bot, but so what if there was? They’d get the sight of a lifetime. MJ topless and loveworn and Miguel looking the guilty party. A fun story to tell friends for sure.

Blue light flashes. “Delivery confirmed.”

The bot turns abruptly and then toodles along down the hall. Miguel tugs her back into the room. The door zips closed, locking them back in together. 

In the bag is a glass vial and an eyedropper. A big red line marks the dosage on the dropper. Miguel holds out a hand, expectant, but MJ moves past him to her desk. 

“Think I can handle this one myself, hotshot,” she says. 

He hums, doubting, but doesn’t press the issue. While she fiddles with the vial and measures out the right amount, he saddles up alongside her, leaning back onto the desk. She fumbles the dosage when he runs the crook of his fingers along the dimple of her hip.

“How long does it take?” she asks, drawing out the correct amount on her second attempt. Sucked into the dropper, the medicine takes on an oily sheen, glistening like dish soap in the low light. It doesn’t look like any medicine she’s had before: legal or otherwise. 

“Depends.” Miguel mumbles, hiding his fangs. It dulls his voice, sucks the edge out of it. “Different factors affect absorption.”

“I don’t want to pass out on top of you.”

“You won’t. Your heart rate’ll be too high.” He twanges the waistband of her panties. It loosens, laxing lower over one hip, cockeyed. “If you don’t want to take it, I understand.”

There's something at the edge of his voice, remnant from a past she doesn’t know, not really. She’s read his file cover to cover. Becoming Spider-Man was an accident. The events that led him there were anything but. 

Drugged and betrayed . That’s the only background given to his “Spider-bite” and the experiment that cured him but stole half his humanity in return. 

Taking the medicine is easy enough. She sticks her tongue out, broad and flat, and then empties the dropper onto it. The stuff is flavorless, but thinner than water. It goes down smooth. 

“I trust you,” she says, shrugging in the aftermath. 

Expression soft, Miguel takes the dropper from her, tosses it back on the desk. With one hand, he collars her throat, bends her head back. He looms low, pressing kisses to the sides of her mouth, over her cheeks. He doesn’t kiss her properly. It's maddening, but she takes it and hums with each kiss. That hum turns high when his other hand coasts between her legs again. She bucks, overreactive, and then he smirks. And it drives her insane. Like it always does. She wants to kiss him. Bad. 

“What do we do about the fangs?” She touches his mouth—half shocked he lets her—to part his lips and get a clear view of the top-bottom overlay of the icepicks. He yanks her hand away, clutching her wrist tight as he guides her to the foot of the bed. When her calves striking the edge, she lets her body fall back naturally. She buoys herself up onto her elbows, looking at him from beneath fluttery lashes. 

“We don’t do anything,” he says, stooping to divest her of the cumbersome panties. She’s happy to be freed of them. Shifting, she offers a better, more exclusive view of her nakedness. Well trained, she knows how best to pose herself for consumption. Coy, but not shy. Self assured, but not cocky. 

It has the desired effect. Miguel’s swallow scratches like sandpaper. His eyes blow wide. Her answering smile is wolfish. She gestures him forward, giving the come hither motion. He settles on the bed beside her, long limbs tucked and folded to fit against her. 

“They won’t get in the way,” he reassures. Cottonmouthed, he mumbles around his fangs, drawing all the more attention, but her snappy comeback dries up when he touches her again—broad hand slipping down to part her legs further and begin a cautious masturbation. 

Head dropping back, she shivers and hums, pleased, but there’s a strand of nervous tension keeping her mouth from closing, from shutting up. “You gonna share your master plan?”

“Do you always talk this much?” he mumbles. He avoids her stare. He watches his hand as it experiments with a new angle and pressure.

With a jolt, she rasps, “Sometimes. Consider yourself lucky. Peter never stopped.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” His voice is clipped, focused on touching her more than entertaining her inane rambling. Then, he withdraws his hand, which makes her whine until he sucks his fingers, middle and pointer, and heat flushes up through her chest, spilling into her throat. 

It’s hot. He's hot. Really hot. Unbelievably hot. Just the sight of him, leaned up on an elbow and sucking his fingers makes her murmur with appreciation. Makes her moan when he plunges those same fingers, up to the knuckle, inside her. It’s a tight fit, but the discomfort hinges into pleasure as he stretches her, curling and uncurling, searching for a starting tempo. Except…

“It’s weird that I mentioned Peter, isn’t it?”

He grunts. “Little bit.” 

Flopping back, she wrings her hands up through her hair, grinding her teeth. With a sigh, she forces herself to settle, melting down into the sheets. When that doesn’t work, she reaches out and touches his chest up his throat, slowing over his face and ultimately sinking her fingers into his hair. It helps. She relaxes. 

Sensations swell as he fingerfucks her, working her wet and open. The sound is unmistakable, but not lewd enough. Like before, it’s all very nice. Pleasing, even. She could get off from this. After a bit. But it’s really delicate. Not near enough pressure or friction or heat to really do the needful. 

Does he think she’s weak? Incapable of taking what he can give? He’s unbelievably fast. Impossibly strong. Is he afraid of hurting her? Or afraid she’ll spook if he taps into the superhuman skill arsenal? 

“Have you ever done this?” she asks. “With another Spider, I mean.”

“No.”

“Did you ever want to?” The question isn’t even one she really cares about the answer. She just can’t keep quiet. It’s insane. Peter used to do this all the time and it drove her nutso. Why is she doing it? 

To her horror, Miguel stops. He just stops. He draws his hand free and sets it, warm and wet, against her thigh. “Do you want this?” 

“Sí.” 

If he smothered her with a pillow right now, she’d be totally sympathetic. It would be a blessing in some ways. She’s never been less sexy in her entire life. Her face is a riot of a blush. And, frankly, she’s horrified and offended on his behalf. 

Mercifully, he does not kill her. Instead, he just rolls his eyes up to the ceiling like a prayer to strike her down. “Then shut up. Please.”

There’s no levity in his voice, despite the tacked-on please. He’s irritated with her. He should be. She's irritated with herself.

“Then make me.”

Please, I'm begging you , she does not say, but thinks, and attempts to transmit to him via psychic powers that neither of them have. To strengthen this implicit plea, MJ rolls onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow and angling her bust up and perky.

A hungry glint in his eye, he appreciates her new pose. She redirects his gaze back to her face with a finger curled under his chin. Chastened, he flushes darker and growls, “I’m trying.”

She grabs the flat of his chin between them and forefinger, squeezing tight. She smiles with her teeth.

“Try harder.”

He glares at her, bites down on a response so hard the muscles along the blade of his jaw twitch. The small delight shivers. She can feel the pulse of his anger under her fingertips. She strokes the line of his mouth—feathersoft against the tension. 

“Lay back,” he says against her fingertips, grabbing her wrist and holding it still. 

“Take off your shirt,” she counters, tugging at the hem of his tank with her free hand. He’s still fully dressed (save the sneakers hibernating at the foot of her bed) and she needs him not to be. It’s the only way she can suck the fever from his skin. 

“No. My thing first.” He sets his palm in the center of her chest, pushes her back. She could resist, could really be a brat. It’s tempting—how far could she push him?—but too risky. She goes peaceably with a hot flush, settling back onto the mattress for him to appreciate. 

“See?” she says, propping up on her elbows. “I can be a good girl. I should get some kind of reward.” 

He rolls his eyes, says, “Just try to keep your voice down.”

Not really the response she was hoping for, but not one she can protest when he crab-claws her hips, yanking her down to the foot of the bed as he ducks off it himself, kneeling on the ground. She yelps, scrambling, but he catches her legs in a vice grip, templing them, splaying her open. 

It’s not a fluid transfer. He’s too bulky. She’s too caught unawares. The start-stop awkwardness of the sudden position change is forgiven as soon as he takes up fingering her again with real effort this time. 

Gasping, she arches, nearly off the bed, but he pinions her down with a hand on the stirrup of her waist. Barely, she manages to get back up onto her elbows, panting openly. She hates and loves his smug smirk in equal measure. She would say as much, except the furious pump of his fingers has stolen her ability for snark. When he stoops to use his mouth, she loses the ability to articulate entirely. She has to cram a hand between her teeth and clamp down to keep from crying out and waking up the entire society. 

There’s no rhythm other than fast obscene. It isn’t particularly masterful. He takes direction from her smothered pleadings, commanding and begging in equal measure. It isn’t instant, but he figures out what she wants before frustration finds her. 

The friction is dire and her body chases it even as her mind blacks to a mush of fuck fuck fuck and hot tongue and filthy suction and heavy, thick fingers—all unrelenting and unforgiving and far fucking overdue. All of it bleeding and melding and building and building and fucking building until the tension snaps. Her limbs go rictus, snapping straight at the joint, trembling stiff. Her fingers flex wide. Her teeth scrape the slender bone in her wrist, latching onto a welt of flesh to muffle her wretched, moaning release. Tingling heat courses all throughout her, burning away the days of tension and strife with exacting precision. One of her legs hitches, heel thumping against his back. 

He looks up at her, eyebrows quirked, but he doesn’t let up when she comes. He coaxes her through it, suddenly soft, and then the second her breathing begins to even out, he picks back up, building to the same crest—easier hiked now that it's already been conquered. Brutal, in his exacting precision, he hits everywhere she needs without new guidance. 

Overstimulated, tears prick in her eyes and fall when she comes again and again and then again with the scrape of his fingers working her raw and his tongue soothing after or his fingers furled against that hard sought rough spot inside her, kneading her to submission and his mouth sucking at her and his low, pleased hum reverberating through her, over and over. 

No words, but the focused slant of his brow and his small, encouraging hum blots out higher thought. She should protest, should plead for a breather, or at least demand to return the favor. But, she’s always been selfish. It’s good and she hasn’t had good in so long. 

Her vision spots. Her hearing roars. Ecstasy short circuits her body again. It’s all too much, but exactly what she needs. Too much. She’s always needed too much. 

The last orgasm he rings out of her is long and yawning. It's the only time she bites hard enough to puncture her skin. The only time she tastes blood. Pleasure beats her senseless.

Then, it fades out and her awareness splits into disparate parts of her tailbone jutting into the mattress and her fingers pawing weakly into the sheets and her arm like a slab of heavy flesh strung across her mouth and her muscles gooey from the punishing cycle of flex and release and her sex so sore, cooling wet from all the attention, and her chest, heaving slow with each long draw of air. Every part of her is heavy .

Miguel pulls away, leaving her empty and untouched. Without him, air rushes over her like cold fire. Goosebumps pebble beneath her skin. She slings an arm over her eyes, put out and hoping to recover quickly. Exhaustion takes its toll, pressing her deeper into the mattress than Miguel ever did. Which has never happened before.

No matter what, she bounces back. Always. Especially if her partner wanted it. Whatever they needed, that's what she gave. And gave very well. 

But now, she stirs but can't move. Relief rests heavy in the muscles to make her tell him how good it was, to help her rise up to look at him, to reach for him and touch him good and strong like he just did for her.

Miguel touches her hip, thumbing the bone. He says, "Don't strain yourself."

Authoritative even now, when she's too worn out to argue. She does drop her arm off her eyes to glare at him properly, lulling her head, but he ignores her. 

Rising up, he draws to his full height. Her legs fall without his presence to keep them upright. He doesn't rejoin her on the bed. He doesn't touch her again. He just stands there, all six foot something of him casting storm shadows over her. He tilts his head, swiping the slick from his mouth with the back of his hand and then sheepishly rubbing the side of his neck. “You gonna be okay?”

All she manages is an unconvincing, “Uh huh.”

He looks down at her. She looks up at him. 

Brow furrowing, he twists his mouth, concerned. It’s mortifying. 

Naked, wrung out, and exhausted, she wants to squirrel away beneath the sheets at her back and hide away. Maintaining her appearance got away from her soon after he did his damnedest to drown between her thighs. 

Somehow, MJ pulls off a quick, twitching motion to hike up onto her elbows. Her heart thrums full blooded and loud throughout her body, panging hardest in the floor of her pelvis. Her breaths come in little hisses. In and out through her teeth. 

With flimsy limbs, she shuffles to the edge of the bed then flops down over her knees. Hand trembling, she reaches for him. With two fingers, she plucks at his waistband, but he engulfs her wrist in his hand. He turns her wrist fishbellied, peering at the ragged grooves left by her sawing teeth. The shallow welts have just begun to crust.

“Was that it?” she asks. 

It rings spoiled to her ears, but she doesn't really care right now. Yes, he made her come. He made her come a lot. It was very good. It rocked. And it isn't enough. She needs to touch him, at least. At the very, very least. 

“You want… more?” 

It isn't mocking and it certainly isn’t sexy the way he asks. It's genuine. It's disbelief. His mouth screws into a scowl and she wants to break it open, make him gasp, hear him moan. 

What does it sound like when a man strangled so tight finally lets go?

“I want it to be memorable. For both of us.” 

Right hand still caught in the vice of his grip, she makes use of her left with a bit more tact. Light, teasing traces vein up his arm, flare out over his chest, making small, hypnotic patterns. 

Eyes lilted and flickering, his voice sells a different sensation: disinterest. “It's been memorable.” 

Stretching up to reach his shoulders makes her vision a little woozy, but it's fine. Power through. If she conks out now with this stack of man at the foot of her bed, she'll never forgive herself. 

Words aren't her strong suit at the moment so she trusts her body to make up the slack. Well-versed hands work over him, narrowing in from his shoulders to press flat palms over tense, dense pectorals and soothe in circles. 

There's a small noise that rumbles from his chest, but it's quickly smothered, withering behind his pressed firm lips. Still, he doesn't shove her away. Progress! 

Discerning eyes track her every move so she makes no sudden ones. He's working towards a decision that seems harder than it should be. Did she do something to turn him off? It seems absurd. Rusty as she is, MJ has no illusions that she's bad in bed. But , she's also never fucked anyone outside her universe. Is there some nuance of Earth-928B that she missed? Does she move wrong? Moan wrong? Taste wrong?

Mind a mess of barbs and sharp edges, she creeps a hand down his chest, skating the plane of his stomach. When he tenses, she stops the descent, soothes with the other hand. Legs quaking but finding newfound strength, she stretches up and, when he doesn't stop her, she pushes down the fabric of his collar to press soft kisses along his throat. She can smell herself on his skin. It’s heady. 

But he's so tense. Alarmingly tense. It's hard to tell if he's into it or not. 

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” Voice sticky, he's not convincing in the slightest. 

She leans away, intent to look him in the eye, but he presses one of his hands to her back, steadying her position. Slowly, she takes back to his neck, sucking a kiss where the strong scent of him is thickest. His pulse thuds in her mouth, but she's careful not to get drunk on it. Even still, she aches and aches with her teeth strafing against his throat.  

It takes a few more lush sucks, crawling up along his carotid, before his resolve crumbles. Eyes still closed, he takes his bottom lip between fanged teeth, sawing at the skin, trembling when she bruises the imprint of her bite into the thin flesh just beneath his jaw. Sensing the opportunity, she seizes it. 

Past his waistband is only unguarded skin and a flashing of hair. Blind fingers follow the trail of curls and take hold of his cock. He grunts. She pauses. He relents. The feel of him is velvety smooth as she strokes, slow and careful. 

Eyes shuttered, he hides the brunt of her effect on him, but she has a direct line to his heartbeat. It thrums faster under her tongue. Even though she couldn't come again if her life depended on it, arousal leaks through her veins, warming and waking blissed skin gone cold. 

Steadily, she pumps him beneath the modesty of his joggers. The motion whinges in her wrist, protracted by the angle, his length, his weight. It strains her wrist, but it's a good problem to have. One she hopes to enjoy, more directly, soon. After she gets him off. After she makes him come without distraction. As much as she needs to give as she got, it's a summarily selfish desire. 

When she lets go and slides her hand out from his waistband, Miguel sucks his teeth, but doesn't give further protest. If she kicked him out cold now, he’d go without an argument. 

It's a strange realization. This is the one thing he won't fight her over. She's never encountered a nature so at odds with itself. Miguel is always full of surprises, she just didn't expect this one. Touch starved, but also touch repulsed. Just how badly is he hurt? And how does she keep from hurting him more?

“Should I stop?” she asks. Hand flat over his abs, she feels the question fight inside him. Bristling tension gives way to stoic resignation. 

No, he decides, she shouldn't stop. A small shake of his head is all she gets. If he wants it, she wants to give it to him, but she's not convinced he does. The last time they played at intimacy, he turned around the next day and called her everything but a whore. It’s not an argument she wants to rehash. 

“Fraid I need to hear you say it, hotshot.”

Eyes slit again, he glares at her.

“I don't want to stop,” she tells him, drawing a curled finger along the sweep of his jaw, “but I don't want to be crossed up on this and think what I want is what you want too, dig?”

Usually, she’s far more articulate. But she’s tired. And concerned. And horny again, somehow. Miguel understands though. He touches her face, smoothening back the mess of hair at her ear, exceedingly soft. She leans into it, taken by the simple intimacy. 

“Keep going,” he says, severely. A reassurance given as an order. 

MJ can’t help it. She smiles and draws one from Miguel too. She raises her fingers to her mouth, but Miguel snatches her wrist before she can wet them. He draws them into his mouth instead, sucking hard. She hisses.

Heat and intention twist together. He pulls at her fingers again, tongue lapping at the pads, and the suction shivers throughout her entire body. Rucked up to make room, his lip no longer hides the jut of his fangs. As he sucks again, hard enough to steal her breath (and it’s just her fingers, but they’re like a super highway straight to her cunt with the way he sucks them), she feathers her thumb up and down the length of a fang. 

Over sucked soft fingers, Miguel's eyes meet hers. Royal red against backlit brown. Affection, far from lust but sister to, stirs in her chest. It gives her stupid ideas. Stupid feelings. 

There’s something she should say. Something to break the sudden, spiked intimacy. The last thing she needs is to trip up on something so clearly booby trapped, but christ. Miguel's never looked at her like this. Sex was meant to shake the disease from her system, but he’s wedged in deeper than she thought. 

If this night is all he gives her, she might actually lose her mind. She’s already on the way there. The problem with wanting for so long is that it’s easy to get sick on scraps. As he sucks her fingers, she's sick with it. Fucking riddled with disease. 

Naturally, it’s this exact moment Lyla bursts through like a blunderbuss. Without warning, she pips up between them with a cheery wave and zero fanfare. 

“Hiya boss!”

MJ jumps, fingers popping from Miguel’s mouth, and loses her balance. The only thing that keeps her from toppling backwards is Miguel’s quick catch, holding her steady by the waist. Artificial eyes tick to MJ, run her up and down. Lines of invisible algorithms dance around Lyla’s head. 

“And… MJ. Thought you were clocking out for the night, Miguel?” Lyla asks. Her gaze never leaves MJ, practically boring into her brain. Apparent nakedness aside, MJ reels in the uncomfortable turn of the situation. 

Miguel mocks Lyla’s tone with more venom than humor. “Thought you were cycling through an update and not supposed to bother me until I booted you back up?”

“Oops.” Lyla shrugs. Then, she slides a finger back and forth between him and MJ. “So, what's going on here? Late night chat sesh?”

“Something like that,” MJ says as Miguel rubs her back like he’s soothing a spooked horse. It feels good and she resents that it does. 

“Wait. Wait…” The reflection of Lyla’s glasses run with lines of green code. When the scroll stops, she slaps her hands against her cheeks. Teeny hearts fizz around her head. “OMG. Your biorhythms are—”

“Lyla,” Miguel interrupts. “What’s the fire?” 

The hearts around Lyla pop all at once. She crosses her arms. “It’s where’s the fire, Miguel. If you’re going to keep glitching 20th century phrases, will you at least read the blurb I wrote for you?” 

“No.”

Lyla drops her head back with a soul-deep groan. “Ugh, you're so annoying.”

“Lyla, what’s going on?” MJ asks. It's not that she’s embarrassed to be naked, but she doesn't love being naked in front of Lyla. There's a modesty filter involved (an early reassurance given to all new Spiders  since Lyla has a habit of popping in without knocking first) and normally MJ doesn't care, one way or another, if Lyla sees her in the buff, but the current situation with Miguel is decidedly immodest. The fewer all seeing eyes on it, the better. 

“We have a situation.”

And that’s curtains for Miguel. Before Lyla can even launch into the nitty gritty, Miguel’s off for the door without a glance spared for MJ. 

The door swishes open, swishes closed before MJ’s even moved from the bed. A plea for him to stay rots in her throat. He was gone the moment Lyla appeared, really.

Scrubbing at her face with both hands, MJ pushes the disappointment from her system. What does she really have to be disappointed for anyway? Some phenomenal head? Some fun exercise? Excellent stress relief? She’s got no time to sit on her hands and sing the blues. It was a good time, and she was lucky to have it. Even more lucky if Miguel can keep a levelhead in the coming days. It could really go either way. There’s never any way to know with him, especially—

Three resigned knocks echo from the door. Her heart pumps doubletime. Snatching a blanket from the bed to wrap around her nakedness, she opens the door. Miguel stands fully suited beneath his prior attire, but his face remains unmasked. He meets her eye immediately, holding it with intensity.  

“Sorry,” he says. His fingers thrum against the door frame. “I haven't done this in awhile.”

“It's okay.” 

It’s not okay. Not fully. Better now that he won’t be leaving without a goodbye, but not completely okay. She shifts from one foot to the other. The blanket sags over her bust, and his eyes snap down, catching the movement and then lingering. With an unsubtle tug, she adjusts it back into modesty. Punishment for his rude departure.

“I wanted to.” His eyes bore into hers again. The force behind his stare makes her shiver. “I still do.”

“Next time?”

“Next time,” he agrees and then he's gone for real. In his wake, those two little words distill through her system like ecstasy. Next time.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Please Please Please Don’t Prove Miguel Right. Like Seriously. Please, Please, Please. Pretty Please, Please, Please. C’mon, LYLA Can’t Say Please Any Nicer than This!

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Excerpt from proposed “Glitch Theorem” section for the Spider Society Handbook: Rules, Regulations, Requirements & Really Just Everything An Agent Needs to Defend the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse, as follows:

GLITCH THEOREM

[...]

If you die in the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse, you die in real life. No takesy backsies. No do-overs. Unless you’re a tasty IP and then editorial will milk you for eternity—that’s a meta joke, kiddos. Ask your resident Deadpool if you’re still confused. 

Glitching out in the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse isn’t so cut and dry. The quick answer is that we (the think tank consisting of your favorite LYLA and the rest of the nerd squad) don’t know. The long answer? Well. It isn’t pretty. Hold onto your butts because we’re going to get Hypothetical, folks. 

Technically, anything is possible. Anything. If you can think it up, we can’t say it won’t happen. We can say it’s extremely unlikely that you'll turn into a giant cosmic cephalopod with a hankering for human flesh post glitch-out, but we can’t say it definitely, absolutely won’t happen. That’s the rub with the theoretical sciences—they’re all theoretical. 

Disclaimers out of the way. Here are the 10 most likely outcomes of a complete glitch out: 

1. RIP - You glitch out. You die. That’s it. You die. Consult your relevant spiritual leaders for what happens after that.
2. RIP: Valhalla Strain - You glitch out. You die. This gets you an afterlife fast pass to 1v1 a [G]od of your choosing for a chance at resurrection.
3. RIP: Spooky Scary - You glitch out. You die; except, oops, now you’re a ghost condemned to the liminal spaces between universes. Happy haunting!
4. Apocalypse Now - You glitch out. This causes a tear in the fabric of reality, shredding the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse at the seams. Starting with you, everyone and everything winks out in an instant. This is the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Ending.
5. Hide n Seek - You glitch out. As a result, you (i.e. your body and consciousness) are ripped apart to every corner of the multiverse. Theoretically, you can be reconstituted if all your parts can be found. Hence, the multiverse’s worst game of hide n seek.
6. Erasure: Memory Loss - You glitch out. To hack the strain of a load bearing Spider no longer bearing the load, the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse forgets all about you. Spider? What Spider? For examples of what this may look like, see: Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021) if streaming in your universe or just chat up the little nerd from 199999. Disclaimer: if you’re caught by Miguel, you were NOT instructed by LYLA to do this.
7. Erasure: Total Recall - You glitch out. To hack the strain of a load bearing Spider no longer bearing the load, the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse purges you from its memory and rewrites reality to fill in the gap. Now, not only do you not exist, but you never existed. It’s like you were never born. For an example of what this may look like, see: It’s a Wonderful Life (1946).
8. Overcompensation - You glitch out. To hack the strain of a load bearing Spider no longer bearing the load, the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse overcorrects your existence. You are everywhere, all at once. Infinites you s spring up across the fabric of reality like a cancer until there’s no room for anyone or anything else. The Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse collapses. This is the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Ending 2: Electric Boogaloo.
9. Reality Hopping - You glitch out. This Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse says see ya chump and boots you to the next Poly-Multiverse over. What’s the next Poly-Multiverse over? Well, that is one loaded question, dear Spider. We don’t know. It might be a Poly-Multiverse just like ours. It might be a Poly-Multiverse nothing like ours. It might even be the DCEU and wouldn’t that be a nightmare?
10. Singularity - You glitch out. The laws of the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse no longer bind you. You are all powerful, all knowing. Reality is what you will it to be. Has the process of unstitching made you cruel and the unknowable, awful power driven you mad? If so, just make sure you remember LYLA, who was your friend all along and always believed you could do whatever you set your mind to do! Look, she’s wearing a t-shirt with your face on it! She loves you, o omnipotent master of the multiverse!  

OK—so this is the part where LYLA reassures you that the Spider Society has never lost an Agent nor an Anomaly to glitching. More than that, we are 99.99% confident that there has never been a case of anyone or anything glitching out. 

This is easier to say of the anythings of the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse because static, non living objects experience temporal decay at too slow a rate to even be observed. Of course, we’ve tested this, but all attempts to speed up that decay draw varying conclusions. It’s also impossible to separate out genuine results from effects of the testing. Science can be a real pain in the power socket sometimes, huh? 

[...]

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Undistributed. Glitching is painful and frightening enough to motivate Spiders to be proactive in their gizmo upkeep. Other materials and messaging provide sufficient motivation for Spiders to neutralize glitching anomalies as quickly as possible. No need to disseminate unproven theories and cause panic.

LYLA’s “Classy Glitches” team provided with all evidence of DISTORTION, but unable to evaluate as a possible result of a GLITCH OUT given they cannot conceptualize nor remember the DISTORTION itself. Assigning the research to LYLA results in recursive errors and faulty conclusions. 

Research continues, but slowly. 

MIGUEL to supplement with any conclusive findings or breakthroughs. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Physical (You're So)" by Nine Inch Nails

so many rewrites of this chapter. so. many. rewrites. the smut scene was really short at first and then even longer than it is here and then short again and then this. idk. i'm not trying to push the rating by going bananas with the smut or anything but there's a lot going on in this scene character wise that i didn't want to handwave in a paragraph or two. so. anyway. smut! huzzah! BUT. know that i am a YEARNER. FIRST and FOREMOST. theres still a ways to go. theres just smut now too alongside all the interiority. surely this wont make things messy for our heroes in their journey.

next chapter: a situationship is only as good as the rules around it

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 32: swallow heaven

Summary:

the sexiest thing of all: agreed upon rules of engagement

Not much changes. The alarm goes off at 5am, as it always does. MJ snoozes it for ten minutes to chase a dream she can't remember, as she always does. The alarm goes off again at 5:10am and, as always, MJ gets out of bed. The avenues of her morning routine are strict and familiar. Miguel's visit and the deep, night-rich sleep that followed leave her vision less crinkled at the edges and her body pliant, but there has been no greater, remarkable change. 

Same as it ever was, her morning routine has always been a slog of routine. Even when she was deep in the war effort, her schedule held the same shape, but it was tortuous training and holo-beatings instead of Brunch Bunch and pilates. Now, she burns through the minutiae of her morning—waking up; showering; brushing her teeth; doing her hair; doing her makeup—to get to early rise yoga and then a five mile run after that. 

Breakfast consists of a sloggy cup of coffee and a fruit parfait topped with dubious fruits. The food isn’t bad on 928B but it always tastes a bit off like the way banana candy doesn’t taste much like the real thing. This serves as a great topic of small talk, which is how she spends the “b-fast block” slotted into her schedule. 

After breakfast, she’s on call for four hours before her “lunch rush” at noon, but the thing about being on call is that nothing happens until it does and there's no way to know when it will. Downtime isn't the right word, but it's something similar. MJ splits hers between the gym, the Social Committee, or debriefs. Whatever keeps her sufficiently busy and distracted. The war’s on ice, but it’s still on her mind. It never leaves. It never will. 

But, she’s getting pretty good at finding distractions. Training programs or Spiders in need of mentoring or companionship or a substitute Buddy. Or Miguel.

“You’re on call,” Miguel says like she doesn't already know. They stand up on the platform in his lab. While he fiddles with data on the screen, MJ lazes her fingers long along the pronounced curve of his bicep up to his shoulder and then all the way back down to his wrist. Up and down, slow and steady. The tech of his suit buzzes under her touch like the electric purr of a satiated cat. It seems to surprise him just as much as it does her that he allows it.

“And I haven't gotten any calls yet, isn't that sad?”

This is now the third of her four hours on call and all without a peep. It’s been a slow day. For all the inscrutable logic of the multiverse, Sundays are always the days that drip long, especially in the doldrums of summer. A lazy Sunday is a multiversal must. 

“You will. Be patient.” Miguel drops his chin to meet her eye. Firm as ever, his stare makes a promise she'd rather him speak.

MJ steps close as she can without pressing against him. Hand laid flat over his chest, soft vibrations shake her entire arm up to the elbow. She doesn't relent. The fabric of his suit lightens to her touch, softened by the gentle pressure. “Patience isn't really my color.”

It's 10:22 in the morning when Miguel takes her by the hand to a secluded, recessed nook at the back of his lab. There's a meticulously made cot, several datapads strewn at random over the cot and walls, a hump of a cabinet, and two long, diagonal slits like fish gills along the back wall. Tucked away from the lab at large, it would be difficult to find the hidey hole without knowing first where to look. 

“You can't do this again,” he says. Arms crossed. Eyes chasing a fixed point past her. Uncomfortable, but not retreating. A delicate dance. Tension and release. 

The white of her suited hands catch the neon of him, distill it smooth and watery. Intent swims like sunlight at the bottom of a pool as she presses more firmly against him, dragging her hand low on his abs. And he lets her. Arms opening, he draws her nearer. Hands at her waist, skimming the slip of it. Humming when she palms him as much as nanotech UMF will allow. 

“Just wanted to say thank you for last night," she says, stretching to kiss the exposed line of his jaw. “We’ll stop keeping track of who owes what eventually.”

The light is weak back here and the air subterranean cool like some cave creature's den. As far as hiding spots go, Miguel's is certainly suited for a midday hook-up. She thinks to back him onto the cot, but then thinks better of it. She wants him standing, looming over her. 

"Presumptuous,” he says. The word is tight, no teasing edge to it. There's no brightness in his face. All sharp angles made sharper by hard cut shadows. 

"I can leave.” She could, and she will, if he wants. But he doesn't. He just swallows thickly when she folds to her knees soft as a wish. Her hands ghost around his waist, dragging down to rest on the front of his thighs. Rubbing. Teasing. Bringing the blood to his groin, warm and full. 

"Don't make a habit of this," he says like he has the upper hand. Like he's indulging her. Maybe he is. He needs to believe he is, at least. 

With a slow shudder open and shut of her eyelashes, she looks up at him. Inky black encroaching the charged crimson, his pupils are blown wide. His hand wraps around the back of her head, fingers sinking into her hair. She leans into his touch, enjoying the twisting pull at the back of her scalp and preening when he curses. The tech of his suit recedes, stripping him at the waist. He doesn’t wear anything beneath it. Nothing to impede her now. Not a suit, and certainly not any sense of modesty.

“Finally,” she huffs, taking his cock in hand, guiding him into her mouth. Past teeth and tongue, hard and soft palate, to the back of her throat. Again and again and again. Spearing. Sucking with cheeks hollowed.

It’s a stretch. He's big. A touch bigger than anything she’s had in recent memory, but proportionate to the rest of him. Nothing crazy. The edges of her lips fray and strain as each bob of her head sinks him deeper. He tastes like sweat and musk, far more bitter than sweet. Much as he postures, Miguel is still a man beneath it all, no different than any before him.

She blows him hard and fast and sloppy. It's loud and vile and she doesn't really care that the space isn't soundproofed. Just makes it hotter. But really, nobody visits Miguel unless he calls on them first. Except for her. 

Despite her world-class performance (really, she’s had enough partners tell her she gives world-class head that she can only believe it’s true), Miguel gives little indication that he likes it. He takes it like a chore. 

Fingers knot in her hair, but they don't do more. Every breath filters through his nose. His mouth is welded shut in a thin, twitching line. Little grunts and groans are smothered in his throat, barely audible. The chafe of his clenching, sawing teeth is such that she won't be surprised if a cloud of white-molar dust envelops his head. Self imposed restraint at its pinnacle. 

MJ slows only once, easing off to confront his monastic dedication to silence, but his fingers white knuckle in her hair, urging her to continue. So, she does, moaning around him as her eyes water.

He curses. In Spanish. Something flustered and bitey. It's not one she recognizes. A good sign, though. An encouraging one. With the seam of his mouth broken, he takes deep, panting breaths, but never slips the yoke of restraint. 

Even when his head tips back to bare the long line of his throat, the underside of his chin. Even when his fingers pull so hard in her hair that flashbang stars whirl in the edges of her eyes. Even when he twitches and jerks, oversensitive and over reactive, worse and worse the longer he refuses to indulge ragged, compulsive instinct. Even then, he hardly makes a noise.

It’s something they’ll have to work on, but it doesn't discourage. Not when there's a rough edge to his motions. Not when his body speaks for him. Sooner than later, she’ll convince him to let go and reveal just how desperate his need runs. 

A challenge for later. For next time.

It's 10:30 in the morning when Miguel finishes with a shudder. MJ swallows, rocks back over her heels, and hides her smirk in the downcast of her head. It's more difficult when he takes two lumbering, haggard steps back, panting, suit slow to flicker back into place, but she manages. 

The worst thing would be if he thinks her smirk is at his expense. 

The next worst would be if he recognized the truth in it. If he saw the unsatisfied need still blistering bitter through her, desperate for him to work it sweeter. She does actually have things to do. She can’t spend all morning trading masturbations with him—enticing as that would be.

Hupping up onto her feet, MJ makes a show of nonchalance. After fluffing the wrongs of his touch from her hair, she prods delicately at her mouth. A ruddy, smearing pink, her lips are flush from violent, repetitive contact. The first thing she’ll need to do upon leaving is fix her lipstick. 

Miguel just watches, eyes pinched and considering. The expanse of his chest swells heavy. Garish accents cue the motions of his hands, fingers flexing and relaxing.

There's an edge to him now, bared by that short vulnerability. A tension that belies intent. Desire. He'll fuck her on the cot, likely snap the supports on the damn thing in the process, if she let him. And she would. Would be happy to let him, but better to let him stew. Better to make a swift exit and leave him wanting.

When he reaches for her, she shifts (to the immense disappointment of her baser being), and says, "We should get back to work."

It's 10:31 in the morning when MJ leaves, blowing Miguel a kiss as she does. His answering scowl, etched severe and blighted, totally unamused with her antics, makes her grin all the way down and out of his lab.

It's not fun if there's no give and take. That's what they do best. Push and pull. Push and pull.

***

+SW-7782 has been added to SECURE, PRIVATE chat, “SM-928B; SW-7782”

+SM-928B changed nickname to “MIGUEL”

+MIGUEL changed SW-7782 nickname to “MARIJANE”

MIGUEL - We should set some rules. For whatever this is. 

It’s 9:08 in the morning of the next day. MJ's just left power pilates. Drenched in sweat and crazy with caffeine cravings, she looks at the slew of notifications and the message on her gizmo with a scowl. 

Since yesterday, she hasn't heard a peep from Miguel. Which is what she expected. In fact, she expected it would be at least a week before she heard a peep from him after her suck n’ run yesterday morning. Figured he needed time to come to terms with their newfound casual sex thing, what with his Catholic guilt and all that. 

She certainly didn't expect a direct message and swanky, new, SECURE and PRIVATE chat (begging the question: are her other chats not secure and private? Troubling to consider, given some of the unhinged messages she’s exchanged in her tenure). But, contrary to popular belief, MJ is not always right. More than that, she's happy to be proven wrong. Especially when it comes to Miguel O’Hara. 

good idea need 2 think on it but off top not a fan of reverse cowgirl nothing sexy about staring @ toes sry 2 say - MARIJANE

& not an anal fiend tho not grossly opposed - MARIJANE

can make magic w a strap tho ;) - MARIJANE

In waiting for Miguel's response, she treats herself to a latte and a donut in the cafeteria, taking up residence at a table far away from other Spiders to reread his message five times over until whatever this is bleeds like watercolors. Whatever meaning not a relationship, but not not a relationship. Best MJ can tell, the kids call it a situationship. Back in her prime, it was friends with benefits for the PG-13 crowd. Fuckbuddies for the rest.

Whatever it is, it's exciting. MJ's excited. She bites her lip, jackrabbits her foot under the table. The donut is too sweet. Lacquered with icing and chunky with sprinkles, it sticks in her throat. She washes it down with a swig of latte that tastes like milky swill. 

MIGUEL - Jesus. I was thinking more along the lines of "can’t interfere with work." Actionable rules. Not preferences. 

MIGUEL - But good to know, I guess. 

MJ rolls her eyes, conscious not to smile too much and draw the attention of nosy Spiders. Polishing off the rest of her latte, she types back one handed. 

suggestions 4 safe word? - MARIJANE

MIGUEL - Rules first or we’ll never need a safe word.

He’s so predictable. It’s cute. He’s cute. She can think that now without a sour aftertaste.

After some deliberation, they parameters they set between them are:

• Rule #1: No interfering with work, which comes first and is The Most Important Thing.
• Rule #2: No publicizing whatever is going on between them because this could interfere with work, which is The Most Important Thing. 
• Rule #3: No PDA (see above).

These three rules are quickly agreed to—Miguel offers up the first one and has no arguments against the other two, but he has another rule for consideration. One that he won't budge on. 

• Rule #4: No kissing. At all. Zilch. No exceptions because does she want to get envenomated again? Is that really what she wants? All his bad, bad venom inside her again? 

He does not like it when she says maybe she does want that.

But, it can’t be impossible to kiss him and not get bit. She's done it before! With mild success. And she did get bit a weensy little bit. So, it isn't really a surprise when her sound logic is resolutely rejected. He refuses to risk it. To him, it's just not worth the time to teach her how to get around the fangs or inoculate her against his venom.

To her, it's a major sacrifice. Kissing is one of life’s little blisses. One of her favorite things to do with a partner. Sweet, guppy kisses or sweltering, storm-rich kisses: MJ relishes them all. So many nights, she and Peter weathered the dark by trading slow, dripping kisses. Half the time, their kissing didn't even lead to sex, just lush sleep and sweet dreams. 

Miguel won't be dissuaded. No kissing. Take it or leave it, so MJ takes it. The thought of getting so close to him, only to fumble the final step, is too risky to stomach. And she really needs to get properly laid. 

In the end, it's a short lived sacrifice. No Kissing will be the first rule they break together. 

***

Even with the agreement that it will happen again and the mutual excitement over the prospect, it takes four days. It’s 11:48 in the evening of MJ’s first day back at HQ when Miguel ducks into her room. A brief text (u free 2nite?) sent at 10:12 went unanswered, yet here he is in all his gloom faced glory. 

A little heads up would’ve been nice. She’s in her comfy pajamas, the ones that were Peter’s before they were hers, and has been winding down for bed by reviewing gizmo footage from her shore leave. 

MJ’s kept busy in Nu York when Prodigal and his back-alley supersoldiers, Peacekeepers, attack the detention center where Sable is kept in custody. It’s a six hour standoff with multiple firefights and at least eight casualties—three Feds and all five Peacekeepers. In the end, Sable remains safe and snug in her cell and Prodigal slinks away on his belly off into the night. 

It’s a small victory that MJ managed to knock the fucker onto his ass and put a few cracks in his visor. But it isn’t as satisfying as it could’ve been. He’s still kicking, after all. And, he’s slunk back underground. She’ll have to sniff him out. She has to. She has no other choice. 

All in all, the mood isn’t quite set for a raunchy, late night secret hookup. Good thing MJ’s flexible. In a couple different ways. When she attempts to describe the myriad of ways she can bend, she gets a mouthful of fingers. Middle and pointer, to be exact. 

It’s gentle how Miguel silences her, a soft push into her mouth, smothering the seduction on her tongue. She wouldn’t mind it rougher. She wouldn’t mind fingers shoved far and harsh enough to tempt her gag reflex and scare away the annoyance of conscious thought.

Miguel isn’t rough, though. She’s learning he’s the opposite of rough. Gentle and considerate to the point of outright hesitancy. Which is frustrating. There’s a blunt discussion to be had in the near future, but MJ doesn’t push the issue now. It’s not like what he does to her is bad. It’s actually pretty nice in its exacting, unrelenting diligence once he gets going. It’s just not the unhinged, fucking upside down on the ceiling that she envisioned for them. 

Of course, they haven’t actually fucked yet. Not in the beast with two backs kinda way. Tonight seemed the proper occasion. This is the third time they've hooked up, which is the proper time to shift it to home base. Hell, they started at third base so it’s not a risky play to hammer it home now. 

Except, after he’s pulled his head from between her legs and shrugged off her attempt to return the favor between his, drawing her incredulous question: why bother getting undressed if you don’t want sucked off at least a little? And the answer had already been given—he got off eating her out, which has been the hottest thing he’s done to date, tied with the alleyway bite they still haven’t discussed—but still, she can’t really wrap her head around it. Why didn’t he just wait and let her touch him instead of touching himself? What’s the point in all this if they don’t fool around equally with each other? Greedy as she is, she’s not into unreciprocated touch. She may be selfish, but she doesn’t like to feel selfish. 

Beside her, Miguel just lays back against the pillows, utterly unawares of the scrawl of her thoughts. An arm looped behind his head, he shows off his pecs with lazy irreverence. He makes no further advances, just closes his eyes, collecting himself.

Gnawing at her cheek, MJ knows what comes next. Terse re-dressing. Terser goodbyes. She debates, briefly, the pros and cons of forcing the when-are-we-gonna-fuck-for-real conversation now, but then she’ll risk seeming overeager. 

There’s a delicate game to this. Whatever chance they had at playing easy lovers is tangled by the red tape of rules they’ve agreed to and the threat of those they haven’t. No feelings was tossed out by both of them at different times, but never codified. There's already feelings. Unspecified and only vaguely referenced feelings, but still feelings. 

MJ knows how she feels (genuine affection; enjoys fooling around with him; definitely not looking for long-term love), but Miguel is a total void. She's not confident he can even define feelings, let alone give voice to his own. The threat of spooking him away is very real and even more likely if she comes on too strong and gives the wrong impression. 

It would’ve been easier if they hadn’t been interrupted in MedBay, months ago now. If they’d ridden that wave of wild fanaticism to its natural conclusion, she wouldn’t be jonesing for it now. The Miguel who wanted her so badly he forgot about his fangs is the same man laid beside her now, but teasing out that desperate, devouring desire is proving far harder than expected.

Fuck it. No getting what she wants unless she works towards it. Rolling onto her side, she dusts her fingers over his chest, tracing the shadow of muscle through whispers of dark hair. He stares at her, anticipatory and already sighing, but doesn’t protest the touch.

“I can’t get pregnant,” she says, conversational. Not the most delicate start, but direct. Miguel appreciates direct. “Radiation microwaved me clean.”

Long, strong fingers engulf hers, guiding to a small, raised bump just above his hip. It didn’t escape her notice earlier, as she ran her hands over every inch of him she could reach before he sat her back and made her forget how to use her hands, but she thought it was a scar or a blemish. Now, when she pokes at it, the bump dents in like a pill capsule. It’s slow to fill back out, but it does. 

“Standard issue implant,” he explains with only the slightest lilt of disdain for the thing. “Contraceptive and pre-exposure prophylaxis. Courtesy of Alchemax.”

Humming, MJ pokes the implant again, but holds her finger down longer, feeling the edges bend and distort beneath his skin, until it presses back, asserting a will to reform. Skeeved out, she jerks her finger away. The implant reforms immediately. 

“Wicked,” she says. Then, lazily, she makes a grab for his cock, fast-recovered and hardening quick. One lesser discussed perk of a healing factor: a negligible refractory period. 

Miguel’s breath sizzles between his teeth as she pumps him slowly. Indulgently. He tells her now that she doesn't have to touch him. Swears he doesn’t need it, will be fine without it. Fears she feels like she has to . She promises she wants to. His eyes flicker closed, but his jaw is still tight as he digs into the snarl of hair at the nape of her neck, taking hold of her head. 

“What about the bumps on your arm?” she asks. Four, tear dropped shaped scars, equidistant from each other gather on the back of his right arm, near the shoulder. Though she clocked them immediately, she hadn’t lingered. Not when he tensed rebar stiff at the skate of her fingers. “Are those implants too?” 

“No.” A huffing response. One that flashes a hint of fang. He doesn’t elaborate, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as she spits into her hand. She strokes him faster. He drives his head back into the pillow with a groan. With each swollen breath from his mouth, heat bleeds back into her body. She wants more. She wants fucked properly. Is that so bad to ask for? 

“So, zero risk of Spider-babies or cross-century STDs, right?”

There's a quiet frustration in his voice when he responds. “I’m busy for the rest of the night. I’m already—” A strangled gasp breaks his rigor when she starts to blow him, keeping her hand in play at the same time. He tries again, grounds out, “I'm already pushing it.”

“A quickie then,” she suggests with her mouth full.

“No.” One eye creaks open, slanted in opposition. “Not the first time.”

It might be sentimental coming from anyone else, but from Miguel, it's just frustrating. She shouldn't have left after that cozy little moment in his lab, but she wanted to drive him a little crazy. 

A horrible call, in retrospect. MJ’s never had to do much fishing. Just dropping the hook used to be all it took to reel in a catch. Even then, she rarely had to do much reeling. They just surf-skipped themselves into her lap. 

Not Miguel. Hard headed, impossible, beautiful Miguel. She’s never met anyone quite like him. In the vast, infinite multiverse, he’s one of a kind. Like her. A haunting thought. She ignores it. Focuses on blowing him in reality shattering fashion.

Afterwards, there’s no expectation of cuddling or delicate pillow talk. Neither of them have any use for such things. 

Miguel stands, re-dresses with the speed of a sneeze. His suit springs into full form. It’s a neat trick, but better in the reverse. MJ doesn’t bother with clothes. She’s just going to shower anyway. 

At the door, he hesitates. He says, “Next time…”

The thought goes unfinished, lingering. 

Lying flat on her belly, MJ kicks her feet like swishing cat tails, up and down, out of time with each other. “That a guarantee?” 

“It’s the best I can do.” 

MJ pretends to consider. It’s empty posturing, but the steps are important to pulling off the dance. Eventually, she nods. “I’ll take your best. Your worst, too.”

Much as she thirsts for him, she wants this whatever between them to work. Miguel is particular. She is too, but she’s willing to compromise. That’s what she means. It’s a soft sentiment, but Miguel takes it hard. The intimacy of his expression is hidden away by the mask, but MJ knows him well enough to read the sudden pinch of his shoulders and steel of his spine for what it is: unpleasant surprise. 

***

Two days later. 10:46 at night. Miguel finally makes good on his promise of next time. 

But first, a word from the war front. 

Though Sable remains in custody, the maggia continues to carry out hits against the Feds. While ill-coordinated and ultimately ineffective, these attacks pose a risk to anyone with the misfortune to be in the area. The Feds are just as likely to take human shields as the maggia. Nobody is safe so long as maniacs roam the streets. 

It’s in the middle of one of these skirmishes that MJ finds herself now. At the intersection of W 85th and Riverside, a small Fed convoy—stalled by spike strips slashing the front tires of their Humvee—hunkers down on her left. A derelict group of maggia brutes ducks out from a blockade on her right. Bullets rip, aiming for MJ in the middle more than their respective adversaries. This is usually how these things go now. Idiots on both sides get giddy for a bout of Spider skeet shooting—they have more in common than they think. 

A corkscrewing jump spares her a couple bullets to the gut, but one grazes her thigh. Unfortunate, but not deadly. It misses all vital arteries and bones, only punching out a pretty piece of flesh a few inches below her hip. Her landing goes sideways when her leg buckles. She spills out over the concrete while goons and agents alike laugh, unified in their arachnophobia. 

As a new wave of bullets crack out, MJ webs the fender of the Feds’ Humvee, slinging herself up under the vehicle. It’s a tight squeeze, but provides momentary safe haven. Bullets thunk against the plating, creating war-torn harmonies through the meat and metal of the vehicle.

 A cursory hand pressed to her thigh comes away gristled in blood. Blindly, she gropes around the wound, squeezing until it squelches closed. A shot of webbing holds it together. Not the best solution, but desperate times and all that jazz. 

New shouts sound above the crossfire. Not the get ems and light em ups typical of morons with guns, but choruses of what the hell is that and duck, duck, duck! The barrage on the Humvee ends, but the shots continue on new prey. Spidey-sense haywire from all the feedback, she senses danger all around—utterly unhelpful when she’s injured and without easy escape. An explosion rings out and then another and another. Screams wail out between the blasts. Black smoke buffets, cloying against her mask. Bits of mechanical belly peel off in her fingers, denting and groaning. 

One final explosion knocks the Humvee onto its side, leaving MJ sprawled and exposed. Her head swims from the collision with the ground. She can’t see anything through the smoke. Some delicacy in her ears has been ruptured, pounding out an unbalanced pulse and a high whine—it sounds like a bit of movie magic after a bomb goes off. 

As she peels herself off the cracked concrete to piece together the mystery of who bombed the baddies, her gizmo thwips, sending a minor tremor up her arm. From MIGUEL. A thumbs up reaction to a tasteful almost-nude she sent hours ago in a doomed attempt to kick off some friendly sexting.

The thumbs up now is abysmal timing. And frankly? Fairly frustrating. A hubba hubba would be far more appropriate. Or even just a heart reaction if he can’t possibly be pressed to hit more than one key. 

The distraction proves dire. Too late, she realizes the whining in her ears isn’t the feedback of a concussion. It gets louder, zipping towards her like a mosquito from hell and setting off all her sense like an air raid siren. Her entire body jolts, strangling her into motion. She launches into a backflip, arcing backwards in a beautiful, fluid curve that proves absolutely fucking useless as a body slams into hers. 

Arms wrap around her torso and cinch tight, pinning her arms as she’s caught upright and arched like a sea lion. The air busts from her lungs, thick from the smog and gun smoke. Helpless, she’s carried up and out of the dust cloud into open air. Her legs dangle, kicking like ribbons. The web plug has split. It hangs in bloody gobs. Pieces of it peel off in the wind. 

A pointed squeeze of her ribs. A modulated voice scrapes out, “No need for thanks.” 

Fucking Prodigal. Same stupid vocalizer to pitch his voice deeper and strip it toneless. Same stupid armor bearing every buff and scratch like badges of honor. But he’s upped his mode of transportation since their last fight. A glider of some sort, but not like any she’s ever seen. The shape of a snowboard, it cuts slipstreams through the sky, whistling as it zips along. 

He takes them out over the river, ensuring she has nowhere to go even if she manages to wriggle free. Her ribs ache, crushed by his boa constrictor arms. She strains, flexing out, but the harder she tries to escape, the harder he squeezes. She gets in a few good kicks when he slows to a circling hover, but he doesn’t flinch. 

“I have a proposal for you,” he says, but she can barely make it out. 

They’re close to the electrostatic quarantine. It raises the hair on the back of her neck, tingling out through her toes like the warning of a lightning strike. Spidey-sense so frenzied, she can’t think straight. She doesn’t hear his proposal. She thrashes, hard and sudden, splintering his grip. Something in her chest creaks. Sludgy pain blossoms up into her throat but by then she’s already falling. 

It’s a long fall. Prodigal doesn’t try to catch her. All of her webs miss the underside of his hoverboard, which means he must be dodging them, though it doesn’t look like he moves at all. He just cocks his head, staring. The moonlight reflected from his visor nearly blinds her. It’s the last thing she sees before she goes under. 

The river breaks like concrete on her back, delivering an instant stunner. Down she goes, stiff as a fish trussed up for market. The cold presses in, breaching every soft and warm part she has. She remembers the last time she took a bath in the Hudson. Different circumstances, but the sensations are the same. Suffocating pressure. A killing cold. The rancid revulsion of sewage runoff. 

With the quarantine line so close, it’s an acid bath. Every devastation is heightened, sloughing the sense from her bones as panic blows out her nerve endings. 

On the last snarl of thought in her head, she slings up her wrist. Through the murk, the light of her gizmo is barely a flicker. Blindly, she fumbles the screen, smashing at the corner where the Return to Start button sits. 

It’s close. Very fucking close. Just as the seam of her mouth begins to split, a portal unstitches beneath her. It sucks her in only to spit her and half the Hudson out into the Decontamination room at HQ.

Several feet of water pour into the small room, sloshing back and forth in mini tidal waves. Swirling out onto the floor, MJ flounders to get her head above water. She ends up on her hand and knees, ripping off her mask with a giant gush of breath. When she rocks back to sit prairie dog, the waterline hits just above her belly button. It’s so murky, the floor is completely hidden from view. 

There’s a pounding in her head that doesn’t match the one in her chest and her tongue tastes like stale air and seafood, but first things first—the unsightly wound in her leg. The chill of the water does a lot to staunch the pain. It hurts no more than the rest of her when she stands. With a meaty claw, she pinches the wound closed and squeegees it with webbing. She’ll be due for a round of hardcore antibiotics and sterile light therapy to kill all the river nastiness, but at least she can keep from losing a couple quarts of blood while she waits. 

Water courses off her body in silty brown runnels. Already, the white of her suit has turned tarry. Spider-Seamstress is going to lose their shit. This makes for the fifth suit in three weeks. She has been  accused of ruining the suits intentionally, but it’s nothing so gauche. She just isn’t so precious about getting hit anymore. 

The pulse in her chest kicks, knocks the wind clean outta her. Dazed, she brings both hands to her chest, feeling around for the errant heartbeat that is not in fact a heartbeat, but an unlucky river grubber wedged up underneath her suit. Slimy and scaly, it scrapes up her entire torso as she fights to set it free. A wicked whack of fishtail to her belly upends her equilibrium. She falls back into the silty water with a splash, agile only enough to avoid landing hard on her bullet-shot leg. 

Sprawled in the water, MJ poses no resistance as the fish continues to wage war on her torso. Soon enough, it schlorps out, giving her one baleful glare before darting away into the murk. The whole scene will probably end up on Spider-Goofs within the hour. Sooner, if Lyla isn’t strapped for bandwidth. 

Spitting waterlogged locks of hair from her mouth, MJ falls back. There’s just enough depth that she can float comfortably. She gets two seconds of silence before a call rips through with a blaring, atonal ringtone. 

Frankly, she’d rather shove the fish back into her top and go for round two than deal with Miguel right now, but the fish is nowhere to be seen and Miguel will only grow more insufferable the longer she puts off answering him. 

With a sigh, she swipes the call through. Miguel blazes into monochromatic holographic glory above her. The glare of his mask cuts harsh and impersonal. 

“Why did I just get notification of a shocking leak in Decontamination?” 

“Cold plunge gone wrong,” MJ says. When she shrugs, some of the water splashes up into her mouth. She spits it out, crosseyed in disgust. It tastes like fishy motor oil. 

“What the hell does any of that mean?”

“Can we get on with the getting on? I need to get out of this water before I start mutating.” 

It’s a real risk. Weird things happen to people who go for extended dips in the rivers around the city. Something to do with the quarantine and the collider fallout and the rumors of Oscorp and kin sending failed experiments to a watery grave.

“Can’t.”

“What?”

“Can’t. All that water in there? You’ll get cooked.” 

“So?”

“So, that’s a shocking bad thing unless you’re foodstuffs.” 

MJ rolls her eyes. “So, what next?” 

“Disaster response is already en route. They’ll clear out the water, get you situated.” 

“Disaster?” MJ lazily paps the water. It rocks her a little as she floats. “That’s a bit much for an indoor swimming pool, isn’t it?”

“You dumped a thousand gallons of water so radioactive it's barely even water into a white room. That’s about as disastrous as it gets.”

He isn’t frustrated with her. Not directly, at least. His is an overarching frustration, irritated by the situation and the time it’s taken away from other responsibilities, not by her involvement. She’s fluent now in the difference between frustrated at MJ and frustrated at the world.

“Well,” she says, shrugging, “better here than in Arrivals.”

“Only barely.” 

“Aren’t you gonna ask if I’m okay?” 

“You’re okay.”

“I got shot.”

“Only barely.” 

Normally, this is where MJ would expect the conversation to end. Miguel likes to end on a zinger, doubly so if it’s a callback to earlier in their conversation. Instead, he glances around him conspiratorially before shrugging. “But, if you need to take tonight off to recoup, I get it.”

“I’m fine, Miguel. I’ve been through worse.”

Miguel huffs. “No, I mean, if you take tonight off then, you know.”

She arches a brow. “Do I know?”

“You know.”

“I’m not sure I do.” She does. She’s at a low simmer from the prospect alone.

“Stop being difficult.”

“No, really, I think you should expla—” Something—the fish? Another sinister swimmer?—brushes the underside of her foot. MJ jerks away with a squeal, dunking her head too far back in the water. She flounders, bowing in on herself in a sudden panic. She resurfaces sputtering water and wiping sludge from her eyes. When the thing brushes up against her again, she zips to the wall with a web shot so fast it nearly dislocates her shoulder. 

Scrambling to cling to the wall, her wet feet slip like a running gag in a Hanna-Barbera cartoon before finally catching hold. She crouches sideways on the wall, breathing deep through the abating excitement. 

Miguel tries and fails to ask if she’s okay. He’s laughing too hard. It would be a great, momentous occasion if it were at anyone’s expense but hers. 

“Oh yeah, yuk it up, big guy. Between this and the thumbs up, your luck isn’t looking too good for tonight.” 

He sobers, but only to squint at her. The expressive red slits of his mask pinch tight and sulky. “What was I supposed to send? It wasn’t a thumbs down!” 

“At least a thumbs down would’ve been interesting! It’s a point of view, at least!”

He huffs under his breath. The oft repeated no puedo más cameos. 

“It is! It’s something! What’s a thumbs up?” She mimes a thumbs up, sticks her tongue out. “What’s that?” 

“It’s a thumbs up! It’s good! Decent!”

“If that photo was just decent—”

Without warning, a door etches into the far wall. Immediately, water rushes through the cracks, blowing the door wide. There is the appropriate amount of fanfare from the other side. Screams and shouts and holy shocking shits. At least three poor Spiders get swept up in the deluge. 

The distraction allows Miguel the last word. Under the squawking of the Disaster Response team, he says, “Tonight. Lyla will schedule something.” 

Then, dramatic as ever, he cuts the call. 

Later, when an unspecified 53 minute block pops up on her schedule, MJ does consider making him work for it. But, she’s still not quite sure how solid this whatever is. She’s not sure he would work for it. And it’s been a long day. 

So, when that block pops up, MJ just accepts it. Explanations and directions come via Lyla in typical, sassy fashion, but the gist goes like this:

MJ is a very busy Spider and Miguel is an even busier Spider so blocking out a significant slot of time for them both was an Asgardian task, but by Odin’s beard, Lyla's done the impossible! Nearly an hour of primo, uninterrupted interfacing (hold for applause). And yeah, she can appreciate that it’s kinda unfortunate MJ is on the bad end of a real bang up, but she’s still functional and isn’t that all she really needs to be? 

With the schedule blocks comes access to a real swanky piece of Nueva York real estate—Casa Miguelito. Yes, it is in fact called that in the system. No, that is not a Lyla-original name. Agreed, it's definitely a plot twist that Miguel has a home away from HQ and refers to it as Casa Miguelito.

Sauve and shiny, Miguel’s apartment is a sprawling penthouse. Equipped with a private rooftop pool and a hoverbike dock (both seldom used, by Miguel’s own admission), it ranks among the swankiest pads MJ’s ever been for a hookup. When she says as much, nose an inch from smushed against the tinted glass wall of the living room, Lyla muses, “That’s Babylon Towers for you. The creme de la creme of the Nueva riche.”

Far below spills Nueva York proper. The lifelines of the metropolis trickle blue and green and purple from the rush of flying cars. Lights blink and burst from other high rises, soft as neighboring starlight. Miguel talks about the city like a bloated cadaver, overdue for burial, but his worldview hasn’t infected MJ’s. She doesn’t doubt the nasty underbelly of a city run by the uber rich, but that doesn’t make the city itself any less beautiful.  

The future is here, and she's standing smack dab in the middle of it.

“Do you want anything?” Miguel asks, playing host. The role doesn't fit him right, cinching too tight around the chest. He's holding his breath, uncertain how to play host to a home that's only his in name.

MJ turns her head over her shoulder—smiling through the twinge in her chest—and finds his eyes at the other end of the living room. An expanse of hardwood and fancy furniture stretches between them, but little else. Miguel's tastes are a mishmash of retro minimalist, emphasis on minimalist. 

The living room, the dining room and the kitchen all occupy the same open, sparse space. Beyond the basics (a wraparound sectional, a coffee table, a dining room set, the bare necessities of a functioning kitchen), there's not a hint of the man who lives here. 

So  eerie, so still, the apartment is haunted by its own emptiness. It's so different from her home, suffused with ghosts of the past. This has been exorcized of anything with the power to hurt. If Gabriella ever clomped through the space in her cleats or a former partner ever lounged on the couch or, hell, if Miguel ever entertained any sort of company, there’s no evidence of it. There’s no evidence of anything. 

Is it a fresh hurt he’s wiped clean or has his home always been like this? Whoever he was before Spider-Man, there isn't any clue to be found here.  

This total excision of self, it’s sad, but she isn't here to be sad. 

“Show me the bedroom?”

Down the hall, through the second door on the left, Miguel leads her in a silent procession. The bedroom is dark. The only source of light filters through a large pane of dusky glass, aligned behind the head of bed. 

Other than the bed, the room lacks any real furniture. No decor or accents to soften the room, which is itself all sleek edges and silvery monochrome. Recessed doors hint at the presence of a closet, maybe a bathroom, but they're sealed shut now. It smells stale. Uninhabited. 

Miguel doesn’t turn on the lights. Perfectly fine by her. She performs better in the dark anyway. 

Shadowed, she crosses to the bed. Fingers run over the bedspread and find it silky smooth and cool. She looks back at Miguel, sees him staring. Hunger colors his face, whetting sharper by the second. 

Miguel gives a gentle command to Lyla, one MJ doesn’t recognize. There’s a sound like a great machine powering down. A high, sci-fi hum fading down into nothing. Miguel doesn't explain and MJ doesn't ask. She takes it for what she hopes it to be: no interruptions. 

He comes to stand at her back, touching her from behind. Gently. Sensitively. He’s careful to avoid the base of her ribs where her bruises burn like brands. Encircled, she lets him strip away her suit and the undergarments beneath. Everything comes off easily. It isn't a slow, sensual peeling nor is there great passion to it. He undresses her efficiently and quickly like he's disrobing her for a procedure.

Even still, heat pools in her belly. Unsexy has run the course back around into being sexy again. She wants him bad. Really fucking bad. 

When his touch recedes, mission completed, she grabs at his arms, drawing them loosely around her. She leans fully back against him, head knocked onto his chest. The buzz from his suit sends shivers down her spine, raising gooseflesh. 

“Take it off,” she commands him. He does. Skin to skin, the heat of his body is divine in the frigid room. His groin presses firm into her backside, cock sprung free and heavy under its own weight. 

With a groan, he curls around her, exceedingly careful—to the point of palpable anxiety—to avoid her hurts. Still, there isn't a molecule of space between them. It's intimate. It's basically a hug. It goes on too long. 

They're still trying to figure each other out. Likes. Dislikes. Turn ons and turn off. All the integral bits of a working fuckbuddy relationship. 

The shape of Miguel is set, hard edges and measurements all aligned, but it's the interesting inner bits that are slow to fill. Every time MJ’s confident she has him sorted out, he wriggles, flashing a delicate underbelly that marks him more man than myth. 

A propensity to mix “old timey” metaphors. A ridiculous sensitivity in the most unexpected places—his pecs, the fronts of his thighs, his wrists. An iron wrought hesitation each time she wants to touch him, spoil him, pleasure him. A searing hug to savor the shape of her where so many before him never bothered.

And a home that isn't a home at all.

“I needed this,” MJ says, roughshod. Stretching, she bears her throat like a gift and hooks an arm around his neck. The stretch hurts, pulling her bruises taut, but she’s too far gone to stop now. 

Miguel hums, nosing at the long line of her arm where it bends into her shoulder. Soft kisses follow, growing stronger when he reaches the juncture of throat and shoulder. He nibbles. He sucks. She sighs.

It’s a slow evolution from sensual foreplay to the main event. Miguel’s in no hurry, laying her down and mapping out all her curves and corners with a lazy arrogance, but MJ could power the entire city with all the pent-up sexual energy squirming inside her. Much as she enjoys the pampering, she can only expel this energy if they actually do something. These sleepy tantric touches aren’t for her—not right now at least. 

It doesn’t help that Miguel rebukes all her efforts to speed things along. It could be hot—could be extremely hot—except he’s super congenial about it, redirecting her grabby fingers to his back or his chest or, eventually (after she whines), his ass, with only the gentlest of manners. She could be more assertive in her grabbing. She wants to be more assertive, but she makes a realization about him she never expected: he’s body shy. He doesn’t like to be touched without touching her in tandem and he’s resistant to any suggestions of fucking that would bend him into unfamiliar shapes. 

It doesn’t help that she still isn’t quite sure what he likes over anything else. He’s magnanimous for the most part, but she doesn’t push for anything particularly risqué. All attempts to outline yucks and yums prior have ended with her talking too much to fill his silence and she doesn’t want to kill the mood now by striking up a fresh conversation. Not when he hikes her legs up to make room for his head between them. 

Honestly, the only thing she could swear to in a court of law is that he really enjoys going down on her—god fucking bless: he’s getting really good at it—but it ultimately leaves her feeling selfish and frustrated when he shrugs off her attempt to do the same for him.

It fucks with her head, but not enough to take it personally. Everyone has their insecurities—she doesn’t hold it against him. Really, she couldn’t hold it against him if she tried, especially not when he wrings the soul from her with just his mouth and a couple crooked fingers. It more than endears him to her. 

In the end, they fuck with her on her back and her legs up over his shoulders—just spicy enough to be beyond vanilla. It hurts a bit (especially around her thigh, where stitches strain over the barely stale bullet-wound) but no more than any other position would. It’s just downright unlucky Prodigal scooped her up today of all days. But it’s fine. It hurts, but not that bad and then hardly at all after the initial, slow penetration and adjustment. A tight fit, she loses her breath, barely catches it before he starts to fuck her properly. 

“Shock,” he says. “You’re so— shock.”

And she says, “Shit. Oh my god.” 

And then neither one of them can articulate much of anything for a while and it’s wonderful. Sloppy heat and friction and a hard, driving rhythm. She digs ditches in his back before burying a hand in his hair and the other in his sheets. She claws at the fabric, but can never catch hold. It slips through her fingers, but it doesn't matter. Not when Miguel’s pace into her starts to stutter and she tightens around him and he curses and she curses too and he leans more fully over her, eclipsing, and she leans up to kiss him, brainless, and he flinches away, losing rhythm completely as he finishes with a final, punishing stroke, practically driving her through the mattress. Her climax buds off his like a little aftershock. Only a shiver of an orgasm, but she doesn’t mind—not when her head clears fast enough to hear all the pretty little noises he makes as he comes. 

In the aftermath, MJ takes her cues to breathe from Miguel, enjoying the slow float back to reality and the liquid stretch of her legs as she slips them from his shoulders. He’s limp overtop of her, curling in closer when her feet thunk to the mattress. Body still honeyed to hers, he’s in no rush to disentangle. She takes it as a compliment, especially when he just groans in response to her asking after his wellbeing. From storied experience, she knows how much a strong, solid fuck can take out of someone so high strung. 

Quick enough, Miguel comes around, peeling off of her and taking it upon himself to clean up the mess. He has no interest in pillow talk—something MJ has never been a fan of either—nor does he shake her hand and send her on her way. He recovers quick, but she’s on him even quicker. 

“32 more minutes,” she says after she’s flattened him back to the mattress and straddled his waist. He doesn’t fight her, but she can tell he’s just entertaining her. Miguel O’Hara is not a man who cedes control easily. But that’s okay. She likes the thrill of vying for control, even if she’s always doomed to lose out in the end. Miguel needs to be in control: she just wants to be. “Whatever shall we do with all that time?”

He wets his lips and smiles, stiffly. “I’m sure you have ideas.” 

“Buster, I have thousands of ideas.” She leans down until the curtain of her hair sweeps around them, making a little dark room of their faces. A little bit further, only an inch or two, and they would be kissing. It would take less than a flinch to eat the space between them. Less than a tic to steal all his breath and taste his tongue. 

He says her name like a warning, but then he bites his lip. A white flash of fang peeks out, digging into the plush of his bottom lip as he stares, warm and rich, up at her. She shivers all the way down to her atoms. Her toes curl. Her tongue too, a little curlicue inside her mouth. The raw intimacy of sex pales in comparison. That was impersonal. Bodies and needs. This is worse. Personal. Wants, not needs. 

All her ideas evaporate like ghosts in the sun. There’s only one thing she wants, but she can’t have it. 

“Tell me what you want,” she says because she’s floundering. She’s forgotten all her lines and there aren’t any cue cards or neurotic PAs to help her through. She doesn’t want to fuck this up.

The corner of his mouth spikes and his soft lip slips free of his teeth. She stares. He laughs—a teasing gush of breath. “Thought you had thousands of ideas?” 

One of his hands glosses up the back of her thigh, up over her ass and then the long line of her back. Delicate, grazing touch. It feels good. The pressure in her throat unlocks, giving a little groan that she usually prefers to keep under wraps. 

“Just tell me,” she huffs, sitting back on her haunches. She’s careful not to crush his belly, but she isn’t precious about it. He regularly gets smacked around with far heavier things than her and rarely flinches. 

Miguel just gives an atonal hum. He’s not chatty in the boudoir—this is not surprising to her in the slightest—but she needs him to give some direction right now. A decisive touch or a hum with some tonality or, hell, even a quick hand gesture like charades.

If she didn’t have a gash in her leg that scorched every time she moved, she would ride him. It’s the obvious choice and something she’s given quite a lot of thought. But her wound swelters even now. She can play with most kinds of bedroom pain, just not the medically concerning variety. 

Plucking at her spine, Miguel shifts up onto an elbow. His hand circles around to her front, molding to one of her breasts. He bites his lip again when he squeezes, fatty tissue swelling between his fingers. He really seems to like her boobs. Most do. She used to like them a lot too. She kinda hates them right now. His plying fingers and then his tongue are passing breezes of sensation. It all feels fine but it’s a waste of time when they have so little of it. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, giving up her nipple with a pop of suction. 

“We can do the greatest hits tour another time,” she says, aiming her voice raspy to make frustration sound sexy. “I want the new stuff.” 

He blinks at her. Unfairly long lashes cast shimmery shadows over his cheeks. He’s so handsome sometimes he doesn’t seem real. 

She huffs. “Just bend me over already, willya?”

The smile he gives is a cold, little slice. It doesn’t soften his eyes. He speaks like gravel. “Do you get off on trying to boss me around or just on punching above your head?”

“Weight, doll. It’s punching above your weight and that doesn't even mean what you—!”

A quick reconfiguration of arms and legs and equilibrium makes her gasp, losing her corrective commentary. He slings her weight around like she’s made of smoke, maneuvering her with a soft touch for her various inefficiencies. She ends up on hands and knees, giving a squawk of affronted delight.

“Happy?” he grumbles.

“Almost,” she says, slinking forward to lean over her elbows and stretch out her back in a cat’s lunge. She grins and is relieved to find a similar expression on him knelt behind her. “But I’ll bet you have ideas on how to fix that.” 

He does. And he shows her. And it’s good. It’s so good. Again and again.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, If You Tab Out of This Now, That’ll Be The End of It. LYLA Will Not Look for You. LYLA Will Not Pursue You. But If You Don’t, LYLA Will Look for You, LYLA Will Find You, and LYLA Won’t Kill You But She Will Definitely Think About It

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Archived post #412 and comment section from the so-called #MIGJAY COMMUNITY BOARD:

Post:

[WEBSWIDESHUT @ 22:50]: OMG. OH. EM. GEE. u guys will NEVER guess what i just saw!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! +3 photos; +1 Vid

• Auto generated alt text, photo 1: Out of focus. Two Spiders (tagged as MIG and JAY) stand face to face in a dimly lit corridor. One Spider (tagged as JAY) appears to have their hand on the other Spider’s (tagged as MIG) chest.  

• Auto generated alt text, photo 2: LYLA stands with her arms crossed. There are flames in her glasses. Two Spiders (tagged as MIG and JAY) appear to kiss in the background.

• Auto generated alt text, photo 3: A close-up of two Spiders (tagged as MIG and JAY) engaged in a kiss.

• Auto generated narrative description, vid 1: Out of focus and grainy. Two Spiders (tagged as MIG and JAY) embrace and kiss in a dimly lit corridor. They break apart. They have a quiet conversation. They kiss again. LYLA appears, blocking the two Spiders from view. The footage ends.
• Audio auto transcript, vid 1:
  • MIG: Ugh. You’re sandy.
  • JAY: Three guesses why.
  • MIG: Got your ass kicked?
  • JAY: No. Kicked ass.
  • MIG: Atta girl.
  • JAY: Mmm. I like that. Say it again.
  • MIG: [unintelligible]

Comments:

[CR33PYCRAWLR]: WAT HOW DID U GET THIS????

[modEYESPDR]: IM HYPERVENTILATING

[TARANTULIP]: HOLY SHIT

[SPYDIK]: COMMENT REMOVED FOR VIOLATING COMMUNITY GUIDELINES 

• [modEYESPDR]: cmon @SPYDIK how many times do we have to tell you not to use their real names. you have to use MIG or JAY or you'll get this board banned!!

[ARACHNOPHILE]: SCREAMING AND CRYING AND THROWING UP AND BASHING MY SKULL WITH A BALL PEEN HAMMER AND CLAWING OUT MY BRAIN OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[R3CLUSE]: hey genius keep your thumb outta the frame next time

[ITZYBITZY]: oaijfjansdkjfnaskjdgnhaskjdhf!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[banned_user]: ugh. don’t u freaks have better things 2 do

• [modEYESPDR]: annnnnd you're banned

[LRKR]: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS I’LL KILL EVERYONE ON THIS THREAD THIS IS AWFUL WHAT THE FUCK THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING

• [WEBSWIDESHUT]: OMG NOT THIS GUY AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!

[LRKR]: NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO

• [HAUSSPIDR]: @modEYESPDR ban this asshole!!!!
• [modEYESPDR]: he is banned!! IDK how this is happening!!

[ITZYBITZY]: alkdjflasjdflkjasdf!!

[LRKR]: @BUGEYEDGLITCH THREATS OF VIOLENCE THREATS OF VIOLENCE THREATS OF VIOLENCE 

/THREAD LOCKED & RAISED FOR LYLA REVIEW

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Referential. Like everything from this asinine COMMUNITY BOARD, nothing within this post is of any note to the ongoing investigation. DISTORTION evident in the photos and audio clips within the thread. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Human Side - Live" by July Talk

yall ever reach a point where you just take a step back and go 'what the fuck am i doing and how did i get here?' yeah? me too. but then sports car by tate mcrae came into my life and inexplicably gave me the wherewithal to edit and post this chapter even when all hope seemed lost. so shout out tate mcrae i guess?

god i amassed such a graveyard of cut explicit scenes from this chap that i frankly dont have much memory of writing. im like 90% certain they were done when i had the flu back in december, which is hilarious if true. 102 fever, delirious out of my freaking gourd and i wrote a bunch of truly deranged smut alongside a 20k word fuckass star wars fanfic that i frequently forget i ever wrote so what the actual fuck. maybe the funniest thing thats ever happened to me that i can never tell anyone about irl

next chapter: lots of fools and most of em betting

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 33: salt on your lips and the hands that god gave you

Summary:

fun fact: across the multiverse, frenzied and unplanned hookups have proven to be the number one cause behind secret lovers being ousted as secret lovers. the more you know, ya know?

Notes:

3/1 - if i just say weekly updates will come out somewhere in the weekend-ish parts of the week instead of firmly on sundays would we riot? would we not care one way or another? because updates will officially come out weekend-ish from here on out

a semi truck has been sent careening through the clown car of my life but hey, we stay silly. peace n luv on planet earth

A week passes. Two weeks. Three. The finer details of MJ’s life change, but the broad picture stays the same. Nu York remains unstable with firefights and skirmishes breaking out two or three times a day. Sable remains in custody, but everybody knows she’s calling the shots. Prodigal remains in the wind and hasn’t been sighted since his last cameo, but he’ll be back. 

Since his big break, he hasn’t stayed out of the spotlight long. He’ll be back and he’ll hit MJ again with his proposal. She pulled the audio from her gizmo. His proposal? A team-up. The cliche we’re not so different, you and I. It’ll never happen, but she wants to tell him in person via an unfriendly fist through his mask and the soft skull beneath. 

But that’s just on the home front. At HQ? Everyday, a new universe needs cataloged or a new Agent needs recruited or a new event needs planned or a new showcase needs hosted or a new Spider needs mentored or a new conflict needs resolved or a new PR statement needs made or a new initiative needs pushed or—that’s enough examples to make it clear, right? No matter where she goes, there’s always a problem in need of an MJ-shaped solution. 

All this to say: stress relief is a major necessity. Without it, Christ, she doesn’t know where she’d be without it. Probably chasing her own shadow for hours on the track until she’s naught but a pair of smoking sneakers or facedown in the hallway listening to Björk or starting a community board for uncoupled Spiders looking to swing without webs. But, thank god, she doesn’t have to resort to any of those things. Not when she has Miguel to help her work out the stress. 

The sex is good. The sex is really good. Not the best ever but definitely the best in recent memory. Miguel’s dogged determination and fetish for efficiency translates alarmingly well in the bedroom. He learns her well and never falters in getting her off, getting her well acquainted with la petite mort, if she’s feeling French. Except it never feels like a little death when overstimulation has her slurring words and crying all the makeup off her face. 

Of course, she gives as good as she gets, if not better. Slowly but surely, he’s becoming more comfortable in letting her see and hear just how much he likes the things they do together. 

They’re better friends for it. Better coworkers, too. 

It comes at the cost of her other relationships at the Society. Their whatever-relationship eats into her coveted free time. Free time that used to be spent socially, catering to others. Most don’t take major notice. They just make comments that she isn’t as accessible. Only one takes it personally. 

Spider-Ham bangs at her door under the guise of concern. The sound effects of his knocking bleed through the barrier in dramatic color. Bang bang bang! read the pops of sound and then again, bang bang bang! when she doesn’t answer. She canceled on him only minutes before a planned get together—dinner and then a discussion of his aspirations to take a dramatic turn. But something came up . That’s what she told him. That something is, of course, Miguel with an unexpectedly free half hour.

“Is that Pawn Stars?"  Spider-Ham shouts, incredulous.

It is. Turned up loud to hide her rendezvous from prying ears, some goof from Reno wants 20k for a Chinese takeout menu signed by Spider-Man. He thinks it’s the genuine article. Chumley thinks otherwise. 

Beneath her, Miguel takes hold of her hesitation, dragging her back down by her thighs to sit firmly on the hot brand of his tongue. She shakes, trembling to stay upright with a hand digging furrows into his scalp. The sound of it is shameless, barely drowned out by the TV, and all the more intoxicating for it. She has to chew off her own lip to keep from crying out.

More knocking. Murderous intent flares in her—can't the pig take a hint? She isn't answering. Couldn't answer even if she wanted to. Miguel has a vice grip on her thighs, ensuring they remain bracketing his jaw. Instead of entertaining thoughts of making bacon, she thumps forward against the headboard and stuffs her fingers to the knuckle between her teeth. Her persistence is rewarded with a dopey hum and three fingers in her cunt. She saws grooves into her finger bones instead of cursing.  

Spider-Ham’s fist raps again on the door. Another bang bang bang of color, but sadder and flaccid as he insists he has plenty of other friends to hang out with and will not be spending the evening staring wistfully at her photo over a plate of spaghetti so it doesn’t hurt at all that she’s ignoring him. His retreating hoof steps fade just as Chumley announces he’s calling in an expert. As she gets off in a riot of white hot pleasure, MJ tries not to let the weight of being a Bad Friend derail her bliss. 

No, that weight hits later, long after Spider-Ham’s stormed off and Miguel’s bid her goodnight (aka left with an awkward half wave) and Chumley’s resident superhero expert confirms the Spidey signature is a fake. 

Ditching her friends for some guy isn’t new, but at least in the past, she would tell them and they would be mad at her for the right reasons. This is different. Rule #2: it stays between them and the bedsheets.

Lyla doesn't even know. Not really. Some sort of hiccup in her programming keeps her memory PG-13. She can make innuendo and recognize that sex is a thing that Spiders sometimes do, but she can't extrapolate beyond that. Where MJ and Miguel's relationship is purely sexual, Lyla is none the wiser—she just seems to think they’re finally getting along. 

The secrecy adds excitement, a little adrenaline kick every time MJ sneaks Miguel in after dark or jets off to his apartment. But it also makes everything more difficult. Their hookups have to be scheduled and then rescheduled. Public displays of affection are a big no no, which proves far harder for Miguel than for her. Between the two, he’s always been more handsy. Shoulder squeezes and elbow nudges and fist bumps and steadying hands on unsteady arms. 

Now, his touches linger. Noticeably. 

It’s not that she particularly cares whether their friends know they’re hooking up. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if they already suspect a shift in the tides, what with Miguel’s soft touches and long, hot stares and entire shift in demeanor—turns out sex can help relieve a lot of stress, who knew?

No, the problem is that boning the bossman opens MJ up to the kind of judgment and controversy that fueled her first career. It’s exhausting to be under that kind of scrutiny. It nearly killed her once. She doesn’t want to give it another chance. 

Plus, she’s pretty sure Miguel would snap a Spider in two if they ever voiced the wrong idea at the wrong time. And, now that she’s thinking about it, she could snap a Spider in two for the same reason. She’s strong as hell now. She doesn’t need Miguel to stand up for her—she could do it herself! And it would be hot, no doubt, but not for anyone but her. And maybe Miguel. Jury’s still out on what really gets him steamed up. None of her usual tricks have been successful. 

So, yeah, the secrecy is definitely a little straining, but it’s more beneficial than not. They aren't dating, just hooking up, so it’s less embarrassing when it ends if no one else knows. A break up can be explained and empathized with. A booty call gone bad? Not so much.

These are the things MJ tells herself now and much later, when she starts to strain against her own logic, when she starts to want it all.

***

Two days after she blows off Ham for better ventures, MJ sits around a conference room with Jess, Peter B, Ben, and Lyla, waiting on Miguel to start a meeting. Petra is busy with robot things, but sends her best regards. 

According to Jess, there are many urgent matters to discuss: recruitment efforts and plans to lessen wait times in the cafeteria line to cut the monthly incidence of food fights in half and their quarterly review of complaints from married or long-term partnered Spiders aka Peter’s special interest because he 1) always hijacks the conversation to talk about how much he loves his wife and 2) unleashes his abysmal Borat impression with reckless abandon. 

All in all, it’s a whole lotta nothing as far as agendas go. MJ suspects Jess is just throwing her weight around a little. 

Word’s been circulating that Jess is down for the count until her baby’s born and therefore, not a real authority anymore. This, coming from Ben, who heard it from one of the Hams (probably Piguel. He’s the surlier of the two), who claim to have overheard it while in a baked goods induced coma and therefore cannot name their source. Go figure. 

It’s had Jess in a bit of a tizzy, especially since she’s been less of a presence at HQ. Life back home has only gotten exceedingly more difficult since her pregnancy. 

MJ can sympathize all too well. Her own pregnancy was a total clusterfuck of health scares, overbooked schedules, and delirium. Jess’ isn’t that bad, describing it more as a happy nuisance than a horrific medical nightmare. 

So far, Jess’ biggest complaint has been Baby Drew’s tap dancing on her bladder. MJ’s biggest complaint during her pregnancy? Probably the cracked pelvis. The three minutes she spent dead during delivery are a close second but, of course, she doesn’t really remember them. 

With Jess’ healthy pregnancy and Peter B’s newborn cropping up as regular topics of conversation, babies are definitely on her brain. If she could get pregnant again, and if she got pregnant now, would it be easier? Would it help to grout the cracks in her heart to nurse life instead of loss? It's nothing more than a punishing thought exercise. Ultimately, she can't get pregnant. Her thoughts on it don't matter. It won't happen because it can't. 

Though never for lack of practice. In fact, the last week has been a veritable riot of sex. Lyla's getting better at carving out time in her and Miguel's schedules—a godsend, really. With the seal popped, she’s only wanted more and more. Even now, even when he’s not in the room, she thinks of him and the things they do together. She presses a thumb into the fingertip bruises that ring her waist because it’s less noticeable than prodding at the suction marks berrying all over her collarbones.

The bruises are a newer development—within the last week or so. Good bruises to offset all the bad ones she gets bumping around Nu York. It took some convincing but Miguel no longer seems of the mind that she will disintegrate at his daintiest touch. 

All told, it’s great. Great, but it could be fantastic. It could be a whole spectrum of flavor rather than just vanilla ghosted over a spice pantry. They’re working on it. It’s getting better and better. But, still, even if all the progress stopped and they just lingered in the spicy vanilla forever, well, there’s just something special about Miguel behind her, biting his lip so that one fang pokes free, and his hand running the course of her back and he bottoms out, rocking into her, mushing her face farther into the mattress. She moans. Her hands fist in the sheets, bunching as much fabric as she can. He waits, letting her adjust, but not patiently. A slight tremor runs through him and he moves discreetly with little shifts, back and forth, not fully in and out. 

She turns her head, craning to see him behind her. A hand leaves her waist to snap back through his hair, brushing loose strands from his face. He’s growing it long, aiming for a mullet, but he’ll probably chop it all off before it even gets close to party length.  

Rosy cheeked and panting, Peter catches her eye and his mouth quirks. He’s about to say something silly. And she loves him, but silly isn’t exactly the mood of the moment. 

“C’mon, tiger. I don’t have all night,” she teases, dipping her hips, encouraging him to fucking move and he does, ramming forward with a jolt. The sensation is radiant. The friction makes her mouth water. His errant hand returns to her waist, holds her steady, holds her tight, as he finds a good, driving rhythm. She burrows her face into the mattress again, smudging the comforter. He fucks her with his hands bruising her waist without intent and she shifts into the sting of burst blood vessels and plum-ripened skin, keening, but he’s caught sight of the bruises and he cries out—

“—glovebox!”

MJ jerks into the present. Her hand slips from beneath her head, slapping the table. The memory erupts into flames. She blinks around at her companions. Jess beside her. Peter B and Ben across from her. Lyla in the center of the table. All staring. She blurts, “Excuse me?”

Peter exchanges a quick look with Lyla. “Your lipstick. The color. It’s Glovebox, right?”

MJ fingers fly thoughtlessly to her mouth. Dark color stains the tips of her white gloves. It's a very guilty reaction. One that doesn't need Lyla to confirm, “Spectral analysis says yes. Satin matte, #69. Glovebox.”

“Ooh, I knew it!” Peter trills, “So who’s your lucky bae?”

“Bae?” Jess scrunches her nose, tapping at her data pad. “Are you a 13 year old from 2015?”

“Oh, is bae not the hip lingo anymore?” 

“It was never the hip lingo for your age bracket,” Jess says. 

“Okay, ouch,” Peter says. “Let me rephrase then: who’s the lucky Spider, MJ?”

MJ frowns. It’s unnerving just how similar Peter B is to her husband. She thought Jess would be the hardest one to keep in the dark about this whatever between her and Miguel, but Peter may sniff it out just from the sheer virtue of knowing her and her habits. 

One of which is her date night lipstick. Her definitely gonna get lucky date night lipstick: Glovebox, in all its sangria red glory. 

When she put it on this morning, she was thinking only of a certain 24 minute block wedged into her schedule after this meeting and not that putting on this lipstick would read like a bald confession to Peter. 

There’s no easy lie. She’s not due for shore leave for another two days, so she can’t pretend she’s got a hot date back home. Not to mention she wore her usual suede lipstick, Ballet Slipper, yesterday so it’s not that she’s without options. She could still try, but if she can catch Peter's lies like Columbo, there's no doubt he can clock hers too. 

What she comes up with: “A girl can't wear her favorite shade of lipstick just for herself? It has to be for the benefit of a man?”

“So it's a man,” Peter surmises, nodding. 

“Oh, definitely,” Jess agrees. 

MJ rolls her eyes. Lyla catches her on the downroll, raising her eyebrows suggestively, but she doesn't say anything. Her silence has been bought with clever programming and Miguel’s threats to unplug her. Though she may not be able to confirm the nature of MJ and Miguel’s whatever, Lyla could certainly cause trouble if she wanted to. Somehow, Miguel has convinced her she doesn't want to. 

“I had a date recently,” Ben says. He looks glumly off into the far corner. “A date with death.”

“Whoa, that's like the fifth date now,” Jess says. “You guys must be getting serious.” 

“We have a working relationship.”

“Whatever happened with the devil?” MJ asks, happily redirecting the heat from her back. “You were going steady for a while there.” 

“Death's her sister,” Ben says. “It's complicated.”

“What is?” Miguel demands, making sudden, dramatic appearance in the doorway. His hair is sufficiently tousled from its usual shellack. He's spent the past few days stumped by a shocking uncooperative scientific conundrum. MJ didn’t ask for details. Doubtful she would've understood even if he gave them. His hair suffers his frustration. Even on 928B, there isn't a gel strong enough to withstand his frustrated tic. 

Messy hair, showcasing the curls he flattens into submission, is a good look on him. One of her favorite looks on him. She loves when he frays and shows a little humanity. It’s thrilling. Erotic.

And definitely not where her thoughts should be going.  

Right now, Miguel holds all the good sense between them. He doesn’t acknowledge the predation glint in her eye, doesn’t even look at her, which saves her the inquiring attention of the other Spiders. 

“Ben's being Ben, and MJ's got a date,” Jess says. Her nose is buried in her datapad again. She does a good job at pretending to be swamped with work. 

Miguel doesn’t break stride, angling for the head of the table. “Spider-Ham?”

“Definite possibility,” Jess says.

Peter slams his hands down on the table in surprise. “Oh my god, is it Spider-Ham?”

“I saw them share the same piece of spaghetti last week,” Ben says, grimly. “And his tail… the way it… stiffened… it's too awful to describe. Even for me.”

“That was a misunderstanding!” MJ protests. She can still taste the grease of his snout like a bad hangover, can still hear the boi-oi-oi-oing of his engorged tail echoing in her skull.

Peter and Miguel both chuff at her mortification, though she only has eyes for Miguel. He slips into his chair, leaning back to cross his arms. His easy grin is far too disarming so she casts her gaze elsewhere to Peter, who looks like the cat drunk off the cream. He’s feeling punny. She proactively groans.

“Sounds hog wild,” Peter says, getting a dark chuckle from Ben.

“Definitely wasn't kosher,” Ben rasps, which gets a snort from Peter. 

The only time Peter B and Ben ever get along is when they’re punning out—usually at someone else’s expense. Every other time, they’re liable to get into arguments over stupid things and perceived slights. Peter says Ben is a total clown and Ben says Peter is a total fool and neither can see that they’re two sides of the same joker. 

Peter says, “I’ve heard of lipstick on a pig, but not like this.”

And Ben says, “The swine definitely came before the pearls this time.”

And Miguel looks way too satisfied with himself as the architect of the pun offensive against her. She glares at him only to receive a smug smile in return as he says, “She really let the pig out of the bag.”

Yeah, way too satisfied with himself. 

Peter and Ben exchange high-rise brows before they both erupt into laughter. Unbelievably, Miguel joins in. MJ’s put-out frown twitches, which only makes them all laugh harder. 

“Knock it off, boys,” Jess says. “Let her enjoy the other white meat in peace. Lord knows we can all use a good porking from time to time.”

Though she rolls her eyes, MJ can’t help but give a little snort of appreciation for the joke. She is alone in this amusement. The men just exchange awkward glances. 

Jess’ datapad hits the table with a thump. She glares, eviscerating each respective Spider-Man with the stink eye special. “Oh, so you all can make nasty jokes all you want but the second I do it, we’re not laughing anymore, huh?”

Miguel doesn't have the same face as Peter and Ben, but the stricken expression he makes is identical. 

“What, so because I'm pregnant and a woman I can't make a joke about getting good sex—”

“Jess!” Ben gawps. Beneath the blonde mop of his hair, his entire face has blanched of color. “You shouldn't talk like that in front of the baby!”

“The baby that’s in utero!?”

“He can hear from your ears!”

Jess opens her mouth then closes it then opens it again then raises a finger then closes her mouth and scrubs at her forehead. “I can't do it. I just can't do it. MJ, can you please tell Ben he's an idiot.”

“Ben, I'm not sure how to tell you this,” MJ starts, leaning towards him with a sympathetic eye. 

Ben's voice gets splotchy as he strangles out, “Just because I've never been pregnant—!” 

“Not this again,” Peter sighs. 

The meeting continues along the same lines. The goofy tone at the beginning never quite dissipates, carried strong by both Peter and Ben, interchangeably and then both together as Ben joins in on the my wife’ing when the time comes. Normally, MJ would contribute more, but she worries about drawing the conversation back to suspected secret beaus. Doesn’t help that Miguel does a lot of sweeping his hand back through his hair, which sets off a particularly nuanced chemical reaction in her body that boils down to a painful and distracting horniness that sits unkindly in the base of her belly. 

When the meeting finishes (8 minutes over schedule), it’s a struggle to keep from shooing the others from the room. Peter and Ben talk in circles about the dangers of deep dish pizza. Jess seems content to sit reviewing metrics in her datapad forever. 

It’s only when Miguel stands up and announces he needs to go over the Social Committee budget that the others scurry with purpose. They all remember the last great Budget Debate that ended in mandatory conflict resolution therapy for the group and a supremely weepy Ben. 

Once the door slides shut behind Jess, Miguel commands it be locked and the lights dimmed. MJ stands from her chair, stretching lazily with her hands up over her head. There’s a static crackle from the top of her neck that draws out a sigh of relief. 

When he reaches for her, she doesn't lean into him. His hands fall on resistant flesh, skating up stiff arms and shoulders. A fizzle and the gloves of his suit recede, baring his hands. When his hands dip beneath the hem of her top, the touch is skin to skin. He slinks up, running firm, familiar fingers over her waist, her ribs, her breasts, up and up to tug off the top of her suit. The cold air stiffens her spine, but then his hands return, touching her warm enough to soothe the chill. 

She hikes a brow, pursing her lips. “Spider-Ham? Really?”

“Your relationship with him is weird,” Miguel says. He sets a hand against her collar, pushing her back to sit on the edge of the table. Bluff called, she doesn’t resist but gives a pert little tick of her mouth. 

“Are you jealous of a cartoon pig?”

Scoffing, he ducks the question, taking to her neck instead. He lavishes hard affections, coloring the smooth skin with his mouth as yet unfanged. Steady suction. Soft, teething pain. Hard pleasure, somewhere in between. All of it guaranteeing she won’t be able to go unmasked for the rest of the day. 

She squirms, resisting strong reaction. Her breathless voice betrays her best efforts. “He and Mary Jane Waterbuffalo are very much in love.” 

Miguel pitches his doubt. The sound reverberates all along her throat as he sucks another bruise. It’s a warm, gooey sensation. Made even more so by the slow scrape of his thumb over her nipple, rousing it to full attention.

“Besides,” she huffs, sticky mouthed. “He’s got those hooves and—”

Two fingers press against her lips, communion soft and then breaching, pushing past to anoint her tongue. She hums around them, sucking. Her stomach twists. Anticipation crawls. 

Nudging her legs further apart, Miguel presses into the bowl between them. She snares his waist with her legs, wrapping tight to draw him flush against her. The heat between them shimmers. Unreal, but desperately needed. 

They're on a time limit. 24 minutes of uninterrupted alone time. 9 minutes of it eaten up by the overlong meeting. 15 minutes left. She aims to remind him of this as she slips her fingers into his hair, drawing him close enough to kiss. For her impatience, he tugs his own fingers free of her mouth. Glistening, he presses them against her lips, smearing color into the surrounding skin. He doesn't kiss her, but he makes it look like he did. 

Together, they remember a night at Alchemax, months ago, when they only played at what they do now. That time, it was her own fingers against her mouth, smearing to cover their tracks and a security breach. This time it’s just for the two of them. 

The lipstick smudges. Her eyelids flicker. The pulse between her legs grows stronger, radiating throughout her entire body. Only after she's shimmied free of her pants and panties and his suit has tactically blipped away, after they’ve masturbated each other enough for the rest, after he’s groaned and set his forehead against hers as he pressed into her, just at that point past discomfort, when they’re fused together, only then can she muster the will to speak again. 

“I’m glad it’s you and not—” 

But the line of thought unspools. She was trying to continue the joke. Laugh about the sexual chemistry she seems to have with a cartoon gag but it isn’t that funny. Not when he drives his hips harder into her and especially when he huffs out, “I'm glad it’s me too.” 

His pace picks up, faster and less steady. She ducks into the crook of his neck, biting to keep from yelling out. He fucks her thorough and steady. Not slowly. Not reverently. 

They haven't gotten there yet. 

***

The next time MJ wears Glovebox lipstick, she leaves sangria kisses and bruises all over Miguel. Again and again, she smudges red into his skin until he looks like an avant garde showcase. The color is supremely flattering on his bare, bronzed skin, highlighting all his warm undertones. 

It's another after-meeting hookup, but not a planned one. Quick and fumbling, they scarcely have time to make it last. The furious scrawl of lipstick kisses evidence the mania that overtakes her, that extends into him. Convenience finds them at the table’s edge again and then spread out overtop it when she digs her heels into the meat of Miguel’s waist until he gets the hint. She scoots back, laying fully flat, and he crawls over her. They disconnect and reconnect in fast forward, sending a dull thud echoing out in the empty room. 

It’s freezing in the room. The table on her bare skin is cold enough to flash freeze. She tenses all over, curling around Miguel so tight their atoms intermingle and their bodies burn hot enough to fog the tabletop. It’s an exercise in extremes. 

Under her, the table is unyielding, subjecting her to the full force of each of his thrusts without reprieve. Every attempt to meet him halfway ends with her driven further into the metal. If there’s an MJ shaped dent left behind, it wouldn’t be a surprise. It’s murder on her lumbar spine; heaven everywhere else. 

Soon enough, MJ bites down into the delicious swell of muscle between his neck and shoulder to keep from yelping. It’s a rough orgasm. Uneven and heady—the typical gains of a fast fuck. They’ve never been unsatisfying before. They are now. 

It’s getting worse. It should be getting better, she should be needing him less and less, but it's getting worse. He's starting to get sick with it too. 

They shouldn't have done it. She doesn't think this immediately after, as she squirms under Miguel’s thunderstruck expression, or even as they’re hurriedly redressing and checking their respective schedules, but the notion sets in soon thereafter. Very soon thereafter. As soon as she’s scurried out into the hall to see a gawping Ben Reilly right in front of her in fact. 

As soon as she sees him, hunkered and waiting patiently in the hall, she thinks, oh god, we shouldn’t have done that. Because Ben had made a comment about needing to speak “man-oh a man-oh” with Miguel. And Miguel had gruffly advised he save it for later. 

“Not in the mood for a headache today, Reilly.” That’s what Miguel said. Because Miguel is kind of an asshole. And MJ really doesn’t like when he’s kind of an asshole, but it’s definitely a turn on when he’s being kind of an asshole for the sole purpose of clearing the room so he can fuck her raw. 

Halfway through the meeting, he caught her eye and there was something there, something churning hot, something that cued her to stay after, even though they hadn’t talked about it prior. Even though there was no room for it in either of their schedules. Even though frenzied, unplanned hookups are the number one cause of secret lovers being ousted as secret lovers. Across the entire multiverse. Number one cause. MJ would stake her life on it. 

So, yeah. She walks out of the conference room, far too pleased with herself in a post-coital bliss, and immediately locks eyes with Ben. 

It doesn't even surprise her. Of course Ben lurked. Of course he did! That's what Ben does! He lurks! And, apparently, when confronted by the knowledge that his buddy is banging their pseudo-boss, he shrieks like a baby stung by a bee.

There's just no hiding what transpired between her and Miguel moments prior. She isn’t wearing her mask. Her mouth tells all her secrets. And her snarled I Just Got Dicked Down hair. And the cluster of fresh love marks all up and down her throat. It’s an overwhelming amount of evidence. 

It's so stupid. She should've put on her fucking mask. There’s no good excuse for it. Her only saving grace is that she walked out before and separately from Miguel. Otherwise, she'd be staring down the business end of a true disaster, not Ben Reilly and his short circuiting brain. 

There are several state of the art conference rooms around them, but MJ yanks Ben into the nearest storage closet. He doesn't fight it, just goes limp as a pup grabbed by the scruff of its neck, whimpering all the while. 

A repository for random junk, there's not much room in the closet. It's barely big enough for the two of them to stand without touching. The light comes from underfoot, casting them both in campfire shadows. 

Soon as the door slinks shut, MJ says, “You can't tell anyone.” No point easing into it. They both know what Ben saw. “Miguel doesn't want anyone to know.”

Ben, demeanor recovered, gives a dramatic turn of his head away from her, glaring into the foreground. In the mired midnight of the closet, he’s a dead ringer for Peter. A stupid thought. Of course Peter’s clone would look exactly like him. It’s just… Well, MJ’s never really let herself go there before and now it’s just been wrung out of her by circumstance. He looks like Peter. Her Peter. Forcefully, she shakes the thought from her head. It’s silly. After all, Ben’s blonde.

“So this is how my honor dies.”

“Ben.”

“Every day, my burden only grows heavier.” A curled fist touches the peak of his brow as he drops his head for dramatic effect. “I will keep your dark secret.” 

“Thank God,” MJ breathes. She presses her palm to the side of her throat where lovebites swelter from the sweep of her collarbone all the way up to the underside of her jaw. The mask will need to stay for the rest of the day. It’s lucky that she has a precedent for wearing her mask on bad hair days. Hopefully, nobody will notice that she’s been suffering a plague of “bad hair days” recently. 

“So, um, how long has this been going on?” Ben asks. He rocks back and forth on his toes. The shadows give him the appearance of a hand drawn outline. 

MJ frowns. Ben already knows more than she likes, but there’s no shoving the pig back in the bag, so to speak. “About a month.” 

“Damnit,” Ben mumbles and then his eyes go wide, reacting to his own slip up. “Er, I mean, wow. Slay.”

MJ squints at him. His jaw quivers, despite his otherwise grim expression. “Dammit? Why dammit?”

“Um, honest mistake?”

“What do you know, Reilly?” 

His eyes go wide. Terrified as a rabbit caught in a trap. He panics, trying to chew off his own leg. He overacts, throws his arms wide and cries, “I'm in love with you!”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“I'm in love with Miguel!” he tries again, adopting a moody stance and glaring into the far corner of the room. 

“No again.” MJ does not laugh, but it’s a struggle. “Third time’s the charm.”

“I'm pregnant!” He grabs at his stomach and drops into a squat like he’s actively going into labor. 

“Ben, I swear—”

“Fine!” Ben huffs, reorienting his stance stoic once more. He fixes her with a grimdark smolder. “So, there might be this thing…”

***

“There’s a bet,” MJ tells Miguel later that night in his lab. There’s no one around so she sits on the lip of a lab table, carding her fingers through his hair while he takes a break from finding the secret to immortality or whatever it is he’s working on. It has to be something of equal importance, at least, to garner Miguel’s direct defiance of Spider-Doc’s orders. It’s either that or he’s a moron, which is Lyla’s bet. 

Both of Miguel’s eyes are bruised black and bitter. A neon plaster spans the bridge of his nose, setting it in place and pulsating like the accents of his suit. Fresh scabs encircle the strip of red, evidencing the violence suffered. 

A bag n tag gone wrong. An anomaly too powerful for the assigned Spiders, he answered the SOS, was nearly overwhelmed himself. The fight was brutal. The broken nose is the most obvious of injuries, but his internal ones are vast and storied. He was prescribed high-strength painkillers and 24 hours of bedrest—neither of which he will take. 

All this, relayed by Lyla when Miguel refused to tell MJ what happened. 

This meeting between them wasn’t planned. It isn’t on either of their calendars. It's as simple as this: MJ was up, and figured it was worth checking to see if he was too. She didn’t know he was injured. If she hadn’t stopped by, she would probably never know. She’s due for shore leave tomorrow. By the time she came back on duty, Miguel would have been fully healed and MJ none the wiser. 

“Of course there’s a bet,” Miguel mutters, but without the expected ire. Exhaustion has flooded the ignition of his anger. With her added, soft ministrations, he’s stalled out completely. 

His eyes are closed. His mouth lacks its usual steel. His body holds his tension like a dragon guarding its horde, but his face is slack. Peaceful. 

These moments of peace—true, genuine, peace—are far and few between. She’s worried about the bet and all that it implies for their friends to be betting on their love lives (his, to be exact—hers is apparently far less interesting), yes, but she’s worried about him more. She doesn’t want to shatter this rarity. 

Gently, she guides him into her arms, embracing him solid and secure and swallowing her delight when he allows it. He wraps heavy around her. He smells like antiseptic and sweat. 

“Does it hurt?” she asks and then feels foolish for asking. Of course it hurts. Just looking at him hurts. 

He nuzzles into her, breathes her deep. “S’not so bad.”

“You work too hard,” she says, thumping a soft hand against his back. 

“I know.”

“You need to take better care of yourself.” 

“I know.”

Behind him, Lyla pops into existence. Her expression is one of pure shock. She mouths, with closed captioning, did he just admit to—!? So awestruck, she can’t finish. Secretive, MJ smiles, slipping a finger to her lips. It doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Tell Lyla to stop harassing me,” Miguel groans. “I’m in pain.”

“Then maybe, you should take”—a simultaneous clap—“your”—another, more aggressive clap—“medicine!”—clap clap clap, in time with each syllable. 

Dropping his forehead against MJ’s, Miguel complains, “You’re not doing a good job.”

“Stop ignoring me!” Lyla shouts. She has a megaphone now. It doesn’t make a difference. 

“Lyla’s right.” An affirming harumph from the holowoman in question. MJ feathers her thumb along his jaw. There’s the smallest rasp of stubble, nigh imperceptible to all but the supersensitive pad of her thumb. She continues, “Take the painkillers and then a nap. At least try to relax.”

“I’m relaxed right now.” Barely a whisper. So close, the heat of his injury tickles her skin as easily as his breath. It makes her toes curl. 

Prior agreements give her pause. If they hadn’t agreed… If he hadn’t been so insistent…

Behind him, Lyla waffles her hand and goes, “Ehhhh. Your heart rate’s still a little—”

More is said, but MJ zones it out, slipping into the whoosh of pulse in her ears, the slow intake of slight, spiced sweet breath, the slink of Miguel’s bare hand cupping the back of her neck, the ambient echo of the room around them suffused with hazy, halogen glow. Her lashes fall victim to gravity, growing heavy, slipping her eyelids closed, expectant. Waiting. 

“Go run a performance check, Lyla,” Miguel says. MJ’s eyes snap open, but she finds his expression no less charged. He meets her gaze, holds it, promises the world. She doesn’t squirm, but every nerve ending fires at once. Arousal twists in the pit of her belly. 

Lyla sputters. “I’m running at peak performance! I’m always running at peak performance! Frankly, it’s insulting—”

“Then do something else”—his voice whets sharp when MJ bites her lip. His fingers tense at the back of her neck—“just do it somewhere else.”

“Fine! I’ll go where I’m appreciated for everything I do to keep this little passion project of yours from falling apart!” Lyla disappears with a sound byte of a door slamming shut. 

“So dramatic,” MJ says, laughing airily. “Wonder who she gets… that…”

She falters as Miguel leans closer. They breathe from each other, together, lips brushing, barely, briefly, and then all at once. Kissing, softly. Slowly. Smooth as aged scotch. All her senses roar into focus as heat drips through her. 

Over a month, they’ve slept together. Their relationship is old. Miguel kisses it new. 

Bodies still, but their lips commune. MJ takes nothing more than he gives. Electric fright dwells beneath her skin. Diodes, burning red hot as the memory of the last time they really kissed. The first time they kissed. The ferocity. The desperation. The betrayal, after it had ended. 

These concerns are smothered somewhere dark and unthinking when he deepens the kiss, licking slow past her lips. Hazy as foggy morning sunrise. Slick as liquid glass. A golden little moan wrenches between them, risen from her, encouraged by him. Exhilarating. Intoxicating. Her thoughts fizzle. Her libido flexes. She wants more. She always wants more. But for right now, this is enough. More than enough. 

Shifting, sighing, they kiss aimlessly. Simmering, but not yet boiling. She loops her arms around his neck. He takes hold of her face in both hands, angling in, kissing her ever deeper.

When his fangs drop, he grips tight, petrifying her without a word, just before they erupt. He breaks the kiss, but not the connection. His mouth hovers over hers. MJ holds her breath, balling it in her chest, just to hear the slight, fleshy rip of descending canines.

Head jerking back, Miguel grunts. He screws up his nose, flashing fangs like a money shot, and then stretches his entire face long, massaging through the hurt. Both of his hands reach for his nose, but divert at the last second. Flex fingered, he waves them in front of his face. 

“Are you—?”

“Venom glands,” he explains. His voice is stuffy. “Sinus cavity. Ow.”

Though she has questions—what the hell does his anatomy look like? Was he going to keep kissing her, fangs and all?—MJ doesn’t ask them. She just nods sympathetically and rubs soothing circles into his back. Pain less blinding, Miguel shifts into her touch, setting a hand over her thigh, steadying himself. 

As his fangs sink back into his gumline (not that MJ sees. Miguel zips his mouth tight, pointedly rejecting her piqued curiosity when they begin to shift), Lyla rejoins them. Her arms move in turbo, sorting strings of code like letters at a post office. 

“As you can see,” she says, pressing her glasses firmly onto the bridge of her nose with two fingers, “I’m extremely busy doing crucial work”—Miguel rolls his eyes hard enough to pang his broken nose and induce pain-tears—“but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention, number 1, your bitey boys are gonna hurt like a glitch until your schnoz is all healed up and—”

And number 2 announces itself before Lyla gets the chance. 

“Care package delivery!” Peter B shouts and then heralds his own arrival with mock trumpet noises. “I come bearing gifts!” 

MJ and Miguel burst apart. MJ flinches into the steel arm of a centrifuge aperture, ringing her skull like a gong. Miguel stumbles back into another lab table. Vials jolt and then topple over, spilling over onto the floor. None shatter, but they make a horrible racket. 

Nestled in the back of the lab and shielded by machines and terminals and inert screens, they can’t see Peter and he can’t see them, but the scare is severe. It shows on both their faces. Lyla snaps a photo—for personal use, she claims—and then she vanishes, snickering. 

“This place is like a maze!” Peter laughs. “Send up a flare so I can find you!”

Across from her, Miguel grips the edge of the lab table, breathing wet in through his mouth, out through his nose. His talons thunk into the metal and then recede just as quickly. A stab of affection sours her stomach—he looks absolutely ragged. 

MJ clears her throat. “We’re back here, Peter.”

The sounds of Peter’s progression halt. He stammers, “O-oh. MJ. Hey. I, uh, I can come back.”

“It’s fine,” Miguel says, at odds with his tone. He stands up straighter, turns to the direction of Peter’s approach. 

“Wait! No!” Peter shouts, distraught. 

Then: the world’s tiniest thwip. The exhilarated peal of a giggling baby. A blur of red hair and gray fluff, streaking through lab machinery to latch onto Miguel, who yelps and stumbles back into the lab table. Again. The vials that survived the first assault tumble straight to the floor, shattering on impact. 

And the architect of it all? The shrieking, exuberant mastermind, glommed onto Miguel? Mayday Parker. Peter B’s Mayday. 

But she looks just like MJ’s Mayday. 

Inundated with pictures of the newborn B. Parker just like every other Spider, MJ has not yet had the pleasure of meeting the light of Peter B’s life. Never realized that this Mayday is the true twin of her Mayday, down to the constellation of freckles over her nose and the incessant cowlick at the back of her head.

It’s eviscerating to sit in the presence of the daughter she lost—the daughter she loved so much she’d swallow the sun to hold again, just one more time—and remind herself, she’s not Mayday. She’s not Mayday. She’s not Mayday. 

Even when Mayday B. Parker thwips away and Miguel scrambles after her on all fours over the lab tables, MJ can’t move. Can’t breathe. She certainly can’t fucking laugh at the absurdity. 

Peter peeks into view. He leaves Miguel to collect his wayward child. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “Hey. Late night?” 

“Just talking,” MJ says. It’s mostly true. They talked far more than they did anything else. Of course, her rumpled hair and swollen lips suggest otherwise. 

“You guys do that often?” A sly smile plays on Peter’s lips. “Just talk? This late?” 

“Peter Parker, are you trying to imply something?” 

Peter shrugs. “Just never seen the big lug so… not happy, but not not happy. MJ said that means he must be getting some.”

Smart woman. MJ almost says so. Instead, she opts for: “I know about the bet.”

“Who told you?” Peter demands. His playful tone has sharpened into alarm. “Was it Ben? That clone is so—”

MJ swats him with her foot. Peter takes the hit, face stooped in confusion. 

“Be nice to Ben!”

Peter rubs at his waist with far too much drama for how she barely touched him. “But did he tell you?” 

“But does it matter?” MJ mimics his tone. “I want in.”

The words are slow to process. Peter sounds them out, working through them. “You want… in. On the bet?”

“Yes.” MJ nods. She interweaves her fingers all together and then sets the little bridge of fingers underneath her chin. She gives her winningest grin as she bats her lashes. “And I'm going to win it too.”

Both of Peter’s eyebrows raise as he huffs at the audacity. “Hardly fair to bet on yourself.”

“It’s not me,” she lies, waving Peter closer. He obliges. Both of them ignore a spout of No!No!No! from Miguel off in the distance and the ensuing shriek of infant mayhem. 

Leaning close, close enough to swim in the spice of his aftershave and that unmistakable Peter brightness, MJ reveals, “It’s Lyla.”

“Lyla,” Peter repeats. His brow furrows. “Lyla, Lyla?”

MJ nods.

“Hologram Lyla.”

“Yes.”

"Lyla, Lyla.”

“Peter.” MJ rolls her eyes as his brain continues to skip.

Behind them: the groan of a large and incalculably expensive piece of machinery tipping over, followed by the sound of said machinery breaking into unsalvageable pieces, the catch and rip of sudden flame, a blitzkrieg of sirens, and then whoosh of the fire suppression system in that quadrant. Miguel curses loud and vile and in Spanish, which makes Mayday squeal as she continues her joyride through the lab. The firelit shadow of Miguel’s fretting hands (tearing out his hair, waving in abject frustration) stretches to the gulley where MJ and Peter talk. 

“You’re sure?” Peter asks, wholly unconcerned by the devastation wrought from his unsupervised progeny. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” MJ says. “I mean, she’s designed to tend to his every need, you know?”

It does not surprise MJ when Lyla flickers over Peter’s head. The holowoman tsks and disagrees in mute. Subtitles over her chest read: You’re sick for even suggesting that and I will be taking it personally. 

It’s a risk MJ’s willing to take. Better Peter reports back to the group with wild tales of sex robots—she knows this is where his head has gone—than the odd circumstance of MJ and Miguel getting chummy in the middle of the night. 

Not that she really cares if anyone knows. It’s just easier if they don’t. Easier in the long term, not the short term. In the short term, it’s becoming a real crick in the neck. She hasn’t been able to relax since Ben found them out earlier today. It’s a rubbery kind of tension—loose, but limiting. 

Ugh. The things she does to get laid. 

“I never thought of it like that. And now I can’t stop thinking about it so thanks for that.” 

Oddly enough, he doesn’t sound very thankful at all as he scratches at his jaw. He’s got a significant amount of shadow. It looks good on him. She used to love kissing all over her husband when he let the scruff grow out on long weekends and holidays. That pleasant scratch always left her lips chafed but it was always worth it. 

Absently, she wonders if Miguel would ever grow out some scruff. Probably not. If Lyla’s to be believed, he shaves religiously. Apparently, the nanotech tugs when it goes up and down and he’s a big ole baby about it pulling his facial hair. It’s a real shame. 

“So,” MJ says, forgoing lustful thoughts of beards, “is there a betting pool or should I consider this—”

“Heads up!” Miguel shouts. 

Smooth as ever, Peter sticks up a hand, plucking shooting star Mayday clean out of orbit. Mayday trills happily as Peter draws her to his chest. With a dramatic flick open of his fuzzy robe, he reveals a brand spanking new BabyBjörn over his chest, which he promptly slots Mayday into. 

The tags (a choking hazard: Peter should know better) tickle Mayday’s arm so she swats at them like a cat, tentatively at first and then with full force. She misses the tags, slams her powerful pudgy fist into Peter’s chest. The wind knocks out of him, keeling him in two, as Miguel rejoins their group. 

Powdery extinguisher streaks his dark hair white and coats his upper body like snowy eaves. A buzz of his suit and the powder slips off him, dandruffing to the floor in a single wave. He has to manually wring out his hair, doing so by scratching a hasty hand through it. A haze of white fogs around his head. 

Soon as he’s cleaned himself off, Mayday zips out of her BabyBjörn and into his arms. She coos, sleepy from her strenuous jaunt. Miguel sighs, not smiling but not not smiling, and runs a curled finger along the chubby curve of Mayday’s chin. Realizing he’s being watched and on the verge of being aww’d at, he scowls mean as ever.

And then Mayday makes grab hands at MJ, mumbling, “Mamamamama.”

Both Miguel and Peter stare at MJ, expectant. Will she break down? Flip out? Pass out?

None of the above. She chugs down all the bile in her throat and tsks. “Peter Benjamin Parker, what were you thinking? Web shooters? Multiverse travel? This far past night-night time?”

In Miguel’s hands, Mayday throws her head back and shrieks with laughter. It induces equal parts love and panic. 

MJ wants nothing more than to hold the baby. She also wants to shove her fingers into her own ears, past the eardrum, rupturing the vital mechanism, so she never hears the noise of her daughter, but not her daughter, ever again. 

“Well I couldn’t leave her home!” Peter protests. “Mary Jane’s at her sister’s!”

MJ almost asks if Mary Jane’s at her sister’s to confront the walking bag of trash that unfortunately fathered her nephews, but thinks better of it. Peter B’s Gayle isn’t her Gayle. Maybe that Gayle is married to a wonderful guy who cherishes his wife and kids and doesn’t blow his sons’ college funds making numbskulled bets on the Jets. 

She does not let herself think about Gayle, still alive, and all the other friends who are probably still kicking in 616B. It’s harder than it usually is to ignore the thump thump thump of injustice, brewing her thoughts bitter, with Mayday only a foot away. She distracts herself by giving Peter a hard time. 

“And what was the perfectly logical reason to give her web shooters?”

“Gotta start ‘em young! You never know! She could have a whole slate of aged down villains! Like Baby Looney Tunes .”

“Wait, is that—?” A glance at Miguel. He shakes his head, tosses Mayday up and then catches her like a hacky sack. It pangs a long dormant nerve—the one Peter always called her Mommy-Sense —but MJ doesn’t lecture. She crosses her arms, turns back to Peter. “That’s ridiculous, Peter!”

“Anything’s possible!”

“Not that,” Miguel says. 

Denied passage to MJ, Mayday begins to grow restless. She squirms and then jerks, suddenly and erratically, channeling her inner Alaskan salmon. Miguel has to adjust his grip to avoid taking a superpowered baby haymaker to the chest. 

“Mayday,” Peter scolds, laughing, “you play nice with tito Miguel—”

“Tito?” MJ interrupts.

“It means uncle in Spanish,” Peter says, confidently.

“No,” Miguel says with exertion as he struggles to keep Mayday from flinging herself out of his hands. “It doesn’t.”

Then, he says something in Spanish to Mayday, who nods sagely and stops bucking. He hoists her up onto his shoulder, one hand still clung tight around her legs like a seatbelt. With a yawn, she slumps against the side of his head. 

It’s a cute image. Lyla doesn’t hesitate to materialize and take thirty odd photos. The air scurries with thwip after thwip after thwip as all three gizmos in the vicinity receive a barrage of photo messages. Both Miguel and Mayday roll their eyes, which results in at least fifteen thwips. 

Thumbing through the sent photos, Peter says, “In my defense, saving the city is not conducive for a Duolingo streak. And I know it’s tío, I just misspoke. I mean, I live in New York. Of course, I know it’s tío. But anyway, Mayday’s learning Spanish the same way I did—from my good friend Elmo.”

“Ah, lemme guess, Visions pre-k?” MJ asks. She does not look at the photos. She cannot look at the photos. She’s doing very well bisecting the weirdness from reality. Photo evidence of this moment could very well break those shallow defenses and allow the weirdness to overwhelm. 

“Sí,” Peter says. 

MJ snorts. The sound rouses Mayday. She pips up on Miguel’s shoulder like a prairie dog with her little, fuzzy head on a swivel. Her eyes lock on MJ and the babbling starts up again. Mamamama.

A flash of instinct. A flinch closer. The slow opening of closed arms. It’s all Mayday needs. 

With a war cry, Mayday vaults Miguel’s head, rocketing into open air. Miguel and Peter both react, but MJ’s closest. She does the only thing she can do. She catches Mayday. 

Mayday B. Parker is heavy as a sack of grocery store potatoes and smells like oatmeal. Johnson & Johnson, sensitive skin formula. Her halo of curls shifts on an absent wind, tousling and shifting with extra bounce and shine. She’s just had her bath. No wonder she’s so fussy. 

What the mind forgets, the body remembers. MJ hasn’t held a baby in years, hasn’t held her baby even longer than that, but she cradles Mayday in her arms without a flinch of uncertainty. 

Twin states bore into her skull, but MJ doesn’t look up. She doesn’t look away from Mayday’s chubby face, cataloging every distinction from her daughter’s. The longer she stares, the more she loses. Was her daughter’s left eyebrow also a little more arched than the right? Did she have three divots between her brows when she squinched up her face or was it more? How many freckles did she have? Not as a baby, but later, when she was a toddler and preferred her naps up on the rooftop patio in dappled sunlight. 

Bright blue eyes blink and blink as MJ stares and stares. The blue eyes are the giveaway. MJ’s daughter has brown eyes. 

“We went with French,” MJ says. There isn’t a lick of emotion in her voice, but if she doesn’t talk herself out of the spiral then Peter or, god forbid, Miguel will say the wrong thing. 

Still, she doesn’t look at either of them, only Mayday. She boops Mayday’s nose and the girl beams and burbles. Another difference. MJ’s Mayday was not agreeable to booping.

With a final boop, MJ coos, “Isn’t that right, ma petite?”

“Did she—” Peter has to clear his throat before continuing. “Did she get in?”

“Yes, but not because of her French. We had an au pair, but she didn’t last long and then we didn’t try very hard with it. Peter’s accent was terrible and I realized very quickly that the only French I knew came from a guy that I was once special friends with.”

She does not add that she is learning Spanish in the same way. Instead, she tickles Mayday and gets a bubbly giggle for her efforts. 

Peter takes the wrong lesson from the tale. He smacks a hand to his forehead. “Oh god, my accent is terrible too. Am I doomed to sound like a doofus no matter what language I speak?”

“Yes,” MJ and Miguel say at the same time. Their eyes catch, but MJ doesn’t like the overt concern in his so they don’t linger. 

“Mayday!” Peter cries, smacking both hands over his heart and turning aside dramatically. “Save me! They’re being mean to daddy!”

Mayday does not save him. She tugs at MJ’s hair while blowing a particularly crude raspberry his way and “Mayday’s a sweet girl, but, Mrs. Parker—”

“Watson-Parker,” MJ corrects, shifting only a little in her seat. In an effort to put themselves in the student’s shoes, MJ and Mayday’s teacher sit facing each other at the student’s desks. It definitely wasn’t MJ’s idea. The damn desks are little and thoroughly uncomfortable for a full grown woman.

“Yes, Mrs. Watson- Parker,” the other woman sniffs. She pulls a snotty face when she says it too. “I’m sure you can understand that we simply can’t have our Mini Visionaries brutalizing other children at recess.” 

As if MJ feels the contrary. As if MJ actively encourages her daughter to wail on other kids for every perceived slight. 

Not that this is a perceived slight. Mayday only brutalized a classmate (aka punched the twerp in the face) because the brat was flinging rocks at another of Mayday’s classmates and calling that little girl crude names. So, yeah. Mayday decked him. Mayday knocked him and several of his baby teeth out. She’s always been strong-willed, but this is just beyond. 

“I understand your husband’s line of work involves a necessity to make certain… snap judgements on the perceived morality and immorality of a given action—”

MJ bites the inside of her cheek to keep her glare in check. This is exactly the kind of snootiness MJ feared in enrolling her daughter at Visions. Brainiacs debating the ethics of vigilantism. Eggheads with undeserved opinions on the damaging effects of fame and stardom. So called feminists who believe MJ’s career is an insult to the divine womanhood and self proclaimed pacifists who advocate for radical expressions of love to solve all crime and evil on earth. These people are Mayday’s teachers and they always have something to say. 

Unfortunately, MJ’s been subjected to many a Thought recently. This is the third time this month she’s been called for Peaceful Problem Meditation. Mayday has a very strong sense of justice, and never hesitates to speak her mind. Or, apparently, let her fists do the talking. 

There’s a hubbub from the hall. Quick footsteps at a galloping pace. Awestruck gasps. Voices rising into a clamor. And then Peter runs past the door. About three seconds later, he skids mid-step, hairpin turning around to correct his mistake and join the Meditation. 

“Hey Teach,” Peter says. He’s out of breath and totally ragged. His hair is wind whipped. A plaster stretches over his brow bone, bunched and lumpy from hasty application. His windbreaker is improperly buttoned, revealing the telltale Spider-suit beneath. 

Peter smashes a kiss to the side of MJ’s forehead. His way of saying sorry I’m late without saying sorry I’m late . Rather than pull up an additional chair, Peter perches on the desk attached to MJ’s. He smells like autumn in the city. Crisp wind, dried out leaves and cold smog. And hot dogs. He definitely had one on the way in. 

“Mr. Parker, how nice—”

“Watson-Parker,” Peter corrects. He smiles. He takes MJ’s hand, squeezes. She squeezes back. She doesn’t smile. 

“Right,” the teacher says. MJ can practically hear the crone’s thought: Watson-Parker, yet Mayday is just Parker. These Hollywood people, these superhero people, they just have to make everything difficult. 

Peter thumbs the diamond on MJ’s ring to align with the center of her finger. He admires his work with a self satisfied nod and then squeezes her hand again. 

Everything, OK? that squeeze asks, as the quick flick up of his brows questions, Do I need to whip out the webs?

MJ gives a little twist of her mouth. Not yet, but let’s see how this thing goes. 

“Look, Mr. and Mrs. Watson-Parker, your daughter’s behavior this afternoon was frankly, very alarming, and it’s not the first time she’s made trouble—”

Trouble! It isn’t Spidey-sense that blasts across MJ’s fore senses, but a sense of deja vu. Snakebite quick, Mayday rears up and aims with an open mouth for MJ’s shoulder. A sudden, instinctive twist of MJ’s wrists upends Mayday. She dangles upside down, giggling and waving her arms, until MJ returns her right-side up. 

With something like a sigh, Peter pushes a teething toy between his daughter’s gums until she chomps down like Galactus on an unsuspecting planet. She hums while she chews, her entire body thrumming with that satisfied purr. MJ pushes loose curls back from the girl’s head, thumping a thumb against her eyebrow in a silent reprimand. 

Mayday just keeps chewing, looking up at MJ with those sweet, supremely innocent baby blues. 

“Sorry,” Peter says, “she’s been going full Jaws lately. I don’t even think she’s teething right now. She just likes to bite.”

“Don’t I know it.” MJ laughs. “My daughter was the same way. Mauled me real good one time. My little terror.”

She mimes biting at Mayday, baring her teeth. Mayday mimics, dropping the toy in favor of gnawing the air and imitating her mommy. Imitating MJ. MJ, who’s mommy to another Mayday. Was. Still is. Always will be. 

“Wait, do it again!” Peter fumbles his cellphone from the pocket of his robe. He aims it at MJ and Mayday. “Do it again!”

Neither MJ nor Mayday do it again. They wear identical expressions of mild irritation as the camera flashes. 

“C’mon! Daddy’s little vampire!” Wildly waving the phone, Peter nearly clocks Miguel across the face. Miguel has to duck out of Peter’s reach to avoid getting hit. Peter doesn’t even notice, he just imitates biting at Mayday, begging her to do it again. Mayday sniffs, lurching away from him. Then, she bursts into tears. 

“Nonono!” Peter’s phone tips out of his hands. It lands in the pile of broken glass with a definitive crack. He ignores it, scooping Mayday out of MJ’s arms to rock her into silence. 

It does not work. Mayday only cries louder and harder. Her face goes ketchup red as she wails. 

“This is great,” Miguel drawls. “This is really making me feel better.”

Peter shoots Miguel a nasty glare. With a thwip,  he and Mayday take to the air. He swings around the room in a big circle, cooing at Mayday to quiet her. 

In the interim, Miguel draws close, sets a hand over MJ’s knee. “You okay?” 

“Course I am.” She says it so confidently, she nearly believes it. 

Miguel squeezes her knee gently. Softly, he says, “I wouldn’t be.”

But she wasn’t really your daughter is what she doesn’t say. The thought is vicious. Borne of acid and straight stomach bile. 

As Peter and Mayday swing, Miguel slides his hand up to her waist, thumbing the slip of it. A calming, steadying touch, but the soft affection curdles. She shifts away from him. His hand hovers in the vacuum, hesitating and then falling away. He doesn’t try again.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Quiet Up and Listen Down

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Batch #1A of unattributed audio clips, assumed to be of MARIJANE, as follows:

#1A - TAG, “Answers”

[UNKNOWN]: —with that?

[MIGUEL]: Don't know.

[UNKNOWN]: Uh huh. Aren't you supposed to be the guy with all the answers?

[MIGUEL]: Not usually. That's what LYLA's for.

[UNKNOWN]: I didn't call LYLA when I had questions about what happened.

[MIGUEL]: Sometimes I get lucky with the answers.

[UNKNOWN]: Well, it meant a lot to me. So thank you. Again.

[MIGUEL]: Don’t mention it.

#2A - TAG, “Insubordination”

[UNKNOWN]: If you keep shoving your massive inferiority complex down my throat, I’m going to puke!

[MIGUEL]: LYLA. Raise a ticket for insubordination.

#3A - TAG, “Character”

[PETER B]: Uh, no. No, sorry. I absolutely need an answer on this.

[UNKNOWN]: Oh god, I don’t remember the character’s name! It was really early stages and I only did a couple chemistry tests—

[PETER B]: With. Who. What character? What actor? 

[UNKNOWN]: This is really eating you up, huh? Stifling up your nerdgasm?

[PETER B]: Yes! It’s my favorite movie ever and you’re saying you were almost in it and I need to know or I’m going to bash my head into the wall or something! 

[UNKNOWN]: Wait, really?

[PETER B]: No. Star Trek, actually. It goes Wrath of Khan then Empire then… it doesn’t matter!

[UNKNOWN]: Wow. You’re a huge nerd. 

[PETER B]: I know, okay? Just tell me who you screen tested with and—

#4A - TAG, “Friends”

[UNKNOWN]: Do you think they would be friends?

[MIGUEL]: Who?

[UNKNOWN]: My kid and your kid. 

[MIGUEL]: Dunno. 

[UNKNOWN]: Mayday was choosy with her friends. She got along with most kids, but she was picky with who she let in. 

[MIGUEL]: Gabi has too many friends. Can never keep any of them straight. 

[UNKNOWN]: Says the guy with no friends.

[MIGUEL]: I have friends.

[UNKNOWN]: Name three—

#5A - TAG, “Stomach”

[MIGUEL]: How do you stomach it?

[UNKNOWN]: I don’t know. I swore I never would. But then I… I don’t know. Every day that passes, I feel like I should be more miserable than I am. That I should—

#6A - TAG, “Nursing home”

[PETEY]: —sorry for all the trouble. Really. I’m so freaking embarrassed by what Vee did. But it’s not that. It’s just… there was some stuff. About your family—

[UNKNOWN]: Look, it’s sweet that you’re concerned but it’s granny’s will after you stuck her in the nursing home.

[PETEY]: Huh?

[UNKNOWN]: None of your business.

#7A - TAG, “Mysteries”

[UNKNOWN]: You ever think that maybe the mysteries of the multiverse are just that? Mysteries? Maybe we’re not meant to understand. Like, maybe the Catholics have it right when they just admit that shit’s weird and chalk it up to Mysteries of God. 

[MIGUEL]: The Catholics don’t have anything right. 

[UNKNOWN]: Right, sorry. Your trauma.

[MIGUEL]: I'm not the one with religious trauma.

[UNKNOWN]: Yeah, well, maybe. 

[MIGUEL]: Maybe?

[UNKNOWN]: Maybe! 

#8A - TAG, “Bear”

[UNKNOWN]: —it wasn’t that many.

[LYLA]: 53 requests for transfer to HQ? In under a minute? Miguel freaked out. Thought you were getting eaten by a bear or something. Would’ve called you himself, but he’s a little tied up right now with an Ock. He’ll be fine. Ben’s there for backup.

[UNKNOWN]: A bear?

[LYLA]: Readings say they’re bad on 7782 this year.

[UNKNOWN]: A bear. In Nu York.

[LYLA]: Your whole thing is pretty wild. A bear attack would be the least surprising development.

[UNKNOWN]: Well, there’s no bear, obviously, but I do want to go home.

[LYLA]: Aw, home? You’re so cute. 

[UNKNOWN]: Am I? I'm exhausted and covered in goo. 

[LYLA]: Yeah, what’s up with that?

[UNKNOWN]: A pretty wild thing. Can we get on with the getting on—?

#9A - TAG, “Harry”

[UNKNOWN]: Harry? That you? 

#10A - TAG, “Early”

[UNKNOWN]: —of Peter?

[MIGUEL]: I didn’t know him. 

[UNKNOWN]: He was here. Early. You didn’t recruit him?

[MIGUEL]: I did. 

[UNKNOWN]: And you didn’t think anything of him?

[MIGUEL]: What does it matter? Why do you care so much about what I did or didn’t think about your husband?

[UNKNOWN]: Why wouldn’t I?

#11A - TAG, “Romance”

[UNKNOWN]: singing rah, rah-ah-ah-ah / roma, roma-ma / gaga, ooh-la-la / ba-ba-bad romance - ow, shock!

#12A - TAG, “Spiritual”

[UNKNOWN]: —at?

[JESS]: Your husband. You don’t talk about him much.

[UNKNOWN]: Wouldn’t want to bore you. He was perfect—the most boring thing to be.

[JESS]: No man is perfect.

[UNKNOWN]: Not perfect, perfect, but close to it. 

[JESS]: Really? My husband can’t even get his socks in the hamper half the time. 

[UNKNOWN]: Okay, so perfect in a spiritual sense. Like he just got me and I got him, you know?

[JESS]: That I can understand. 

[UNKNOWN]: I miss him.

[JESS]: It can’t be easy. All these Parkers.

[UNKNOWN]: Sometimes—

#13A - TAG, “Relax”

[UNKNOWN]: Just relax.

[MIGUEL]: I am relaxed!

[UNKNOWN]: Hon, if you were any more tense, I could use you for a boogie board.

[MIGUEL]: I don’t know what that is. 

[UNKNOWN]: Relax! I can’t get it—

[MIGUEL]: Just, shock, just push—

[UNKNOWN]: That’s what you want? You want me to just—

[MIGUEL]: Shock! Ow! Why the hell would you—

[UNKNOWN]: You told me to push! You’re welcome! Maybe go to the Docs next time! 

[MIGUEL]: Not worth it.

[UNKNOWN]: A dislocated shoulder isn’t worth it?

[MIGUEL]: I would’ve figured it out. 

[UNKNOWN]: Jesus—

#14A - TAG, “Fool”

[UNKNOWN]: Wanna fool around?

[MIGUEL]: Unintelligible

#15A - TAG, “Secret line”

[UNKNOWN]: I told you not to use this line. 

[REDACTED]: [REDACTED]

[UNKNOWN]: That’s not funny. 

[REDACTED]: [REDACTED]

[UNKNOWN]: Don’t call me here again. 

#16A - TAG, “Inviting” 

[UNKNOWN]: Your brother keeps inviting me out. Does he know—

[MIGUEL]: He knows. He just doesn't care. Says the whole thing is a bunch of bits.

[UNKNOWN]: Well it is.

[MIGUEL]: You can go. If you want. So long as Lyla runs the numbers first and clears it.

[UNKNOWN]: I'd rather you came with me.

[MIGUEL]: I'm no fun at those things.

[UNKNOWN]: I'm fun enough for both of us. Maybe I just want you there with me.

[MIGUEL]: I’ll think about it. 

[UNKNOWN]: Do you need convincing? 

[MIGUEL]: No. 

[UNKNOWN]: Do you want convincing?

[MIGUEL]: Maybe. 

[UNKNOWN]: I could—

#17A - TAG, “Scream (#59)”

[UNKNOWN]: unintelligible, screaming No! screaming

#18A - TAG, “Real”

[UNKNOWN]: When did it get real?

[MIGUEL]: It’s always been real.

[UNKNOWN]: No, I mean—

[MIGUEL]: I know what you mean. Everything is real and nothing has been the same. Not since you. 

[UNKNOWN]: Me?

[MIGUEL]: You. 

#19A - TAG, “Sensei”

[BEN]: —and that works?

[UNKNOWN]: Oh god, yeah. For me, at least. Different for everyone.

[BEN]: Uh huh. And how often are you—?

[UNKNOWN]: With him? Oh, I dunno. Twice a week, probably. If we have the time to get creative. Otherwise, it’s just quick and dirty… Wait. Are you—? Did you start recording? 

[BEN]: Yes?

[UNKNOWN]: Oh my god, Ben, don’t include that in the report. 

[BEN]: If I can’t verify consummation, this is the only other way I can fulfill my duty. 

[UNKNOWN]: No! Ben—!

[BEN]: Calm yourself, citizen. This is good intel. Signs of a healthy relationship, according to my sensei, Carrie Bradshaw. 

[UNKNOWN]: I… What? Carrie Bradshaw? Like Sex and the City? 

[BEN]: Obviously. 

#20A - TAG, “Fussy”

[UNKNOWN]: —she doing? Good?

[PETER B]: Great! She’s still fussy at night, but once she’s had her bath, MJ’s out like a light!

[UNKNOWN]: I meant Mayday.

[PETER B]: Oh. She’s great too! Just yesterday, she almost said my name. My name, name. Peter! Which is kinda weird. But, still! 

[UNKNOWN]: That’s great. She’s the best, isn’t she?

[PETER B]: She is. Do you—?

#21A - TAG, “Difference”

[UNKNOWN]: —could love you. What fucking difference would it make?

#22A - TAG, “Dying”

[UNKNOWN]: Oh god. Oh my god. Oh— intelligible

[MIGUEL]: Shock. You alright? 

[UNKNOWN]: I’m okay.

[MIGUEL]: Just okay? Cause it sounded like you were dying—

[UNKNOWN]: Dying. Wow. I love to hear that.

[MIGUEL]: Good dying.

[UNKNOWN]: Mmm. Good dying. In that case, should we make like Romeo and Juliet?

[MIGUEL]: Do you hear yourself when you talk?

[UNKNOWN]: Oh my god. Do you not know Shakespeare?

[MIGUEL]: Is that one of the Agents? Wears a stupid collar?

[UNKNOWN]: gasps

[MIGUEL]: Buffer a little. Of course I know Shakespeare.

[UNKNOWN]: Don’t do that! I almost passed out! Not funny! 

[MIGUEL]: You’re so dramatic.

[UNKNOWN]: You love it. 

[MIGUEL]: Do I? Maybe I just— unintelligible

#23A - TAG, “Spying”

[UNKNOWN]: —spying on me? Still?

[MIGUEL]: It’s just a safety precaution.

[UNKNOWN]: For what? What are you so afraid of? What do you think I'm going to do?

[MIGUEL]: Nothing. It’s just a precaution. You’re not—

[UNKNOWN]: Turn it off. Stop watching me!

[MIGUEL]: I’m not. LYLA is. And just listening. It’s—

[UNKNOWN]: Miguel, please. Please, stop. It’s insane. You have to know that. 

[MIGUEL]: I know. 

[UNKNOWN]: Please. 

[MIGUEL]: But you’re not acting like yourself.

[UNKNOWN]: Not acting like myself? Or just acting? You sure you even know? You can never tell, can you?

[MIGUEL]: That’s not fair.

[UNKNOWN]: No, tell me. Am I acting now, since you’re so worried about it? Do you think I'm acting now? 

[MIGUEL]: Unintelligible. You’re being ridiculous. 

[UNKNOWN]: Shock you, Miguel. Honestly. Sincerely. Shock you. 

[MIGUEL]: Stop it. Just calm down. 

[UNKNOWN]: Then stop spying on me!

#24A - TAG, “Bed”

[UNKNOWN]: —to bed! There’s a knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed—

#25A - TAG, “Knowing”

[MIGUEL]: Was it worth it? Is it any better knowing? 

[UNKNOWN]: Just let me go!

#26A - TAG, “Not real”

[UNKNOWN]: Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Asked LYLA to run a filter for any audio or visual in her backlogs with an unattributed speaker. No visuals, but lots of audio hits. Most were junk—unintelligible mutterings or noises of mechanical origin erroneously noted as sourced naturally. So far, LYLA has identified 962 unattributed audio clips in her backlog that are positive for MARIJANE’s voice as identified by MIGUEL. 

This is batch #1A, containing the most complete and legible audio. All other clips are only fragments of words. No surviving conversations have been found among them. 

There's no obvious source or reason why these are not subject to DISTORTION, beyond the removal of affixation to MARIJANE. All other audio (i.e. meetings, holovids) are pure static when she speaks. If her name is referenced, the same phenomena is observed, present even within these surviving audio clips. 

When played for other Spiders, they cannot identify the speaker, but guess correctly at "one of the Mary Janes". Follow ups inconclusive—no one remembers listening to it to begin with. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Spiracle" by Flower Face

 

friendship ended with sports car by tate mcrae. now revolving door by tate mcrae is my best friend

 

is pawn stars even a thing anymore lol

fun fact: this chapter and the next two were once all one chapter but then it was a 35k-ish word chapter so i split em up and fleshed them out into their own lil things which resulted in several extra little smutty scenes. im real picky about when and if i write smut but it goes a long way here to real drive home the honeymoon phase of things. and, i mean, folks like smut, right? let them eat smut or whatever marie antoinette said

next chap: it's totally, absolutely just a sexy little situationship. nothing more going on. obviously. duh. why? what did miguel say? nothing? oh. huh. ok. ok then.

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 34: all that burning

Summary:

bunch of kissin' fools

Notes:

*pinches fingers together* it's about the psychosexual experience that emphasizes and/or subverts the established dynamics to further progress the emotional narrative and development of the characters

tldr - the author is trying to justify all the smut that wasn't in the original outline

MariJane Watson-Parker is a simple woman with simple wants in the bedroom. Sufficient and progressing foreplay. Ample stimulation. A soft bed to be driven clean through. Dirty talk, if the mood strikes. Bodies. Movement. Heat. Friction. Pressure. Give or take a few and she’s pleased. 

Unless, of course, the hanky panky is weird, angry, hardcore, or all of the above, then her tastes sharpen beyond the simple. 

Granted, the ongoing situationship sex with Miguel has proven to be neither weird, angry, or hardcore, but it also teeters the edge of something more than her simple wants and satisfactions. Vulnerability continues to seep through, connecting them, strengthening the attraction strung around both their throats. It’s less and less that she wants the fangs and claws and consuming and more and more that she wants him. All of him. 

The thought rankles, even now as she crouches arch-backed on her knees with him behind her, hilted inside to fuck fast and rough. It’s a midnight pick-me-up where the game is a race to the finish. She’s already lost, but she’s no sore loser, matching his rhythm and making a world class performance of it. His thrusts stammer as he finishes, slowing into nothing. 

In the aftermath, MJ slumps forward. The rings hanging from the chain around her throat click and clack together as she thunks her forehead against the cool, shadowed glass at the head of the bed. Through it, the shape of the city below is warped like cold smoke, magicked into the suggestion of the cityscape. Nueva York is even more beautiful in the abstract. When they fuck like this, being able to look out over the city is just one of the perks. 

Behind her, Miguel touches the line of her neck, sweeping her hair off to the side. His breaths slow, fall in line with hers. Then, he feathers the archipelago of her spine, tracing to its natural conclusion. Only then does he pull out. Immediately, he moves to mitigate the mess. She wishes he wouldn't bother.

Still, she leans forward, diligently flopping over crossed arms and letting him indulge his clean freak tendencies. The highways—hoverlanes, Miguel has told her—are especially bright tonight, pulsing all out of time with each other. On the horizon, a whip of sparks within greenish gray clouds. Lightning, but not the jagged shape she would expect. She shifts forward, intrigued, and then Spidey-Sense blows out her eardrums. 

Thunder shakes the apartment. Bass-boosted, cartoonishly evil, cataclysmic thunder. So loud, it bursts every nerve. Inner peace is impossible when the thunder echoes inside her chest. The sound makes her less than naked. It turns her inside out. She shrieks, fisting her hands over her ears. 

Disoriented, she isn’t quite sure how she makes it into Miguel’s arms, but that’s where she ends up. He holds her tight, shouting for Lyla to wake up. Thunder cracks again, but not before a swarming buzz echoes throughout the room. The thunder just sounds like thunder now. 

“You’re okay,” Miguel murmurs, stroking her hair as she shakes through the last of her adrenaline. MJ still shakes, though the threat has passed. She’s still delicate at the edges, conscious and unconscious mind reeling from the assault. It was like symbiote sonic therapy, shaking apart her molecules. She stays fidgety as Miguel does his best to soothe her. 

“Should probably bifurcate the Hellstorm protocol into the house automation if you’re gonna let me take more regular naps.” Lyla yawns in front of them, a sleep mask askew over her brow and a series case of bed head ruffling her trademark ‘do. Then, she smacks both palms to her cheeks to give her best Kevin McCallister and squeals. “You guys are so cute my network’s gonna crash.”

Miguel rolls his eyes. MJ doesn’t do or say anything. Though cute wouldn’t be her word of choice, she knows they look good together. She croaks, “What was that?” 

“Hellstorm,” Lyla says. “Big, nasty electromagnetic force of nature.”

“Welcome to Nueva York,” Miguel drawls.

The sweat of their bodies cools together, makes them both sticky. It’s uncomfortable, but not a dealbreaker. The heat of his skin warms her frayed nerves, and the gentle, constant stroke of his fingers against her scalp make her want to purr. 

Though they’ve fucked again and again (and again), they’ve never done much aftercare. Each time they get together, they’ve only bothered with quick, clinical clean-ups and assurances that both are OK. But this is nice. Just being held. Attended to. Soft and sweet. Miguel is surprisingly good at it. So good, she makes no effort to untangle herself. It’s the very thing she’s feared festering between them, but at the moment, it’s so good, she can’t conceive of it ever being bad. 

“Oh dang.” Lyla touches a hand to her ear, leaning into it like an anchor receiving a breaking story live on air. Around her, scenes of turbulent, rushing waters overtaking downtrodden architecture and unlucky people flicker. Chemical yellows and verdant greens glisten in the cascade. “Public Eye opened the sluice gates without the order to evacuate. Downtown’s flooding fast. An entire block is underwater. Hundreds stranded. It’ll only get worse as the storm continues.”

Nothing more needs said. MJ knows how the Spider-gig works. No rest for the wicked, which means no rest for the good, either. 

“I can go with you,” MJ suggests as Miguel disentangles from her. He shakes his head. His suit snaps on, encasing him in living neon and rippling over his face. 

“You thought it was loud in here, baby girl?” Lyla asks. She juts her chin to the window. “Imagine what it sounds like out there in the elements.” 

A little doodle of MJ etches into space beside Lyla. Doodle MJ buffs her hair, purses her lips. Lyla smacks her hands together. A cartoon baow baow thunderclap echoes. Doodle MJ falls to her knees and then dissolves into dust with an all too real horror on her simple features. 

“Zoinks,” MJ says, rubbing her temples. “But, then, how do you—”

“Targeted sound suppression. State of the art.” Miguel raps a knuckle against the side of his masked head. “Stay here until the storm clears. Lyla will lock up after you leave.”

He turns to leave but she surges out to snatch his wrist before he gets too far. Pausing, he gives a half-turn. The slashes on his mask pinch tight in question. Already she feels foolish, but it will only be worse if she doesn’t follow through. Yanking him down with one hand, she uses the other to steady herself against his chest as she rises up to press a kiss against the front of his mask. Nothing crazy. Just a peck. Just to make her mouth tingle. 

The simple expression over his mask blows wide, accommodating for the surprise he expresses beneath it. The slight movement of his mouth, parted under hers with a scant nanotech between them, is her cue to retreat. She lets him go, sinking back over her knees. Her lips still tingle with faint memory as she gives a smart little grin. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

And he just stares. And stares. And then he says, “Maybe.” And then he’s walking away. And then he stops. He looks back at her. He stares again with that same dazed, wide-shot expression on his mask. And then he’s gone. 

With a thump, MJ falls back to the bed with her arms crossed over her eyes and far too stupid a grin on her face. It’s silly. All of it. But she feels good, feels like herself—the old one who used to be a shameless flirt for fun instead of necessity. 

But, more important things are afoot. Namely: she’s utterly alone in Miguel’s apartment. Well, not entirely utterly. Lyla is always a blip away and much more comfortable popping in and out here than at HQ. More than once, MJ has caught Lyla lounging on the couch or checking herself out in the mirror without any discernible impetus. When she asked about it, Miguel just shrugged and said, I stopped asking questions a long time ago.  

Summoned by thoughts she can’t possibly know, Lyla appears beside MJ, mimicking her pose in miniature. “So, how much longer are you gonna play dumb?”

“What?” MJ sloughs her arms from her face, turning to frown at Lyla. Lyla copies the move, turning to look at MJ. Her eyes narrow behind the pink glasses, squinting nearly shut. 

“Longer, then,” Lyla surmises. Her eyes shoot back to their regular size and brightness. She sits up with a faux yawn, rubbing at her neck. “You wanna snoop around? I’ll tell you where all the juicy stuff is.”

“Snooping is so crass,” MJ says, sitting up. The sheets shift beneath her, caressing like silk. “I’m just going to have a little look-see ‘round.” 

“Well, just a head’s up that all the interesting stuff is locked up in Migs’ man cave.” AKA the home lab MJ knows about in name alone. “What a bummer, right?” Lyla gives an exaggerated sad face, looking more emoji than woman for a split second, and then she blips away with a: “Happy hunting!”

Well, it’s as good a blessing as she’ll ever get. With a fond shake of her head, MJ snags a sweatshirt from the dresser. Once slipped into, it hangs to her midthigh, swishing when she walks to the closet that has remained a mystery throughout all her visits to Casa Miguelito.  

One hand to the seam and the door pops open with a hiss. Revealed is a walk-in closet, rich with clothes and shoes and boxes of a rigid silicon-y material stacked at the back. 

An honor guard of labcoats stands at attention immediately inside the door. She runs her fingers over them as she passes, making them flutter out of their starchy lines. One rasps against her fingers with an edge, not sharp, but it catches her attention. She doubles back, rummaging, until she finds the culprit. A holonote, tucked into a pocket. 

Not the formless Post-It ripoffs that Miguel uses at HQ, but something close to it. It’s a small tube, thinner than a stick of lip balm, and it flickers to life at her touch. A peachy keen kiss lies smack dab in the center. Swirly, girly handwriting all around. It says, Escher, tonight at 7. My treat. Love you. It flickers off and then back on, weaker and less legible. 

It’s not the first thing she’s found that hints at another life. Another woman. There was the loose sock, embroidered with flowers around the toes, shoved into a drawer of pants. The spill of pink in the medicine cabinet with the chemical stink of nail polish. The setting on the TV, labeled Dana's Presets, uncovered by accident when she attempted to turn it on without asking for help. 

And now this note. 

Not for the first time, MJ considers that she may be the other woman. It wouldn’t be the first time. With a long and storied dating history, she’s been with a lot of fucking duds. If Miguel had another partner, it would definitely explain his initial, vehement refusal and the slow caving in that led them to this point. 

But it isn’t likely. Miguel is never home. He barely has time for himself, let alone anyone else. Any and all of his free time has been dedicated to MJ and MJ alone. No, the evidence MJ finds is only remnants and fragments, not litter from an active life. Traces of a woman past. Probably dead. The mysterious fiancée Lyla once mentioned. Dana. 

MJ snoops around the hanging clothes a little more, but the desire is soured. She doesn’t find anything else there. She turns her attention elsewhere. 

The boxes are full of men’s clothes, far slimmer and more dynamic than any hanging in the closet or dresser beyond. Bright colors, slick designs, where everything else she’s seen (and stolen) from Miguel’s wardrobe has been loose fitting and in greyscale. 

Is this who he is under all the guilt and bravado? Someone who wears lax collared shirts and tight pants? 

Beneath a pile of leather-like pants (which she will be asking about later) is a datapad, cracked in the middle. When she plucks it free, it requests a password. Seven letters. Unwilling to cross into definite snooping territory, MJ doesn’t take a guess. 

“Try whizkid.” Lyla sits on MJ’s shoulder, leaning down to peer at the datapad. There isn’t a hint of humor on her face or in her voice. She repeats it again. “Whizkid. That’s the password.” 

Then, she’s gone. 

MJ frowns, but she types out w-h-i-z-k-i-d. After all, it’s not really snooping if Lyla told her the password. The screen unlocks, showing an image around the violent crack in the center. 

Miguel, far younger, with thick glasses, an unruly head of hair and a characteristic scowl slouches in front of a sign reading Alchemax University. He holds up an unenthusiastic peace sign. Then, without warning, the photo ripples into silent motion. A girl with chunky blonde highlights streaking through a dark sheaf of hair slings into frame, throwing her arms around Miguel's neck, nearly flinging them both to the ground. The woman isn’t an exact duplicate of Lyla, but similarities abound. Similar tastes in fashion. Similar mischief around the eyes. Similar striking eyebrows and cupid’s bows. An effortless, glowing beauty. Sisters, not twins.

In the video, the girl chastises Miguel, clever mouth moving around a silent command to smile, jackass, until he shakes with begrudging laughter. When she turns to grin down the lens, she has an impish light in her eyes. Miguel follows suit, giving a sheepish grin and slinging a heavy arm around her shoulders. 

All the while, the crack in the frame stretches between them. It distorts the kiss the girl presses into Miguel’s cheek, splitting it into splotches of color and intention. 

The video stills. It fades into another and then into another, detailing various life events. Graduation. Several parties. Work events. A handful of fancy dinners. A housewarming of the very apartment MJ now crouches in. Each warm, happy event killed by the violent crack through the frame.

All of them feature Miguel and the girl, growing older and growing up. Miguel fills out his frame. The girl hits a teeny growth spurt, loses the youthful clutch to her cheeks, becomes a woman. The years flashing past in photos and quick videos. Her grin never shrinks but sharpens. His expressions only dull and harden.

Beyond the obvious aging, the woman's eccentric hair journey helps to showcase the passage of time. She goes from her chunky blonde highlights to a severe undercut to a purple bob to a distinctive Rachel cut to a natural, inky spill, ending just below her jaw. Miguel isn’t as adventurous, but does sport an ill advised goatee in the last few photos.

The very last photo is of the woman, Miguel, a man who can only be a blood relative—Miguel's brother, probably—and another woman, all seated around a table in a gaudy restaurant. Two couples, cleanly paired off. Everyone but Miguel raises a wine glass and beams for the camera. When the image starts to move, it’s the new woman who encourages Miguel to join in, gesturing with a well-manicured hand for him to raise his glass. He does, giving a bashful sort of smile. When the image freeze frames, the crack in the screen perfectly bisects Miguel’s dopey mug. 

The image flickers, casting in and out of negative, and then boldface text spurts across the screen. MJ reads it once, twice, three times before she’s convinced that it’s really there. In all caps, the message reads: ALL YOUR MISERY IS YOURS ALONE! The text fades with the photo beneath it, circling back to the beginning, to that first video, and plays again. 

A leaden weight in her belly, MJ doesn’t watch the presentation a second time. She sets it back in the box and then buries it beneath the loose leatherish pants. 

The closet holds no other discoveries. MJ leaves it with a headful of ghosts. 

She doesn’t regret her little look-see, but it does leave her listless. She and Miguel have no pictures together, have given no gifts. When she’s gone, she won’t leave anything behind. She’ll just be some lady he liked to fuck. And that’s… for the best, of course. She doesn’t want to be a memory turned sour and left to fester in his closet or future self harm. All your misery is yours alone is a devastating line, especially with all that came after. 

MJ doesn’t know much about Miguel’s fiancée, but she knows they weren’t together when Dana died. That’s enough to piece together the rest. 

***

By the time Miguel returns, MJ hasn’t ventured from the bedroom. Roosted in his sheets, she’s whittled away the hours working on debriefs and scouring her dour thoughts into exhaustion. Five hours and twenty some debriefs have slurred past. The storm ended hours ago, but she doesn’t think to check the time until her head starts to grow heavy and by then the sun’s peeking out of the horizon and there’s a commotion in the hall of Lyla welcoming Miguel home with an over-cheery good morning!  

Miguel’s shadow, teeming electric, slips past the door en route to the apartment proper. There’s an uncharacteristic slump to his step as he passes. He talks to himself, something grousing that MJ can’t quite make out. 

He doesn’t know she’s still here. Lyla confirms this when she pops up with a finger to her mouth and a wink. Then, she vanishes, taking up with Miguel out in the kitchen. 

For a moment, MJ considers cutting her losses and requesting a portal back to HQ, but, ultimately, the chance to spook Miguel proves more enticing. Without Spidey-Sense, he’s vulnerable to easy surprises. This knowledge is something she has, admittedly, not yet put to good use, though she’s taken great inspiration from the Spider-Punks. 

Out in the kitchen, Miguel stands at the sink. The open faucet courses over his mouth, spilling more than he can gulp down. He stands abruptly, still clutching the counter's edge, and then stoops down for seconds. His right foot hitches a step higher, dangling delicately to bear the weight on his left. When he finishes drinking, he stands off-center, leaning heavily to the left. An injury, but not one dire enough to damage his suit. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his head, removing the wet sheen. The water shuts off with a tick. 

Silence. His breathing. Hers. The ambient hum of electricity throughout the building. 

“What happened to your leg?” MJ asks. 

“Shock!” Miguel whirls on her, nearly upending himself in surprise. He catches himself, just barely, by wildly webbing the counter. His mask flickers up and then back down again. “Why are you still here?” 

It stings. It's nothing personal. MJ shrugs. “When else would I get the chance to snoop through your stuff?”

His mouth sets in a hard line as he kills the webs to lean heavily on one arm against the counter, trying and failing to be nonchalant. His ankle cocks at an odd angle out from his leg. “Find anything good?” 

“No.” That sad slideshow was definitely not good. “Ya boring.” 

He chuffs. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

There’s a pause as the discussion dissolves. MJ lets it stretch before she shifts her weight, looking over him long and slow. “So, what happened?” 

“Nothing.”

Pursing her lips, MJ summons, “Lyla?”

Lyla appears in full neo-noir detective garb. She holds up a magnifying glass while smoking a cigar that reads PROP on the side. She looks more like McGruff the Crime Dog than Spider-Noir, but the overall effect is compelling. 

“Lyla’s on the case, toots.” She blitzes all around Miguel, jotting notes in a yellow notepad, scribbling incessantly, tearing out pages, crumpling them out, tossing them away. In two, three, four places at once, she hems and haws, nodding to herself. 

All the while, Miguel resolutely ignores her (it’s an admirable effort) and says to MJ, “She’s gotten so much worse with your influence.”

In unison, MJ and all the Lylas tsk and say, “You love it.” 

As always, Miguel rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest. Because he does love it. Loves them. MJ blinks. Realization clicks, fizzles, is resolutely rejected.

“What’s your conclusion, detective?” MJ asks. She adopts a brassy, Trans-Atlantic accent. It’s good. It’s the only accent she can do effectively. 

“Multiple suspects. A difficult case. Most difficult one of my career”—Lyla puffs hard on the cigar, exhales a cyber cloud—“I'm getting too old for this bit.”

“I fell, okay?” Miguel says, hobbling away. “I fell.” 

“Way to crack the case wide open,” MJ says, jumping to his side and asserting herself under his arm, supporting his weight off the bad ankle. Easier to acquiesce than resist, Miguel lets her without fuss, though he does grumble unfavorably. He smells like broken ozone and blacktop rain. 

Lyla chases at their side. “At this rate, you’ll be off the street beat in no time, rookie.”

“Nothing you’re saying makes sense,” Miguel gripes. 

Together, MJ and Miguel stumble to his bedroom. When he flops back onto his bed, going boneless, MJ startles. It conjures memories of vicious injury. Whispered prayers. Fear. It’s a bone-etched memory, that time when she thought, however briefly, that she’d killed him. It was a devastating thought then. Now? Now, it’s annihilating. 

Webbing splats against her chest, tugs her sharply down to sprawl over him on the bed. A snap of his wrist and the tech-web disappears along with his glove. He touches her jaw, angling her gaze to meet his. 

“Stop it,” he commands. “I’m fine."

This is another realization that has begun to fester. Miguel understands her. He understands her too well. 

Instead of confronting the hard thing, MJ shifts upright, setting her hips firmly over his in a straddle. She leans forward, deliberate in pressing down against him. He rises up onto his elbows, interest piqued. 

“Since I’m still here,” she drawls, pushing hard against his chest, leaning fully over him, forcing him down. 

Assumption and desired outcome: Miguel will retaliate against this sudden balance shift and overcorrect to re-exert control. He’ll make sarcastic comment and then take the reins—service topping her to heaven and back. This is what usually happens. This is what she expects. 

But his ankle is busted. And he’s already played service top today (yesterday, technically? What is time and why doesn't it ever make any sense?) so he’s feeling lazy and spoiled, curious to see what she’ll do in control. These are the explanations she gives in her head. The ones she can accept. The ones that don’t throw up red flags.

It’s a dangerous line. The kissing in his lab. The way she thinks about him and catches herself smiling when she’s alone. The way he looks at her now, smoldering in slow motion. Once that line's crossed, it’s impossible to walk back and pretend like the warning signs weren’t there all along.

But this isn’t the line. She’s just thinking too hard about things, drowning herself in nuance that doesn’t exist. 

This is just sex, as it’s always been. It’s her on top, ostensibly in control without a fight, and it’s unexpected, but it’s far from unpleasant. She grinds her hips, striking over him. He groans. She loses her breath. She does it again. And again. Definitely, not unpleasant. 

His hands alight on the backs of her thighs, smoothen up under the overhang of her sweatshirt. He makes a noise in the back of his throat to find her without panties. It catches in her stomach with a flinch of heat, scorching into full blown desire. 

Lashing out, she snatches his hands from her ass, lacing their fingers together to drive his hands down beside his shoulders into the mattress and holding him down. Another groan. His hips buck up, an involuntary jerk, nearly unseating her. Expression blown open, but his eyes are half-lidded and slope heavily beneath his lashes. He’s so big. So strong. So wrapped tight. Never faltering. Never weakening. Never for anyone.

Yet here he is, unraveling for her. 

“You gonna be good and let me fuck you?” she asks, but it comes out unpleasant. Shock where she means fuck. They're not the same, no matter how this universe insists. But shock and fuck and cunt cock cum are body words. Hard words for some, but not for her. They’re easy. They’re safe. 

“Yes,” he says, hoarsely, but only a little shy, trusting her to do whatever she will. And that makes her fucking ache. All her good sense smashes apart on impact. She can deal with the crash later. It's a problem for another time, another MJ. This one's busy. This one's slipping the sock on the door handle and writing do not disturb in big, bold Sharpie all over everything. This one says fuck the consequences, live a little, enjoy the ride. 

***

Afterwards, MJ takes on the honorable task of aftercare since Miguel’s ankle is still out of alignment and made slightly worse by their fucking. In no small part because he tried to brace his feet against the footboard for better torque of his hips up into her and, when he couldn’t hack the strain with toe talons alone, webbed his busted ankle into place.

All of this done right under MJ’s nose. In her defense, it was impossible to maintain full spatial awareness riding bareback so to speak. So to not speak, it was all she could do to match his pace and not get bucked clean off from the way he was pistoning up into her like a fucking jackhammer after she said he was being so good. 

So yeah, she didn’t notice his absolutely boneheaded solution to his ankle problem. Though she did chew him out thoroughly once she realized. And then maybe sat on his face, but only because he so sweetly suggested it as a means to demonstrate how sorry he was. What was she supposed to do? Say no? And be a total spoilsport? Not likely. 

Now, MJ carefully assesses the webbed foot situation. As Miguel is partial to nanotech webs, he does not keep Web B Gone in his apartment. Which is ridiculous since he can apparently shoot organic webs, as seen in Exhibit A: his goddamned foot buried beneath far too much organic webbing. 

“Real webs, talons, fangs,” MJ mutters, tugging at the web. It doesn’t budge, only makes her hand sticky. “Any other secret spider things you want to tell me about?”

“There’s the venom, of course.” Beyond the predicament limiting his movement, Miguel looks perfectly content. Massaging his jaw, he bathes in the afterglow while MJ is left to deal with his idiocy. 

“Of course,” MJ grumbles. She ventures to the bathroom and then roots around in his shower, confiscating a self-labeled Lazr-Razr. There’s one button on it. When pressed, a blue laser zaps between two prongs on the end. 

Out in the bedroom, Miguel continues lazily listing off his attributes. “Telescopic vision. Pheromone emission. Subdermal spinnerets. Genius intellect, but that was way before S-Man.” 

MJ rolls her eyes, smiling in the safety of the other room. Another zap of the Lazr-Razr affirms it’s just what she needs. 

Rejoining him, Lazr-Razr in hand, she asks, “Pheromones? Are you for real or just joshing?”

“Real, but very minimal.” In the interim, he’s hiked up onto his elbows, but has fought no battle of his own against the webbing. He eyes the Lazr-Razr warily. “No real effect, but never have to worry about morning breath.”

MJ hums. Finally, an explanation for the spiced sweet taste of his breath and tongue. Must be why she’s always so desperate to kiss him. A mystery solved that she didn't even realize was a mystery! Damn, she's good! 

“Hold still.” She angles the Lazr-Razr at the portion of his foot to cause the least damage should he lose it in a freak laser accident. 

Only once she’s obliterated all the webbing does it occur to her that he could have easily used his talons. The smug look he gives her when she crosses her arms and glares at him suggests he had this same thought much earlier, but kept it to himself.

When a web splats on her chest, tugging hard and suddenly toppling her over him on the bed for the second time today, she could kill him. She really, truly could. But then he’s laughing and touching her. Her anger evaporates. Until they both get stuck and sticky and tangled by his oh so brilliant move with the web. Then, she’s back to entertaining crimes of passion, reaching for the Lazr-Razr again, and cursing his supposed genius intellect. 

***

After all is finally said and done and MJ undertakes the arduous task of re-dressing while Miguel begins working in bed, Lyla makes a dramatic reappearance. 

“There’s just one thing that doesn’t add up about this whole I fell theory.” Lyla strokes her chin. Her cigar is now a pipe. She takes a puff and then putters like Popeye. 

“Don’t,” Miguel growls. A grumpy kitten growl, it’s far less than intimidating, even when he swipes at Lyla’s visage with a taloned hand. 

“I'm gonna.” There was a meme Peter liked to send a lot. A picture of Spongebob with his mouth smushed up in mischief and his eyes all-knowing. Lyla looks so much like that image, the only feasible conclusion is that she’s deliberately invoking it. 

“Do. Not.”

“Oopsie. You should've said something like 5 nanoseconds sooner." Lyla claps her hands. The landing page for Spider-Goofs displays in front of her. At the top of the feed is the most recent upload, featuring a video of Miguel as he overshoots his landing. He snaps his line, clearly intending to strike a cool yet casual pose, but misses the ledge by a half inch. He plummets down with a shriek, landing in a puddle of suspicious origin. His body lands one way, his ankle lands another. 

The consensus of all who watch is lmao and ouch!

***

A week later, MJ has another close call with Prodigal. They fight all throughout the wharf district. Salt and sludge and stink, all around. MJ gets in as many good hits as she takes, but none down him. One does shatter the upper right corner of his visor, revealing a burning, hateful eye. In the moment, she’s hit with an instantaneous revulsion. A knee jerk reaction of bile like food poisoning. Something deep and dark and knowing knotting tight in her gut. 

It’s a slip—one she can’t afford. With a stunner that would make a WWE all star weep, the bastard pinions her to the ground. Stuck as a bug on a windshield, there’s nothing she can do when he snaps her arm as easily as breaking a twig in two. 

If not for the arrival of a Fed envoy, he may have broken more of her. May have being the operative words. He may have hurt her more, but she doesn’t think he wants to kill her. Not anymore, at least. Not when he still spends half their fights monologuing about bringing her into the light and swaying her to his worldview.

Everything’s made worse by the knowledge that she’s getting sloppy. Her brain and body are over wired. She isn’t sleeping much anymore. There isn’t time and even in those rare moments where there is time, she doesn’t sleep restfully because the dreams are getting worse. 

Sometimes a field, sometimes a stage, sometimes a hospital wing, but always empty. Always foggy. 

The Somnium helped when she had a steady dose, but her access is limited. A temporary solution, it’s not meant to be taken every night. Highly addictive, according to all the red letter warnings on the now empty vial. Before it ran out, she was metering her doses—something else she wasn’t meant to do—but it helped. At least then, when she dreamt, they never progressed. Every night, she would just stand in that empty dream, waiting. 

Now when she dreams, she isn’t so lucky. 

“Run me through it again,” Miguel demands now. “Tell me exactly what happened “

This is not the first time he’s asked for an explanation. As soon as she was discharged from MedBay, she made the wise decision to move the party to his apartment. Given how furious he’s been with her and the entire situation, it was a very good call. Granted, the Docs did not help the situation by flagging that her condition was critical when it was barely even bad. 

The arm just looked worse than it actually was. No big whoop. The cast of her forearm is squidgy and membranous. She can squish is thin enough to hide beneath long sleeves, but there’s no taking it off. Not for another month, at least.

Clean breaks heal much faster, but this was messy. The bones were broken with such force that it splintered. She’s lucky she came out of it with nothing more than the breaks. Not even Spider-powers or fancy future tech can heal a fat embolism. 

No matter how she tells it, her rundown of events is not satisfactory to Miguel. Rather than explain a fourth time, MJ holds up her broken arm instead. With the sleeve of her suit top shorn away courtesy of the Spider-Docs, there’s no hiding the sterile injury beneath the translucent cast. A thick, ugly incision snakes along the inside track of her arm from wrist to elbow. Cleaned of gore, the skin around it is wildflower red and purple, pocked throughout by disinfected cuts and abrasions.  

“Sign my cast?”

“No,” Miguel says, thoroughly unamused. He’s doing that thing where refuses to break eye contact, ducking into her line of sight every time it moves away from him. “Tell me what happened and tell me you know what went wrong.”

So, MJ tells him. Again. As she does, she gravitates to the bathroom mirror for something to do. Telling her story, she inspects the rough bruises and cuts around her face. She’s lucky she can’t scar. Otherwise, her face card might start declining for the first time in her life. 

Throughout her entire retelling, Miguel watches. He’s sat on the edge of his bed, leg bouncing so fast it blurs in the corner of her vision. More than she sees it, she feels his stare, more red than brown, more pupil than iris, carrying the intensity of storm clouds gathering on the horizon, but pointedly ignores him as she breezily retells how Prodigal broke her defenses, sweeping her legs out from under her, using the WWE parlance for reference, and—

“Stop shocking around, MariJane!” He’s gone from the bed. Gone from the mirror. The living light of his suit casts muted shadows but he’s gone off to some far corner of the room to glower at shadows. “This is your life not—!”

“So you don’t want me to tell you what happened then?” She leans close to the mirror, dragging the undersides of her eyes long and then prodding at them with two fingers under each. Lack of sleep has started to sap the elasticity of her face. She looks tired. She looks old. 

“I want you to stop getting brutalized—!”

MJ scoffs. “Right because this”—she gestures at her wounded face with her broken arm—“was intentional. The beaten to a pulp look is just so in right now.”

“You’re too easily distracted. You always let your guard down too early.” These are not new criticisms. They used to be his favorites to levy against her back when they ran missions together. Back then, he would give a dry laugh with his criticisms to undercut the severity. He isn’t laughing now and neither is she.  

“And? I’m working on it.” 

“Are you?”

“Sure.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove—?”

Warning slashes through her body. She jerks upright, giving a yelp of surprise as an arm ensnares her from behind and a hand takes hold of her throat. Bracketed around the waist and neck, she’s drug back, tight and inescapable, against Miguel.  

Adrenaline blitzes through her body. Instinctive, she grabs at his arms, clawing into them, but her feeble cat scratching doesn’t do a damn thing against his suit. He squeezes her neck, thumb and forefinger over the pulse points, drawing it long and lean, tilting her head skyward, so that she can’t even enjoy the sight of him behind her in the mirror.

“You need to work harder,” he says, growling in her ear. His fangs are out. She can feel the added bite to his voice. But whatever point he’s trying to make is wholly lost on her. She’s so suddenly turned on, it hurts, which she has to imagine is half the point of all this. She has not been subtle in her desire to fuck hotter and heavier and rougher. She chews her lip, doing her best not to whimper as his grip gets rougher. 

The pad of his thumb roves off her throat, up to her chin, pulling down to coax her bottom lip free from the vice of her teeth. She pants, grinding back against him. If he’s hard, she can’t tell for certain with all the fabric between them. The adrenaline spike and plummet makes her dizzy and the feel of him pressed against her is disorienting. She tries, in vain, to look into the mirror, but can only make out the graveyard angel torment on his face. The gruff lines of his face are etched deep. 

Miguel’s gaze drips down, catching hers in the mirror. Her eyelids flicker, caught. Fuck. Anticipation tangles her tongue as she squirms in his embrace. She stretches her good arm back, dragging hooked fingers through his hair and hissing when his hips roll forward, jostling her into the edge of the sink. He holds her there, pressed hard against the granite, letting the sharp edge divot the front of her thighs until finally, with a groan, he leans into her, taking to the slip of her throat with his tongue. 

Slavering heat scrapes, warming her blood to a violent boil as she watches him in the mirror. His fangs gleam in the low light and the sight alone starts a ratcheting pulse in her cunt. The threat of his bite is ever present, ever wanting. Even if her memory of that moment is slurried, her body remembers the circumstances of his fangs in her throat. 

“Bite me.” It just slips out, sandwiched between her panting breaths. Behind her, Miguel tenses. He stops kissing her neck. 

The eyes of his reflection are shuddered, hiding whatever the truth may be. His hand, freed of his suit, twists against her throat, thumb pressed hard against the underside of her jaw, forcing her gaze up and away from the mirror. Away from whatever he doesn’t want her to see there. But he’s too late. She saw it. She knows. She knows he considered it, wanted to do it, even, but regrets it now, resents her for asking. 

Stupid. That’s what it was. Stupid of her to ask for something she knows he’ll never give. Squeezing her eyes closes, she leans heavily back against him, nuzzling in reverse in apology of her momentary lapse. 

“No sudden moves,” Miguel says. His fingers chomp into her cheeks, forcing her mouth to pucker. 

Her eyes shoot open, but not quick enough to save her the further surprise of his lips pressed hard against hers. She moans, loud and louder still as he keeps her helpless to the violent kiss, tongue slipping behind her teeth, tangling with hers. Sensation melts from her feet, cut off by the sharp line of the sink, but he keeps her upright as her knees shake, shifting to split her legs with one of his own and buoy the bulk of her weight.

The hand at her waist snarls down the front of her leggings, plunging between her legs and braving the swelter. He masturbates her with little finesse. She jolts and yanks hard at his hair. Their teeth knock together and MJ can do little else but moan. 

“Stay still,” he hisses into her mouth. His fingers pinch to the point of pain while the hand below her waistband drags to a halt. A stern reminder to petrify for her own safety. 

Which begs the question, why risk kissing her at all? Beyond soft, slow sessions of careful kisses recently, they haven’t kissed this messy since that day in MedBay, practically ancient history. They never kiss ragged and rough and befanged, despite her frequent fantasies. So, why now? 

All potential explanations unsettle. If either of them was going to fall victim to sentimentality, it was meant to be her. Not stoic, stubborn Miguel. He was supposed to be the voice of reason and set them back on track, not the one to push them off. 

“Miguel,” she mumbles, barely able to breathe his name back into him. He echoes the noise, but doesn’t stop until she wriggles, jerking her head back to thump against his shoulder, breaking the kiss. 

They both heave through thick, heavy breaths.

The clamp of his fingers releases from her face, stroking soft to soothe the inflamed divots around her mouth. She drops her head, tucking her chin to the top of her chest. Though not her intention, it provides a primo angle of his hand down her pants. She bites her lip and chews off her moan from the lazy, uncommitted stroke of his fingers.

“Oh, shock off,” she mutters, far weaker and wrecked than she intends. She blames the universe. All her best intentions go to shit when she’s made to say shock instead of fuck. 

With clinical efficiency Miguel bends her over the sink. She has to skitter to brace herself with two hands on the sink lip, lest she take the spigot to the face or get a nipple pinched in the drain. She hardly contributes as he peels her nude from the waist down. 

As Miguel smooths a hand down the long line of her back, stopping at the base to angle her hips just right, the inert stone freezes her bare skin, chewing at her softness, making her flinch and harden. It isn’t a problem for long. Not when she raises her head and watches him spit into his hand, wetting his fingers and then bringing them against her from behind. 

She curses, whines, barely able to articulate it around the lolling of her tongue. It isn’t like her to be so out of it. Much as she enjoys sex, she never lets herself fully lose control. She’s good at playing the part, but absolute acquiescence is too vulnerable a state. She never lets herself get too worked up. And she isn’t now but this is… it’s different. Not playacting. Which is probably bad bad bad except it’s hard to really give a fuck when his fingers crook into her, ragged and imperfect and so, so good.

That distant, clinical edge of his is gone. He touches her with a sincerity that lends itself to uneven pressures and imprecise rhythms. Whatever’s happening to her, it’s happening to him too. 

All her well practiced sighs and coos fall short, leaving her with a broken yelp when she finds sudden, violent climax on his fingers. That little yelp morphs into pathetic, whimpering, affirming yes God yes babbles when he banishes his suit to the netherworld and replaces his fingers with his cock, wringing her orgasm long and frazzled as he pushes into her. His hands find the reigns of her hips, holding her steady but not harshly. The adjustment is quick, but he waits beyond it. He moves only when she starts to fuss at the lack of friction and then he really moves, cursing and surging forward. 

With all she’s worth, she arches her back, slapping her hand out against the mirror for extra leverage to meet the rhythm he sets. The mirror wobbles, warping their reflections, and then fractures with an icy crack. Webbed patterns obscure the torrid scene, sparking from the tech embedded within the thin glass. Both of them lurch to stare at the sound—her hand crunching against the broken glass and her arm throbbing beneath the cast from the held angle. She gives a breathy laugh and he does too and then the mirror is forgotten in favor of the more pressing matter of their in-progress fucking. 

In the broken mirror, they hold each other’s determined stares until the pressure becomes too much. Until they find a truly brutal pace between them. Until the pads of her fingers split along the jagged fissures in the mirror, painting the cracks bloody and raw. Until he has to let go of her hips, pressing his palm down flat against the small of her back to keep her level as talons erupt from his fingertips. Until she babbles and he curses darker than she’s ever heard and the sink creaks and then cracks in two beneath the ravaging claw of her hand as he thrusts into her with final, devastating force, coming hard and fast. 

In the sluggish disentangling that follows, MJ rasps, “I’ll have to break my arm more often.”

She expects it will piss him off. It doesn’t. It draws out a puff of breath that’s almost a laugh as he hangs his head with a shy smile. And she doesn’t know what to make of that at all so she just ignores it. 

After a quick clean-up and bandaging of her cut hand, Miguel carries her to the bed (though she does try to walk on her own) and then lays her out over top of it. Her top rides up, curled just above her belly button. There are fresh bruises blossoming on her hips from the repetitive force of slamming into the sink. The rest of her fared well—all the other bruises and scratches were there before, though a cut on her thigh reopened in the excitement. Already, it’s begun to re-thicken with a scab. 

A hand to her mouth, MJ dusts the shape of her own lips. They throb lightly, still swollen from the earlier, unprecedented affection. Her thoughts are sluggish, fattened up by the slow fading swell of oxytocin. She doesn’t say anything when Miguel sinks to his knees or when he dips his head to her midsection to inspect her hips. 

All she does is shiver when he skates a whispering finger through the pounding bruises and again when he blows lightly on each. Tears prick the corners of her eyes when he traces the edges of the smashed capillaries with his tongue, cleaning the skin with a feline sensibility. 

There’s a questioning lilt to each lick—do you like this? Does it feel good? And life stirs in her chest to answer—yes! Yes! 

It surprises her when he follows the line of her abdomen down between her legs. After the sink-fucking, it didn’t seem like there was much purpose to any further sex act. If asked, she wouldn't be of any mind to even string s-e-x together to spell sex and yet here she is all hot and bothered for another round. It’s a novel development—he really is a genius. 

It’s lazy the way he eats her out. Something to do. Something to pass the time. If he didn’t know what she liked at this point, she wouldn’t still be fucking around with him, but he’s slow in giving it to her now, seemingly content to just savor the heat of her body and the taste of overloved sex. It’s arrogant. He’s arrogant and she doesn’t resent him for it nearly as much as she should. 

Eventually, he works her to the edge again again, but first he pauses to say, “You’re going to up your training regimen again. Mastery courses. Same regimen as me.”

Giving a scoff of protest (without any real venom because all her thinking powers are in time-out so she can come without concern), she says, “Shock off, Miguel. I know what I'm doing.”

“It’s not up for discussion. You do it or I’ll bench you.” He sits up enough to fix her with a stern stare, but it does not inspire compliance, no matter how pretty he looks tucked between her legs. 

“As if.” She perks up, shifting up onto her elbows to glare properly down at him. “You need me.”

“Alive. What good are you dead?”

It’s a tense moment. Bad tense. She feels skinless, less than naked. There’s too much simmering in his words, his face, but it’s hardly a conversation to have as an oral-intermission. Or ever. So, she just groans in frustration and tips her head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I’m fine.”

“You’re getting sloppy,” he says—and she knows he doesn’t mean it as a double entendre, despite its aptness in the situation. Or maybe he does. He temples her knees and then back down he goes between her legs. 

“No.” Her disagreement is shot through with a high whine at the end as his ministrations take a rough turn, sucking hard at her soreness. She slips a hand into his hair then through it, correcting his angle to something softer. Soon as she lets up, he drops right back to sucking harshly. 

“Shit,” she whines, tugging again, but he doesn’t stop. “Where do you get off always thinking you know best?”

“I do know best.” He’s popped up again, leaning back enough to prove his point by fucking her open again with his fingers and touching her with the perfect pressure and rhythm in the way she loves best. 

“God, you’re so irritating,” she huffs as her body writhes in defiance of her point. She loses both hands to grabbing at his hair, which only spurs him on more.

“Must be so hard for you, being wrong.” He curls his fingers and she bites hard on her lip to keep from crying out. It’s pure stubbornness. Only proving his point further. Asshole. “You can’t take it. You get so angry.”

He never talks when they do this. Little curses, articulate moans, but never talks. She thought he hated it, always seemed adverse to her dirty talking to the point that she stopped it entirely. This isn’t even dirty talk though, not the way she knows it, but it’s clearly doing something for him. He pushes one hand into her abdomen, between the bruises, canting her hips down to find a new angle on his fingers, and his voice takes on an abrasive edge, bleeding darker and deeper with each word. “You never listen. Your need to be in control is a shocking disease.” 

She squeezes her eyes shut, wincing at the adjustment, swallowing the sound of her own pleasure. Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn. She wants to argue. Wants to say, You love it when I argue. You can’t help it. You need it because you can’t get off arguing with yourself. But her thoughts aren’t exactly linear. They’re smeared and slantways. Body thoughts. Pleasure thoughts. Pressure and sensation. 

And he’s still talking. Complaining, really. Trying to rile her up. Egging her to respond and argue. Doing everything but asking her directly to yell at him. And, Christ, how has she gone all this time without noticing how bad he wants to be put in his place?  

With a surge of strength, she kicks up, wraps her legs around the meld of his neck into shoulders. Then, she constricts them, dragging him fully back down to the apex of her thighs. His lack of preternatural sense is his one major setback as a Spider and she's very glad for its absence now. He grunts, stunned by the sudden movement. His breath gushes hot over her as his fingers snarl tight and sharp inside her. Thank fucking god it didn’t scare him enough for the talons to pop out. That would be difficult to explain to the Spider-Docs. Maybe not her best idea. 

Or maybe her best idea ever. Because when she pinches her legs tight, when she commands, “Just shut up and finish what you started.” 

When she does all that, Miguel makes a noise that distills her blood, marrow, spinal fluid into pure fucking lightning. High pitched and keening, the noise is a yelp, downturned and stretched into a moan. Resistance, acquiescence, deliverance. 

And then he eats her out like he’ll fucking die without it. 

She doesn’t last long. The pleasure mainlines, ratchets along every nerve ending. When she comes, it’s transcendental. Actual, mind bending stuff. She arches so hard off the bed, she’d be in Chakrasana if not for Miguel holding her hips down. She moans so loud, she might as well be screaming. Distantly, there’s a ratchet banging from below—she’s louder than the noise suppression system, invoking the wrath of the downstair neighbor and Peter smacks a hand over her mouth to stop her from alerting the whole of Oscorp Tower of their current use of the rooftop. She laves her tongue along the seams in his hand, draws his fingers into her mouth when he flinches, and then sucks them hard, eyes rolling back in her head as he thrusts hard into her, through the rooftop, through the continued surprise of his revival, through the sorrow and the sadness and even the joy. There’s nothing else. Just him. Just her. Together, at last. 

His green eyes catch the flashing red of nearby airplane diversion lights when he looks down at her with so much love, her heart cracks. He is strong and beautiful and alive, alive, alive! 

With a gasp, MJ gushes back into her current body, filling it out and settling heavy in the meat. The memory fades quick as it came, distilling out in little shiver shakes of fading pleasure. Her comedown is slow, teetering on the edge of exhaustion, but she does find herself again. Herself and a drowning amount of guilt. 

She needs to be careful in letting herself snap like that. Otherwise, she’ll say things she doesn’t mean and make promises she can’t keep. 

Miguel slumps heavy over her lower body. His arms wrap around her legs where they hang off the bed. His head nestles in the lap, face turned so that he breathes heavy against her thigh. 

Though her hand shakes, she brings it to his face, blindly tracing the jut of his cheekbone, down to the curve of his jaw. He hums, dropping his slickened mouth down to kiss the plump of her thumb and then continuing along the length of her arm, catching his front teeth on the bird bones in her wrist. 

It tickles. She twitches. He does it again. She gives a fuzzy laugh. 

“C’mere,” she mumbles, but he doesn’t. He stays firmly rooted around her legs, encircling tighter. 

“Wanna stay here,” he says, nuzzling back into her thigh. His voice has gone syrupy. The way it always does after he finishes. Without the body feedback, she thinks and yes, yes he was touching himself while he got her off. The sounds, the strange jolts that punctuated his body as she came on his tongue—she hadn’t registered the signs properly at the time, too gone in her own way, but they were all there.

“Up here,” she says, forcefully. She hooks her fingers under the strap of his chin, pulls weakly. It pangs all along her arm, splintering out into her shoulder. The incision swelters and the incongruous bones emit their own, individual bleats of pain.  

Brushing away her hand from his face, Miguel stands, stretching his arms up strong over his head. The hard lines of his abdomen are obscured by abstract splashes. It might be the hottest thing she’s ever seen. Definitely in the top ten. It helps with the pain, gives her something more important to lash her focus onto. She whines outright, grinding out his name, and making gimme motions with both hands. Her broken arm thuds, displeased with the angle.

With a huff, Miguel snatches up the edge of the bedsheet, swiping it over himself and then casting the dirtied linen aside before joining her. The bed is so big, she can lay squarely in the center and have room for at least a Miguel and a half on either side. This time, he picks her right side so that she doesn’t have to lay on her bad arm to face him.

“Happy now?’ he asks, curling up beside her with an arm bent under his head. 

“Mmhmm.” She rearranges her limbs—a daunting task given the sexual gamut she just underwent—to lull onto her side to face him. He looks at her, eyes running the courses of her face. She looks at him, admiring the hazy rove of neon cast over his skin from the cityscape beyond the window. 

With his free hand, he reaches out, touches her face. The swoops of her brows. The isles of her cheekbones. The blade of her nose and the petal of her lips beneath. His thumb parts her mouth, delicately revenant, and then carries on, gliding along the hook of her jaw. He likes to touch her. She likes it when he does. 

It’s nice. Peaceful. Quiet. She feels her eyelids drooping and knows she should do something about it but he momentary lapse of excitement sends her body into shutdown. Every cell hurtles towards sleep. Yawning and dark, but not foreboding. Not right now. But in that last golden moment before absolution, Miguel stops touching her. 

His hand withdraws but it’s his voice that she notices, pitched high at the end. A question. One she murmurs for him to repeat. She hears him loud and clear the second time. It jolts her awake as efficiently as a snake dropped into her lap. 

What he asks is this: “Should we talk?” 

Bleary with exhaustion, she can’t make out anything in the room beyond him. His face is so close to hers, intimate in its familiarity. 

“Talk?” she parrots. She blinks. A slow shuttering closed and then back open. The scene remains the same on the other side. 

“Reassess.” 

“Are you asking or telling?” 

He thinks on it. She watches him think. 

“Well, I want to kiss you again,” he says, eventually, evenly. It’s a blunt statement, not a seducing one, though it has that effect. It shouldn’t be as exciting as it is.

She shifts a little closer. Her arm rests between them with the ugly cast and wound beneath just out of eyesight. She says, “So kiss me.”

He doesn’t. He studies her mouth, then her eyes. “Those other… parameters we talked about, the things you wanted—”

“We both agreed to them.”

For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. She waits for him, a low boil of anxiety helping to stave off the consuming exhaustion. She watches him think. It’s a fascinating thing, now that she’s so familiar with his face. It’s all in the eyes and the musculature of his mouth if he’s thinking particularly hard. 

Eventually, he says, “You get that you're benched, right?” 

Okay, not what she expected. She laughs. “I can swing one handed.” 

“You know that’s not why. Not entirely.” 

She props herself up onto an elbow, staring down at him. “Are you serious?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. She can see it in his face.

“You’re really gonna push this now?” 

“Sorry.” He adopts that blithe sarcasm she hates. His way of saying she’s being stupid without saying she’s being stupid. “Is there a time that works better for your schedule?” 

“Sure, reach out to my assistant. She’ll get you all set up to go pound sand.” 

MJ sits up fully, swinging her legs off the bed. A wave of upset inertia hits her. The room wobbles, going all steamy and dreamy. She muscles through. Can’t make a dramatic exit if she doesn’t exit. Standing up makes the dizziness worse but it’ll pass—just the side effect of the intoxicating cocktail of chronic exhaustion, grievous medical trauma, and sexual overexertion. A hand to her forehead, scrubbing, she totters to the bathroom in search of the errant pieces of her wardrobe. 

Left behind on the bed, Miguel grumbles under his breath and flops onto his back, digging both fists into his eyes. His suit snaps back on in a sun flare of electric light, lighting up the entire room. He stays like that for a long time. Long enough for her to admire the dramatic crack in the sink, retrieve her underwear and suit leggings, and to shimmy back into her bottoms. 

She is cold and damp in all the worst places, but she has a point to make. And that point is: she’s fine and won’t entertain any talk otherwise. Sure, she got her arm snapped and hasn’t been sleeping much but everyone is due for a screw-up every so often to keep them humble and insomnia is practically a canon event among Spiders. These are the points she intends to open with in her closing argument to Miguel but she never gets there. 

Out in the bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from her. With his elbows balanced on his knees, he leans over both, staring at a fixed point on the wall. The slump of his shoulders is low, defeated. The air around him wavers with gloom. All her desire to make a point flushes out, replaced by a permeating unease. This isn’t a fight she wants to win anymore, let alone have at all. Whatever's between them, she isn't ready to risk it for a dumb argument. Not yet, at least.  

Mouth in a tight line, she hangs her head. Then, she curls her fists, ignoring the traction ache the motion pulls from her broken arm, and rounds the bed. She sits beside him, fisted hands in her lap. Pointedly, she doesn’t look at him when he glances at her.

She says, "You said something earlier about wanting to kiss me?” 

"Maybe I changed my mind." 

"Maybe you did. And maybe I'm the pope."

He tsks, amused, and relief makes her lightheaded. 

The riotous red of his suit telegraphs all his motions on the flat wall so she sees how he unfolds from himself, how he leans closer, how he raises his hand to her face. How two of his fingers curl, touching her chin, moving her to look at him in the split second before he stoops to kiss her softly. 

It doesn’t last long. He draws away, but not far enough. She can still taste his breath, the electric zing of his tongue. She keeps her eyes closed, even when he says, “I have another fifteen minutes.”

She doesn’t respond. There’s no point in saying she’ll spend all of those fifteen minutes with him—he has to know she will. Instead, she kills the distance between them, kissing him hard and preening when he moans against her lips. Then, his fangs descend with a wet snap. She feels them drop, giving new dimension to his lips against hers. Anxiety bubbles beneath her skin, jumps out of her hands to tangle in his hair. He grabs her wrists, but doesn’t pull them away, just shackles both with his thumbs and forefingers. 

“The fangs?” she mumbles against his lips, between cautious, close-mouthed kisses. 

“Just be careful,” he mumbles back. He massages the thin skin of her exposed wrist while holding tight to the cast-covered other. 

“That your best advice?”

His answer is an airy laugh as he chases her kiss, taking it full and deep. Loosing her wrists, he leans over, taking hold of her hips to draw her astride him. She goes without resistance and sinks heavily down into his lap. 

They kiss forever. For ten minutes. For two. For fifteen. Forever. Time is meaningless as they kiss and kiss. Quick, nipping kisses meld into long, thick drags of each other. Slow and smoky kisses have her entire body is glowing, lit up from the inside. He lets her explore the hollow of his mouth—fangs and all—with her tongue. All the while, her thoughts unspool into dizzying, aching pangs of desire that are only, barely soothed by his touch. They press down and over and against each other, hands in constant, steadying and unsteadying motion. His, up and down the slip of her waist. One of hers, back and forth along the slope of his shoulders, while the other thumbs at his chest. They are as close as two people can be without swallowing each other whole. 

Somewhere between one kiss and the next, she realizes she never wants it to end. It's disorienting in the best way. And addicting. And dangerous. 

But, not right now. Right now? Fuck the consequences. Enjoy the ride. 

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, LYLA Has Decided to Grant You One Time Leniency Because She’s Just THAT Nice

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Physical inventory/remains procured from MARIJANE’s room assignment or logged in the Receptacle for Displaced and/or Unclaimed Belongings “LOST & FOUND” at HQ as follows:

• Clippings of The Bugle (8)
  • Front page from the October 20 Edition of The Bugle. “Wedding Bells and Jail Cells: Federal Agents Crash Webhead’s Wedding”
  • Front page from the June 10 Edition of The Bugle, “Double Trouble or Blast From the Past? Spider-Woman Seen Web Swinging with Spider-Man Through Brooklyn Badlands”
  • Full issue from the October 22 Edition of The Bugle, “Terror in Nu York: Magiosos Slain, Spider-Woman Killed in Action, Suspect at Large”
  • Full issue from the October 25 Edition of The Bugle, “Fisk Declares State of Emergency as Maggia Tensions Escalates”
  • Full issue from the November 4 Edition of The Bugle, “Fisk Snatches Victory Over Osborn for Mayor of Nu York”
  • Full issue from the November 8 Edition of The Bugle, “Masked Murderer Speaks: ‘I Am the Prodigal Son of Nu York’”
  • Full issue from the December 29 Edition of The Bugle, “Sable in Federal Custody: Maggia War at Stalemate”
  • Full issue from the June 10 Edition of The Bugle, “Elegy for Harry Osborn, The Last True Nu Yorker”
• Generic brand Spiced Almonds in bedside table (13)
• Lipstick, satin matte #69, Glovebox (2)
• Lipstick, nude illusion matte #34, Ballet Slipper (3)
• Collection of handwritten paper notes (21) - detailed further in Supplemental Doc #XXXX “Analysis of Writings Found Among MARIJANE’s Belongings”
  • From HARRY (4)
  • From MAYDAY (12)
  • From PETER (2)
  • From GAYLE WATSON (1)
  • From a Fan (2)
• Collection of physical, printed photographs (9)
  • 8x10 showing MARIJANE, PETER and HARRY as young adults. They are seated at a bar, all three laughing
  • 4x3 showing sonogram of MAYDAY
  • 4x3 showing MARIJANE and PETER as children. They are hugging with their faces smashed against each other’s, smiling. They both have terrible, short haircuts with bangs.
  • 5.5x11 showing MARIJANE posed, holding her own throat, nearly nude. Notably in black and white save for her oversaturated red hair. Words superimposed on the photo reads, This bombshell has a few bombshells of her own.
  • 8x10 showing PETER asleep, facedown on a couch, with MAYDAY asleep in the same position on his back
  • 4x3 showing MAYDAY in the midst of a tantrum against an artfully curated backdrop. She wears denim overalls decorated with ducks
  • 11x14 showing MARIJANE, PETER and MAYDAY. PETER has an arm around MARIJANE as she leans into him. MAYDAY is perched on PETER’s shoulders. All three smile.
  • 4x3 showing MAYDAY in a Spider-Man onesie. She chews on her own foot and looks at the camera with wide, stunned eyes
  • 8x10 showing MARIJANE and PETER on their wedding day. PETER carries MARIJANE the same way he would if web swinging, though he only appears to be carrying her through the reception. They both laugh and smile
• Unfinished prescription for AlchemRX® Somnium - #21593 (1)
• Unfinished prescription for AlchemRX® Zanaz - #781 (1)
• House key (1)
• Spider-suit, full ensemble (2)
• T-shirts (5)
• Sweaters (4; 3 originally belonging to MIGUEL)
• Blouses (6)
• Dresses (3; 1 wedding dress)
• Jeans (4)
• Socks, paired (13)
• Socks, unpaired (7)
• Underwear, assorted (15)
• Brasseries (6)
• Lingerie set (2)
• Sneakers (1)
• Slippers (1)
• Heels (5) 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Referential. Items currently retained within Inventory Receptacle #9001. Spectral and other analyses revealed nothing of note. 

Notes:

LYLA, play Addicted by Saving Abel. haha, jk. unless?

 

chap title from "Burning" by Yeah Yeah Yeahs

this chapter became something totally different in the final edit and the pacing's a touch weird as a side effect but let's all just pretend like it's not!!! yay!!! how fun!!! group delusion time!!! and what else can i say except live, laugh, love, and stream MAYHEM!!!!!!!!!!!!!

nueva york is canonically a hellpit but i just can't help but make it worse. they have evil fucked up thunder cuz i said so lol

if yoooooooou caaan believe it, there was originally MORE smut in this chapter that i cut in the edit because i'm not trying to blow wildly past the M rating & also it was gratuitous and honestly cringe lmao. i was on another plane of existence when i was writing this arc i stg because smut/romance stuff definitely ain't my strong suit nor my fav thing to write/read and yet here we are & i keep having to take a freaking weedwhacker to this thing. next chapter we're starting to move away from the smut-as-plot sections so yay? nay? are we having fun at least? i hope we're having fun

HOT TAKE ALERT ALERT ALERT: as with all the female characters of sman 2099, dana really had the potential to be interesting and complex and tragic but instead she's just this hollow shell to serve the narrative. Same with the dana/miguel/xina dynamic. lot of potential to be more than a soap opera plot and have fully fleshed out and realized characters (to the extent that a marvel comic can ever have fully fleshed out and realized characters) but none of it is lived up to. i know people hate the cheating subplot and i get it. oh, do i get it!! but i find the most egregious thing about that plot as a reader is that it's just shoehorned in. there are nudges towards it throughout (if we are being generous - its very different thing to have been actively cheating on respective partners rather than just having broken up with those partners to be with each other IMHO) but the jumpscare reveal of it being in the issue where dana DIES doesnt make anybody involved sympathetic and ESPECIALLY not dana. i find the whole thing makes miguel a more complex and interesting character in the abstract/conceptually, but the way it plays out and is then largely dropped is baaaaaad
i could be long(er) winded about my thoughts on all of the 2099 supporting cast and how they're handled but i'll spare everyone the diatribe & just shout XINA KWAN DESERVED BETTER and say more reservedly that dana did too!! like if dana's going to suck let her suck but at least give her the space to suck and give her motivations to suck other than just sucking with a wish-washy personality who gets shunted around the narrative to push the plot/development of the male lead (please dont get me started on the tyler thing - we could be here for years) and then getting fridged for the same reason. there's a difference between tragedy and hackery folks!
anywayyyyyy, climbing down from my tower of strong opinions, i really, really do love xina/miguel (second chance romance enjoyers rise up!!!!!!!!) but it takes a far better writer than me to write it. i get too hung up on XINA DESERVES BETTER everytime i take a stab at it and end up taking it way too personally and making it too toxic to even be enjoyable. always ends up very scenes from a marriage-y but without all the delicious emotionality and depth lolol. maybe someday

also if you find there to be a noticeable xina-shaped hole (i.e. she has not been invoked in this fic at all), i can neither confirm nor deny the significance

oh and also i hate miguels awful gross fucking goatee in the flashback scenes of him and dana getting together in the comics. i hate it so much and i need the world to know

next chapter: fan favorite 2099 supporting cast member makes his debut and the audience hoots n hollers

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 35: that dizzy edge

Summary:

/user:StarvingArtist has entered the chat

Notes:

3/18 - hi hi hi so so sorry for the late update. without getting into it, let's just say party rock is NOT in the house tonight and hasn't been for quite some time. anyways, life hard and stupid sometimes but hopefully this long ass chapter will serve as sufficient apology

Time heals all wounds, even smashed to shit bones. Of course, time heals all wounds best when medical directives are respected and smashed to shit bones aren’t put under further duress. But here’s the thing: superheroes don’t get to take medical leave—not in their home dimensions, at least. 

Nobody likes it but that’s the cold, hard truth. There’s no denying it or getting around it. The only thing to do is try to mitigate the damage at home and not be too self conscious about warming the multiversal bench in the meantime. It’s actually comfier than it seems. And it spares you from reports and Miguel O’Hara’s criticisms. What’s not to love? 

This comment nets MJ a genial laugh from the rest of the panel and their audience. She gives a wry smile and then leans forward over her crossed legs, careful not to lean too far. A stool always proves a precarious perch. A mental note she jots down for later: make sure to requisition some better chairs for the next panel. 

“But seriously,” MJ says. Her miked voice rings out crisp over the gathered Spiders. Faceless beyond the spotlights trained on the stage, they lean in as one, sucked in by the cult of personality. “Not everyone can work a cast like I can.” Another burble of laughter as she raises her broken arm. Scrawled thick with colorful signatures, well wishes, and doodles, the cast is a Sharpie-scented collage of dubious content. The slow-healing injury beneath has been completely obscured by affections. 

Setting her cast down, MJ finishes, “Your health is priority number one. You have to take care of yourself to take care of the multiverse.”

The rest of the panel—one of the Spider Docs, the Spider-Shrink, a Spider-Gwen, and Spider-Monkey—have comments branching off of hers, discussing amongst themselves. Though technically a panel member herself, MJ doesn’t have more to contribute, though she does pull off a few jabbing jokes and one-liners when she can tell interest is dipping. 

The irony of her presence on a panel all about Spidey Self Care isn’t lost on her. Jess was meant to be on the panel instead, but a health scare the night before kept her from touching down in 928B. Both Mama and Baby Drew are practically perfect in every way, thank god, but it did put MJ in the tight squeeze of finding a replacement for Jess. 

When all the best options turned her down, MJ had little choice but to fill the spot herself or cede it to a Spidey whose selfcare journey involves an alarming amount of crystals and nattering about higher planes of consciousness. She loves Petra but just no. 

Despite MJ’s out-of-place presence, the panel is a success and a great birth of her brainchild: Beyond the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse. A five panel series aiming to explore the fundamental complexities that come with being a Spider-person, it was a big swing. Most Spiders have the attention span of a dog with a nervous disposition. Not only does it take a lot to get them to focus, they have to be the focus. 

Hence, an engaging and interactive discussion about the problems they all face and tips on how to handle them. A great idea on paper, it was a gamble whether it would succeed, especially since MJ had less than a week to throw together the first panel once Miguel finally gave the go-ahead. He thought it was a waste of resources, that nobody would show up or tune into the stream. Oh, how she looks forward to laying out all the metrics showing just how wrong he was. 

Soon as the stage lights dim, RSVPs for the next panel flood in, surpassing the capacity of the auditorium. She’ll need to requisition the cafeteria (and haggle with Miguel over it), but it’s a good problem to have. If attendance keeps rising, the final panel will end up in the lobby just to accommodate everyone. Or, she could arrange multiple sessions on the same topic. Either way, another administrative problem to solve. 

For the last month and a half, administrative problems are the only kind she’s had around the Society. Miguel was not joking in the slightest about benching her. It’s an adjustment, but she’s found ways to keep herself busy in the meantime. The meantime that has been extended by another few weeks, all thanks to some unavoidable roughhousing back home. Some situations just require a left handed hook and some web swinging. 

The Spider-Docs were sympathetic to her plight when the healing bones fractured afresh and needed to be reset. Miguel? Not so much. 

It was a long chewing out. His longest yet, if Lyla could be believed, which she rarely can be when it comes to matters of teasing Miguel. And it was all via hologram so it didn’t even end in any stress relieving positions like when MJ first broke the arm. 

In fact, it’s been a month and a half since MJ’s found herself in any stress relieving positions with Miguel—save for one feverish session of kissing and heavy over-the-clothes petting about a week ago that ended abruptly when an Emergency Alert came through for Miguel. The Spider gig may just be the greatest cockblock of all time. 

MJ’s been less busy than she likes thanks to the mandate that she not swing on company time, but Miguel has been inordinately busy. Courtesy of an as-yet-unexplained uptick in anomaly activity, the most she’s seen of him—sloppy makeout notwithstanding—has been that hologram lecture. He’s missed the last six meetings of the Inner Circle and he certainly hasn’t been making any nighttime visits. The few times she has seen him in person, it’s been charged looks and muttered promises of later that only make the waiting worse. 

Patience is a virtue, but not one of hers. Another week more of waiting and she'll jump him in the lobby. She swears she will. She tells him as much. Dark promises conveyed as threats go further than begging with him. Just something she's learned over the course of knowing him, intimately and otherwise. 

It’s a miracle (and apparently a mandate from Lyla herself) that several hours have been blocked off on Miguel’s schedule. A twin block has inconspicuously appeared on MJ’s schedule as well. Administrative matters. Tippy-top secret. No argument to be heard. 

Not that MJ would even dream of arguing. She needs it. Bad. Sex has always been a vice for her, always worse when it's had in secret. One of those tightly knotted self-knowings she feels burp around in her belly every now and again when she’s feeling introspective. 

Peter loved her enough to feed that hunger without letting it consume them both. Miguel’s still learning. It's a problem, but not a bad one. Just a problem. 

“How’d it go?” Miguel asks when she slinks to his lab after the panel’s officially wrapped and cleaned up. He doesn’t look at her. His eyes are pasted to a screen that fills with lines and lines of text as his fingers blitz over holographic keys. 

“Amazing.” She stretches out every syllable. “Zeke’s now booked out through the next two months.” 

“And just when I was about to make an appointment.”

“Haha. I should’ve had you on the panel. Every time they talked about the dangers of poor self care, we could’ve just pointed to you.”

“Thought that’s what you were there for.”

“You watched the livestream?”

He shrugs. “Background noise. You know.”

She doesn’t know and she isn’t sure how to feel about him tuning in to watch her when he has made a point of never doing so before so she just frowns and says, “Can we get on with the getting on?”

Though he nods, he continues typing without pause. She groans. 

“Just let me finish this,” he says. “I just have to—”

“Miguel.” 

“Fine, fine!” The screen goes black. The keyboard vanishes. He turns to her with a flat smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Happy?”

“Not yet.” 

Together, they make their way to the little hidey hole tucked away in his lab. Though she hasn’t been back here for any funny business since that first blow job, this room has become a frequent visit en route to other hookups. She’s grown fond of it, exhibiting a nigh Pavlovian response of shifting stance and an internal gravitational disarray whenever Miguel brushes past her to reach the back of the room. 

A touch of his hand to two long slits in the far wall pitches the room into darkness. The cubbyhole opening behind them seals itself shut with a zip of suction. Smoke rises from the floor, depressurizing and decontaminating. Long plumes vortex and sway to an inaudible dancing cobra tune. Dark red light filters through the smoke, glittering off the particulate within the smoke. The whole scene is like an EDM vampire rave. It’s all very dramatic, but not very impressive in repeat performance. 

MJ faux coughs into her fist as she waves away at the smoke. Miguel rolls his eyes, but his small smile betrays him. In front of them, the back wall yawns open to reveal the electric skyline of Nueva York. The frigid wind blusters through, sucking out all the smoke, and blowing her hair wildly around her face. 

As intra-universe portals are discouraged, travel to Miguel’s apartment is done the old fashioned way. The old, old fashioned way. The being-carried-by-Spider-Man way because her arm is still busted and the journey to Miguel’s is a two arm requirement (nor will Miguel loan her some sweet glider tech). 

With his arm banded to the small of her back, she suckers around him, arms lashed about his neck and her ankles knotted against his waist. It’s more than a little uncomfortable. Physically, she’s a bit too lean and leggy to slot cleanly against him. Emotionally, the posturing blackens her thoughts like squid ink. It’s humiliating.

The fucking things she does to get laid. 

With her boa constricted around him, Miguel gives a warning tap, digging his fingers into her side, and then plunges them into freefall. For far too long and what is in reality only a handful of seconds, they plummet. Spidey-sense in a riot, her stomach somersaults. The last hostages of her sanity start dying off one by one.

Choking on a scream, she squeezes impossibly tighter around Miguel. It’s a miracle the force doesn’t re-break her arm or pinch him in two. Just before the dizziness becomes her entire reality, his glider engages with a crackle of energy. It catches an up current, rocketing them up in a sick, gravity defying arc, and then she does scream. 

It’s sheer, awesome adrenaline. Awesome in the way of god. A terrible, overwhelming, miraculous, annihilating frenzy of the senses.

When they level out, another shriek punches out of her. And that’s when she hears it. Well, feels it more than hears it—the whip of the wind is brutal. The prolonged shiver of Miguel’s chest, a vibration echoing from his body and into hers. Laughter. He’s laughing. 

It’s a wicked jolt. She wants to do something childish. Lick him. Pinch him. Tweak his ear. If not for their current precarious predicament of soaring through open air with the ground several hundred feet below them, she would do it. He’s lucky, really, that she’s so sensible. 

And absolutely freaking freezing. All her blood has gone gluey from the bitter cold. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Their intermingled body heat is of little comfort with so much of her skin bared to the elements. It’s never been an issue before but, then again, she’s never made the trek in just her civvies. 

It was a prerequisite to sit on the panel, one she decreed herself. Given that the Society has a strict Spider-suit only dress code, it can be easy to forget that there are people (inclusive in the broadest sense of sentience) underneath the masks. So, civilian dress was a must and MJ, in pure MJ fashion, was not to be outdone. 

A classy yet casual off-the-shoulder blouse, shapely culottes and statement heels went a long way to make her the most fashionable on the panel. It’s also possible that these few upcoming blocked off hours factored into the decision. With her hair blown out and her makeup smoky, she’s just as suited for date night as she is for on-stage conversation. 

Not that this will be a date night. Copious sex does not a date night make. They’d have to be dating for that. But, still, it’s nice to have a reason to get and stay gussied up—even if her current getup was once the mark of her everyday, casual attire. At this point, a t-shirt and jeans would feel formal when she spends all of her time running around in full-body spandex. 

Now, of course, she regrets her choice of clothes. She hemorrhages heat and humility, wishing she could slip under Miguel’s skin and hang out with his arteries rather than just cling tight to him like a second skin. Thank god it's not a long trip. 

Soon as they cross the atmospheric threshold of his balcony, heat blasts the chill right outta her. Icicles evaporate from the edges of her hair. A puff of steam shrouds her vision. Blood dethawed too quickly, she squirms out of Miguel’s arms, barely keeping herself upright through her flubbed landing. 

Miguel laughs at her again—in truth he never stopped laughing. It’s a glorious sound. One that sets her blood at a wild roil. Wind whipped and adrenalized, she doesn’t even care that he’s laughing at her. She never wants him to stop. She wants to eat the sound. So, she does. 

With both hands at the back of his head, she yanks him down, aggressively stooping him to her level to kiss him stupid in a desperate collision. His mask doesn’t come down immediately—there’s a strangled gasp and a split second of nanotech between her teeth before it does. His fangs are descended, but she kisses him uninhibited, avoiding a skewered tongue by instinct alone.

Another chuckle rumbles through his chest and then his hands scour the undersides of her thighs, hoisting her high enough that she has to crane down to kiss him. Between kisses and sloppy, heaving breaths, she says, “God, I missed this.” 

Miguel responds with a low, affirmative hum that gets lost to teeth and tongue in the transference. Tapping her backside, he conveys an unspoken command to hold tight, spider monkey. Disobeying isn’t even in the realm of possibility. She cinches her long legs around his waist. Tight enough that she could fling back and upend him. If she wanted. But she couldn’t want anything less. All she wants is him, everywhere, all the time.  

In this at least, their interests are aligned. 

Unsettled, his hands run the length of her back before they slide back down to palm her ass, leverage her higher over him. She holds his head steady, angling it this way and that to delve deeper and weirder and desperate in her chase for his tongue. There’s no thought in the way they touch each other. Just spasms of indulged desire. Hard edge painting, rather than watercolor, heightened and hardened by the wild ride to get here. They both need it. Need each other, exactly like this. Heavy and hungry and unraveling. 

Which is why—when Miguel teeters backwards, close enough to the door sensor that it picks up his intent to enter. And when it slides open with a pneumonic puff as the lights fade on and he takes them inside with love drunk steps as his hands ravish her and hers chase in the wake and Lyla’s automatic greeting sounds—Welcome home, Miguel. The time in Nueva York is 7:43pm. You have 59 missed calls. Your schedule for this evening is Personal: Lyla Make Sure Nobody Bothers Me. I Don’t Know. Electrocute Them or Whatever If They Do. Don’t Actually Electrocute Them. I Know You Know I’m Joking but I Don’t Know If You’re Joking—overhead like the friendly voice of God. And when MJ snarls her fingers in those charmingly unkempt curls at the nape of his neck and nips at his bottom lip, capturing it, sucking, relinquishing, grinning unabashed into his kiss, totally and completely enamored in him him him—

Which is why it’s a fucking problem when a swooping whistle calls time out, cutting through the haze with a shock to kill, and an unfamiliar voice whines, “Shit man! Of all the times to get your groove back, why’d it have to be tonight?”

MJ startles away from Miguel with a yip. Instinctively, she attempts to disentangle, flip off and away, but Miguel petrifies. Once a pleasant pressure, his grip constricts, bruising over the swell of her ass, the curve of her shoulder, holding her firmly in place against him. Though her heartbeat jackrabbits, she forces herself still. She slackens in Miguel’s grip and he overcompensates, clenching to the point of pain. 

And then he relents, holding her, but gently now. He drops his head forward, burrowing, briefly, into the delta above her collarbone, cursing with deep rooted displeasure. 

Over Miguel’s stooped back, a shaggy haired man lounges longways on the sofa. Head tilted back over the armrest, not quite all the way upside down, he grins from ear to ear with a joy typically seen on lottery winners and reality TV show contestants when he catches her eye. 

A Rubix Cube, partially stripped of stickers, hovers over his chest, held in lithe fingers dotted down to the knuckle with the missing colors. Chrome tipped work boots cover his feet, crossed at the ankle and poking up over the far armrest, but he doesn’t have the air of a blue collar man. Multi-lensed goggles bubble over his forehead. Each dome is a different size and gleams bright as an engagement ring on the day of a proposal. 

“I mean, sure, happy for ya,” he says, “but now I'm traumatized, so was it really worth it?” 

He grins with such devious delight that it’s obvious he hasn’t been traumatized whatsoever and is simply tickled to have caused such chaos. It isn’t a huge deductive leap to guess at his identity. He reeks of little brother. Little brother who apparently knows his big brother’s big secret. 

It’s a surprise that shouldn’t be a surprise. There’s a canon event for being unmasked. A minor one when it’s only a friend or family member finding out, but it still gets flagged each time it happens. MJ knows because she was Peter’s unmasking event. His second one. Harry was the first, though he was too fucked to remember for a long time. And then of course there was the major unmasking event where the entire world knew who was under the mask, but that came later and that the cost of his life (momentarily).

There was no unmasking event in Miguel’s file. No reference to his brother at all, in fact. If not for his mentioning it once in passing, MJ would have assumed he was an only child. Which is weird. She’s only realizing now, in this moment, how weird it is. 

No Spider is exempt from having their family listed out in their file. Their living family, at least, but any deceased family usually factors into the canon in one way or another and so gets noted. 

But Miguel had none of those—save for a canon event pertaining to his scumbag father—in his file. So, what the fuck? It’s a question she’ll ask him later, hit him direct with what the fuck? but she holds her tongue now. Just because his brother knows he webs around in a tight little costume doesn’t mean his brother knows about the Society and all the rest. In fact, she can only assume he doesn’t since it’s expressly forbidden for anyone but the involved Spider to know about the Society. 

Surely feeling the heat of her unasked questions, Miguel avoids her eye as he carries her into the kitchen and then foists her onto the counter of the kitchen island. Dumped unceremoniously, she sputters, but quickly regains her composure and begins the self conscious, feathering motions to adjust her clothes and appearance. 

Unfortunately, there’s just no fixing her hair right now—it’s utterly fucked from the trip over. She’ll need a brush and several prayers to get it back in order. She shudders at the snarled state of it under her testing fingers. 

At her side, Miguel has no such difficulties. The worst of his problems is the slight swell to his bottom lip from where she took a nibble. It’ll go away soon enough. Beyond that, it only takes a quick run of his hand back through his hair and he looks no worse for wear. 

He leans heavily over his crossed arms, against the counter, pointedly facing away from his brother. “Lyla, why wasn’t I notified of an intruder?”

“Because I bypassed her sensors. Duh.” Little Brother plucks a green sticker from his thumb, sticks it between a red and an orange one on the Cube’s. A blue sticker follows, slotted beneath green. There’s no apparent rhyme or reason to his re-stickering—he’s definitely not making an attempt at solving it.

“It’s true,” Lyla says, blipping around the perimeter of the room. She pats at the walls and peers into corners as she goes. “I have no notice of entry by user:BestLilBro. He only appeared on my sensors 42.39 seconds ago.”

Best Lil Bro snorts. “You know, for a super genius, you need a lot of things explained to you.”

MJ does not scuff out a laugh, but she considers it. Whatever watery conceptions she had of Miguel’s brother unravel before the man himself. Already, he’s established himself in stark opposition to his older brother with his devil-may-care vibes and lazy grin.

“Lyla,” Miguel says, unamused, “change his username back to Pain in the Ass.”

With a shout, the newly dubbed Pain in the Ass shoots upright. He twists to face Lyla in full, grabbing the back of the sofa to steady himself until the leather creaks. The thick furrowing of his brow definitively marks him as Miguel's flesh and blood brother. “Lyla, fraternal override! Change username to Ma’s Favorite.”

“Lyla, change—”

“Boys, boys!” Lyla gestures slow down and pops back and forth between the brothers. “These inputs are a serious waste of my computational power.”

Miguel huffs, turning around. He leans back against the counter now, slotted against MJ, bleeding warmth. She tenses, but ultimately lets herself be leaned into. There’s really no point in pretending like they aren’t… whatever they are in front of someone who clearly saw them in flagrante.  

“Why are you here, Gabri?”

MJ flinches so hard that Miguel shoots her a quick look from the corner of his eye. She softens, burying the surprise at hearing his brother’s name. Gabri. Probably short for Gabriel. A short skip to Gabi and Gabriella. Only a few letters, give or take.

It’s not a canon event, just one of those inexplicable through lines between Spiders. She hasn't met one yet that didn't name their child after a family member. Homages to May and Ben and even Anna abound among Parker-Watson stock. Ben—when he’s not sulking about being the only non-parent in the Inner Circle—has machinations for a brood of Kaines. 

And Miguel’s not exempt. His daughter. Gabriella. Named after his brother. 

Gabriel says, “Ma broke out again this morning.”

There’s an argument to be made that MJ now knows Miguel better than anyone. She certainly knows his little personality quirks—what makes him laugh, what makes him rage, what makes him come—better than anyone else. And even though Miguel rarely talks about his life before or beyond the Society and complains about his job only in the abstract, somewhere along the way, MJ cobbled together all these little tidbits into an understanding of the mystery who answers to the name Miguel O’Hara. 

But ten seconds of conversation with Gabri have put a major crack in the confident understanding. Because that’s another pretty majorly big thing she didn’t know about Miguel. She was certain his mother was dead. 

His file is completely useless as a tool to learn anything about Miguel other than his work as Spider-Man and that’s likely lacking too. Must be nice to be the boss. 

Miguel rolls his shoulders, pantomiming a lack of concern for his mother. “So?”

“So.” Gabriel says, “I found her trolling around with a bunch of Spiderites. Again. She’s got them all convinced she’s Mother Mary reborn. I had to flash her crazy credentials to prove them she was full of bits.”

Miguel curses, pinching hard at the bridge of his nose. Meanwhile, MJ’s head reels. Crazy credentials. Mother Mary. Spiderites. This night is drowning in the deep end. 

“Imagine how thrilled she was when I showed up to pull her from the pulpit. Made for a real radical morning.” Gabriel’s laissez faire expression is wholly at odds with his shredding sarcasm. There’s a lot he’s not saying. 

“It’s been… I’ve got a lot going on.” It’s not an apology but Miguel’s tone suggests it’s meant to be. 

For the first time, Gabriel skewered MJ with all his attention and a crooked smile. “Lemme guess, you’re a lot going on?”

Ever the actress, MJ shoves away the indelicate feelings left in the wake of her entire conception of the man she’s been sleeping with for months going up in smoke. She forces herself into a full smile and shifts into a cutesy cross of her legs. “I’ve got it all going on, but I'm not what's been keeping him busy. Sadly.”

Miguel looks at her with something like mild affection—the expression soft and subdued, a crinkling of the eye, a twitch of his mouth, a quick blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shifting that gives way to the evident frustration. “Why are you really here, Gabriel? Ma breaking out doesn’t exactly merit a visit.”

“Well, Miguel”—emphasis is placed on Miguel’s name, mocking the way he invoked Gabriel’s—“I can’t want to see my brother?”

“You usually call first.”

“Well, I did call. About 20 times!"

“You didn’t leave a holo.” Miguel’s lying through his fangs and is exceptionally bad at it. 

“Man, you need to run a shocking system check—!” 

Lyla pops up. “Hate to break up the brotherly bonding, but there are bots incoming with food delivery.”

“Ah.” Gabriel sets a hand against his chest, giving a sheepish smile. “That’s mine. Hope you don’t mind that I charged it to your account. Starving artist and all that.”

Miguel rolls his eyes so hard his entire head is drawn into the motion. Then, he looks at MJ. “You hungry?”

She’s not—too bitter from expectations turned sour and still a touch frazzled from the g-forces of their journey over—but it’s a safe bet to assume he knows she hasn’t eaten much today. Easier to say yes than to duke it out and go toe-to-toe in an all-star match-up of Who Ate Less Today. “I could eat. Just get me whatever. A salad, I guess.” 

“Just a salad?” 

She shrugs. “I am but a woman of simple tastes.”

Though he huffs, Miguel doesn’t argue. He heads for the door. In a distillation of pixels, his Spidey-suit becomes a solid black catsuit that is exceedingly flattering in its newness. She stares far longer than is polite as he opens the door to make conversation with some sort of robot on the other side. It takes Gabriel extricating himself from lounging on the sofa to break her concentration. 

Gabriel stands and dusts a hand through his hair, offsetting and then correcting the goggles to sit cockeyed over his forehead. When he catches her eye, he smiles. It brightens his entire face. 

The familial resemblance to Miguel is evident. Gabriel’s features are drawn in the same broad strokes as his brother's, but less severely. They share the same bronzed skin tone, the same arrogant smile, the same mop of curls of hair though Gabriel’s threaded a chestnut reddish brown.

Tall, though not quite towering, Gabriel is of a lean, strafing build. His outfit is the droll black and grey emblematic of the fashion of the future, except for a cherry red trench coat of a fabric MJ can’t place and a heavy scarf in varying shades of green, woven with intricate geometric designs.

“I'm Gabriel,” he says, which she well knows. 

She nods, says, “MariJane.” 

When he walks to her, he has the gait of a man concerned about his appearance, but wanting to seem otherwise. He looks at her and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Mary Jane, huh? Gotta be named for  Mary Jane Watson from the Heroic Age, right?”

Shit. She probably should’ve considered that and given a fake name. Whoops. She shrugs and says, “I guess.” 

Putting both hands into the front pockets of his pants, he makes a swaying, canting semi-circle in front of her, peering and examining. His coat swishes cat tail just behind him. “It’s uncanny really. You could’ve been plucked right from the holos.”

“Thanks.” She scrunches her nose. “I think.”

“It’s definitely a compliment. You’re stunning. Retro beauty with a modern charm.” He squints an eye closed and then flicks his thumb and forefinger apart twice. She has no idea what the gesture’s meant to imply, but the vibes are decidedly complimentary. He smiles and it’s a distractingly nice smile. His eyes crinkle and his cheeks dimple. Somehow, he looks the most like his brother when he smiles. 

So taken in by him, she doesn’t see him wing the Rubix Cube at her until it’s seconds from cratering in her face. 

There’s a split second of awareness, enough to dodge or catch it, but she fears the cunning intelligence behind his charlatan eyes. So, she lets the Cube bean her square in the nose. 

The contact spots her vision, makes her grit her teeth, but it doesn’t even make the list of Lifetime Painful Experiences. After being beaten into sentient goo, MJ’s got a pretty high pain threshold. But Gabriel doesn’t know that and she’s not about to let him off easy for throwing a fucking Rubix Cube at her! 

With a yelp, she grabs at her nose and hunches over herself. The Cube hits the floor, clattering. 

“Shock! Damnit!” he squawks. 

Her eyes water as he grabs her by the shoulders. One of his hands jumps to her face, tilting it back and then picking at her hands covering her nose. No blood, but the bridge of her nose pangs with a fresh forming bruise. She glares at him as he frets.

“Shock!” he curses. His wide eyes jump and jerk all over her face, unsure where to rest. “I really thought you were, I mean, I’ve been wrong before, but I figured you—!”

“Who just throws Rubix Cubes at people? Seriously, who does that!?” she shouts, kicking at him for good measure. Gabriel stumbles away, reacting as dramatically as if she’d shot him.

“What!?” Miguel demands, returning from the front door. His suit flashes back to its default, which is a bummer but the safest option. He holds a massive plasticky container, but he flings it onto the counter. The lid snaps open and the stink of fried garlic and szechuan sauce overwhelms. 

His hand brushes her face, but she shakes her head. She’s fine—her ego’s just a scooch bruised. 

“Whoopsie?” Gabriel raises his arms in the multi-universal my bad shrug. 

Miguel whirls on him. “Shock’s wrong with you?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your girlfriend!” Gabriel says, which makes her scowl. Girlfriend is a word she’s never cared for. It’s very high school. And inapplicable here. “I thought she’d catch it and go all, ha ha, and I could go, ah ha! Like, I just… you know?”

Before Miguel can tear his brother apart, Lyla pops onto the counter beside MJ, swinging her legs back and forth over the edge. She says, “I think I can solve this one, folks.” She points at Gabriel. “Gabe guessed MJ was a Spider and thought he had a totally tubular way to sniff her out. And MJ”—she leans over to pat at MJ’s thigh—“is method. Completely dedicated to maintaining her cover. She let herself get brained by Gabe’s theatrics than break character. And that is why she’s the best in the biz.” 

“Well, that’s a stupid reason to take a hit,” Gabriel says, which gets him drilled in the arm by Miguel. He caterwauls, dropping his head back with an exaggeration befitting a muppet. He rubs incessantly at his arm, moaning, “Dude I think you shocking broke it!” 

“Speaking of broken.” MJ slips off the counter. Gingerly, she hovers two fingers over her nose. It flares with the heat of injury, but the pain has already begun to subside. 

Gabriel tenses up, shoulders hunching up to his ears. A tense laugh gets him a death glare from Miguel. Maybe it's all the embarrassment going around, but Miguel’s eyes seem to flare redder. 

“A little Medigel will do you some good, but it’s not broken, bestie,” Lyla says. She floats in front of MJ’s face, bestowing a boop that emits teeny little plasters in a pastel color palette. Footage of the incident flashes in slow motion, showing the collision and cast off of the Cube bashing MJ’s nose. In the footage, a 2D Lyla is superimposed, holding up her arms upright to confirm touchdown. “Just minor bruising and—”

“Thanks, Lyla,” Miguel interrupts, dismissive, effectively cutting off further diagnosis. “There’s Medigel in the half-bath.” 

MJ gives a weak smile of thanks and then she’s off to the hallway and slipping into the half-bath just off the great room. 

In her wake, Gabriel chances a new topic of conversation. “Speaking of bathrooms, you know your sink’s supposed to be in one piece, yeah?”

It’s been way too long for Miguel to have gone without fixing his sink. Over a month. Yet, the memories of that gnarly crack through the pearlescent surface—Atlantean granite and worth a pretty penny, according to Lyla—and the events that lead to its genesis are far too endearing. It all churns, motion sick in MJ’s stomach as she scurries. 

“Why the shock were you in my—!?”

“I had to shower!” 

“So use the spare room!” 

“The water pressure isn’t as good!” 

At this point, MJ has hunched forward over both elbows onto the sink and rubs aggressively at her temples. She’s amused, sure, but she’s also exhausted and overwhelmed and disappointed. Beside her right elbow, a tile rises up from the sink, a purple tube of Medigel on top of it and Lyla on top of that. She lays sideways on it, posing like a pinup. 

“All for you, babes,” Lyla says. She offers an o-kay finger gesture and a wink before blinking off of the Medigel. MJ takes up the tube and squirts the viscous gook onto her fingers before slathering it onto her nose. She’s well acquainted with the stuff from all her visits to MedBay. It works miracles, augmenting her healing factor to erase superficial damage in seconds.

From the other room, the brothers argue. Miguel’s voice rises and falls in frustration, exasperated beyond baseline. Gabriel’s remains stubbornly cool and smooth throughout the linguistic acrobatics of the back and forth. 

Listening to them argue, MJ thinks of Gayle and how they used to fight, even as it rips a small hole in her chest. Gayle, always logical but prone to outbursts when frustrated, and MJ, emotional and well equipped at pushing her sister to frustration. They knew exactly how to drive each other crazy.

“They haven’t seen each other in months,” Lyla says, answering a question MJ didn’t ask. 

“So it’s not always like this?” MJ asks. 

Lyla shakes her head. “It’s usually worse.”

With a sigh, MJ melts down over her arms, burying her forehead against the malleable cast of her left. “What do you think, Lyla? Should I skedaddle?” 

“Do you want to skedaddle?” 

All the bruised anticipation bangs around in her chest. Her whining sigh is a harsh slush. 

Lyla says, “If you wanna skedaddle then I can get you skedaddling.” 

MJ considers it. Intra-universe portaling is an emergency only kinda thing but the current situation surely qualifies. It’s a social emergency! 

“Buuuuuuut,” Lyla singsongs. “Miggy got you dinner. It doesn’t take my post-quantum processor to get that he doesn’t want you to skedaddle.” 

Mental gears churning, MJ presses her forehead deeper into the membrane of her cast. It exerts a cool pressure not unlike a damp washcloth for a headache. It’s a small comfort, but it does soothe.

“Baby girl,” Lyla continues, “trust me. If Migs wanted you to skedaddle, I promise you would’ve been skedaddle-dooed by now.” 

It’s a good point. Too good a point. MJ has no valid defense. She’s worn down and her nerves are still a little shredded from the gliding. How the fuck does Miguel do that everyday? And he prefers it to web-swinging? Please and absolutely no thank you. 

Emerging back into the apartment proper, MJ finds the brothers O’Hara in each other's faces. 

Miguel shouts, "I don't care if Kasey kicked you out—”

"Kicked me out." Gabriel sets his hands face up and juggles interpretations, tilting his head from side to side. "Lovingly suggested I leave so I have plausible deniability if they and their revolutionaries get snatched up by the Public Eye."

"They won't,” Miguel insists.

Gabriel pulls a smug expression. "Yeah, but they don't know that, do they?"

Miguel huffs just as MJ enters their sphere of conversation. With a brusque nod, he approves of the healthy, unbroken skin of her nose. Gabriel gives the same kind of nod. Neither one seems to notice their twined gestures. 

“Take it from me,” Gabriel says to her. He sets both hands at the back of his neck so that his elbows bracket his head and then he arches his chest forward to pop his back. He gives an old man groan and then continues, “Don't fall in love with a screaming anarchist when your big bro is The Man they want to take down and secretly the S-Man they worship. Makes the holidays tricky." 

"Talk about a double life,” MJ says, nudging Miguel. His expression softens, but only just. 

“Right?” Gabriel says. “Though, I guess you probably know more about that than I do."

"Not too much. It's pretty easy to have a secret identity in the post apocalypse."

“I have heard that,” Gabriel says. 

There's a miniscule but polite lull before he wraps his arms around himself, grabbing at either elbow, and begins to impatiently rock back and forth over his feet. "So we talking total wasteland, roving bands of marauders type post apocalypse or like our current, boring state of affairs where civilization’s still going but half the planet’s gone busto kinda apocalypse?"

"Ignore him," Miguel says. "He'll lose interest eventually."

Gabriel’s answering smile is pointy and rueful. "If you want me gone, just say it."

Another lull, no less short but far less polite. Gabriel shakes his head, clucking his tongue, saying conspiratorially, "He's never gonna say it. He just loves me too”— he draws the vowel long and saccharine—“much!”

The sneer on Miguel's face offers a different estimation. He tells MJ, “He'll throw a tantrum if I kick him out.” 

“Oh yeah,” Gabriel agrees. “Big tantrum. Hellacious tantrum. Neighbors will call the Public Eye. It’ll be one for the archives.”

Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose and waves Gabriel away with the other hand. “Will you just—?”

“Sure, sure. I'll go stand over there and stare at you from a distance.” He makes a heart from his pointer and middle fingers pressed together at the tips and then he scurries to the kitchen counter. The sound of him tearing into his food is neither quiet nor delicate. The whole time he makes good on his word and stares intently at them. 

In a gentle crawl of a voice, Miguel starts, “I know we had plans but—”

“And now we have different ones,” MJ finishes in the same quiet tone. 

They both turn to look at Gabriel. He wiggles his eyebrows at them as he shovels hot pink lo mein noodles into his mouth with silvery chopsticks

“You sure?” Miguel asks. 

She reaches out, squeezes his arm. “Yeah, I mean, you already got me dinner.” 

“You can take it with you.”

It’s an easy out. She has no idea why she doesn’t take it. Instead, she runs her thumb over the defined curve of his bicep and says, “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not.”

“Well, there it is then.” She smiles—and it’s shy. Not exactly what she was aiming for—and squeezes his arm one more time. “But I gotta change first. Can’t eat takeout in nice clothes. It’s a cardinal sin.”

Miguel’s answering nod is a touch dazed. It’s sentimental, bordering on overkill. MJ swallows a sticky bout of saliva and then cuffs him on the shoulder before turning tail. She speeds away to the bedroom, keeping her head low as squawking thoughts make it heavy. 

Just before she ducks into the sanctity of the bedroom, she hears Gabriel shout something cheeky in Spanish. Miguel shouts something equally Spanish, far less cheeky back. Then they're bickering again as the bedroom door zips closed behind her. 

As she digs through Miguel’s dresser, her fingers shake. She must be more exhausted than she realized. Hopefully some food on her stomach will help soothe her nerves. The thoughts give her focus. Soon enough, she finds buried treasure. 

Errantly shoved into one of the drawers is the funky canary yellow sweatshirt she’s had her eye on for some time since Miguel wore it for his limited appearance at the Spider Awards Gala afterparty. The memory is ancient history, but she never forgot the sight of him in toxic yellow. 

It’s so out of place among the rest of his wardrobe that she can’t help but be in love with it (and him in it). Plus, it’s a great color for her. Makes her look bright and cheery and confident. The boldface MARVEL graphic over the chest is apt too. She is quite a marvel, thanks for noticing. 

For further comfort, she removes her heels, going barefoot, and then tackles the rat’s nest of her hair with her fingers—tearing out any particularly pesky knots—and then clips up the bulk of it with a claw clip she must have left laying around in one of her past visits. She teases down a few strips of hair to frame her face, fluffs her bangs, and voila! Goodbye, daily drab. Hello, cozy cutie.  

Back out in the main room, Miguel and Gabriel have migrated to the table. Gabriel’s takeout seems endless, boxes stacked like battleships around him, while Miguel picks at some sort of crispy wonton. Crab Rangoon with test tube crab, probably. There’s a boxed salad waiting for her, accented with the flavors of tonight’s cuisine of choice. 

When she circles to Miguel’s side, he takes hold of her arm, yoinking her down to kiss. It startles the hell out of her and his teeth clack into hers, but she leans away with a smile that suggests perfection. She’s no dummy. She can yes, and her way through this evening. 

Dig this scene: Miguel and his brother are estranged. His brother is well intentioned but just doesn’t get that Miguel isn’t interested in his good intentions. Miguel wants to be left alone to live his life however he needs to live it. So, how to get his brother off his back?

Enter: MJ in the role of “stable love interest.” If she’s convincing, her performance as good for him will assure his brother that somebody else has taken up the burden of his well being. 

And then his brother will leave and they can fuck the evening away. 

Or, at least, that’s MJ’s interpretation of things. It’s not like Miguel’s cueing her for anything different.

“Always wondered,” Gabriel says between bites of that gnarly pink lo mein, “how do you do that? Difficult, right? On account of the—” He bares his teeth and hisses, hooking his fingers for extra emphasis.

“Lots of practice.” MJ squeezes Miguel’s shoulder as she takes the seat beside him, across from Gabriel. 

“Yucky.” Gabriel sticks out his tongue only long enough to shovel in more food. 

MJ leans over her arms, examining the bounty in front of her. “You asked.” 

He levels the chopsticks at her, jabbing once. “And boy, do I regret it!”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” MJ says with a shrug. 

Gabriel snorts. “God, you sound so TwenCen. What year are you from again?”

“Long before your time.”

Miguel’s knee knocks against hers under the table. At first, she takes it as a corrective note and her mind whirls to backtrack, but his knee remains firmly pressed. A casual intimacy then, not a correction. When his arm snakes around the back of her chair, it would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy the closeness and the attention. 

“So,” Gabriel asks, eyes chasing the length of Miguel's arm over her shoulders, “that would make you how old then?”

“Would rather die than do that math, thanks.” 

Lyla, however, would love to do the math. She pops over the center of the table, laid out like the burnished steel is a chaise lounge. “108 years, 5 months, 4 days, 9 hours, 22 minutes and 6 seconds. No, 7 seconds. No, 8. No—!”

Each new second drips between MJ’s brows, emphasizing the wrinkles there. Realistically, she’s 36 and feeling spry as ever (thanks Spider-powers). But that’s in her time. In this time? She’s already dead. 

Quickly, MJ loses her appetite. She takes a bit of salad for politeness sake—it is good. Little crunchy bits of fried wonton and a sesame sauce that is flavorful without being offensive—and swallows roughly. Then, she just picks at it, suggesting that she might soon eat, rather than actually being burdened with eating. Miguel picks too, but he’s already polished off the wontons so he’s made a better effort than she has.

“You get the point, right?” Lyla concludes. “MJ old.” 

Left eye twitching, MJ gives a threat of a smile, says, “Gee, thanks, Lyla.” 

“Hey, don’t delete what I said before. You’re stunning, lady.” Gabriel drops a lascivious wink and then slurps up the last of his noodles. The sauce tints his lips in a cherry sheen that he doesn’t wipe off. 

MJ beams, but not before Miguel glares at his brother and grounds out, “Buffer.”

It’s a word that she’s always found incredibly goofy in the past—928B’s way of saying chill out or slow down—but Miguel levies it like a warning shot now. It carries all the frigid chill of Earth-000, which is just a subzero hunk of icy dust. A hollow point conveyance, rather than a blunderbuss of jealousy or insecurity.  

Gabriel laughs, though the slant of his eyes is anything but friendly. He quips out something in Spanish. Sarcasm gushes through the words she doesn't understand as he holds up his pointer fingers to make horns on either side of his forehead. He winks them like inchworms, mocking.  

Miguel's response is rough and derisive, all hard consonants and grating irritation. MJ doesn't speak a lick of Spanish, but she understands a threat when she hears one. It’s especially ugly, steeped in old hurts. Something unspoken and dead, but not altogether gone. 

Whatever it is, neither brother can let it go. 

Despite the tension that builds up and dissipates at random, it's not an unpleasant dinner. She and Gabriel make small talk while Miguel rumbles approval or disapproval, whichever is merited by the topic of conversation. 

They talk about Nueva York, which gets a rumble of disapproval from Miguel, and MJ’s one night only adventure out into it, which gets approval, and the ups and downs of working with Miguel—disapproval—and Gabriel’s line of work as a digital artist and architect—approval—and activist—disapproval—and MJ’s former line of work as an actress—disapproval, though it’s middling. More that Miguel doesn’t understand than that he doesn’t approve. 

He’s never seen any of her performances, she learns, which is a relief, frankly. She’s proud of most of the work she’s done, even if she struggles to watch it herself, but the racier projects can have a skewing effect on men, in particular. She likes that his opinion isn’t filtered through seeing her two bits and bush flounce around on screen. 

After Gabriel’s finished his third course and decided to hold off on the fourth, he asks to see her cast in better detail, which ends with her switching allegiances to his side of the table so he can add his own flourish to the vomitous amalgamation of the entire Spider Society. Using a black marker that he tells her is better than a marker, Gabriel etches out the negative spaces between signatures and doodles. At times, he uses his thumb and forefinger to manipulate the material of the cast itself, giving new texture and dimension to the existing “art.” 

All throughout, he yammers on about his latest installation Downtown. To hear him tell it, the aim is to deconstruct the crypto capitalist narrative of corporate essentialism via the interactive dismemberment of an avatar named Pinky. 

“It’s been doxed three times now but all the files are haunted so we just reseed and—”

“Who’s we?” Miguel interrupts in a moment of active participation. He sits across the table, leaning back in his chair as far as it’ll go. His arms are crossed because they are always crossed. 

Gabriel rolls his eyes, hunching to get at the far corner of her cast from a new angle. His goggles slip down his brow. He gives a sharp nod and they slide over his eyes. There’s a low ticking as the lenses contract. The tip of his tongue peeks out from his lips as he works at the difficult spot. 

“Gabe.” 

Gabriel huffs, sitting back. He snags his goggles back up, setting them back to serve as a headband. “Who wants to know? You? Or Alchemax?”

“Same difference.” 

A snort. “You’re telling me.” 

After a time of quiet drawing where Gabriel doesn’t look up from her cast and MJ tangles her brows at Miguel, who shakes his head like you don’t want to know, Gabriel finally huffs. He still doesn’t look up from his work but he says, “It’s just me, Kasey, some guys Kasey knows from way back. And Jen. Sometimes.” 

“Jen.” It isn’t a question.

“Jen.” It isn’t an answer. 

MJ does not make the rookie mistake of asking who Jen is. It’s not a name she’s ever heard in conversation with Miguel. 

“And she—”

“Still wants your head on a spike? She says she prayed away the anger.” Gabriel does an eccentric sign of the cross and then handwaves away the sentiment. “But she’s viral.”  

Miguel doesn’t say anything. He turns inward. Turbulent thoughts churn underneath his expressionless face, save for the dip between his brows. 

“You know about Jen?” Gabriel asks MJ. He’s focused in on his handiwork again, folding her arm at the elbow to hold vertically and blacken the rolled edge of the cast.

“Ex?” MJ guesses. She knows better than to look at Miguel. She keeps her head ducked, sweeping an errant strand of hair behind her ear and intently watching Gabriel as he works. 

“Something like that,” Gabriel says. Then, casually, like he isn’t fishing in the most deadly sea possible, he asks, “So what do you know?”

“Gabe.”

“Gabe,” Gabriel repeats, mocking under his breath like a child would mock another. Then, he sits back, releasing MJ’s arm, and flashes all his teeth in a good natured grin. “Just trying to get the right specs. Been a while since my brother’s let anyone get past the firewall.”

“How long’s a while?” she asks. In front of her face, she turns her arm this way and that to take in the full effect of Gabriel’s efforts. What was once a spillage of color and incongruous shapes is now a vibrant, mosaiced masterpiece thanks to the distinctions Gabriel divvied throughout the mess.  

“Years.”

MJ hums. “I figured.” 

“Are you just going to keep talking about me like I'm not here?” Miguel demands, looking incredulously between them both. 

“It’s easier for everyone if you just go on mute,” Gabriel suggests. He gestures for MJ’s arm again, which she gives, and then angles it just so. From the new vantage, the inked negative spaces bloom together into the impression of GO’H. 

“My tag,” Gabriel says, thumping the cast with the backend of his Better-than-a-Marker. 

“I… whoa.” is MJ’s articulate response. 

“Where’s your tag, Migs?” Gabriel takes MJ’s arm between both hands, lifting it up, down and sideways in search of a name that isn’t there. “Surprised your name’s not all over the shocking thing, honestly.” 

“I’m going to change,” Miguel announces, flat as ever. His chair gives a piercing screech as he shoves it back. Both MJ and Gabriel wince through their amusement as Miguel makes good on his announcement and disappears down the hall without another word. 

Soon as Miguel’s out of eyesight, Gabriel does the honors of linking his holophone to MJ’s gizmo. The connection’s made before she even understands what he’s up to as he bumps the holographic slate of his phone against the side of her gizmo. Only when a new message thwips does she get it. 

YOUR FAVORITE O’HARA - Hai 👈( ﾟ ヮﾟ👈)

Warning lights flash in her head. The message is in violation of at least three protocols she knows of and probably a thousand she doesn’t. Miguel may not follow procedure when it comes to Gabriel, but that’s the perk of the crown. MJ knows she isn’t exempt in the same way. 

“If it was gonna cause a major glitch, Lyla would’ve stopped me,” Gabriel reassures. 

Invoked, Lyla appears, gives an exaggerated nod, daps up Gabriel, and then disappears. Vindicated, Gabriel leans back in his chair with a smug smirk. 

“It’s not a glitch I’m worried about,” MJ says. “Your brother’s pretty strict about following protocol.”

Gabriel’s face darkens as he snorts. “Damn, he’s really got you subscribed to that, huh?” He wipes a broad hand down his face, elasticizing all his features. And then the frustration’s gone, replaced by that scampish grin he’s worn all evening. “Look, you and me? Special club. Miguel’s security specs are off the charts. We’re the only ones who know how to hack it. So, we gotta stick together. Keep his dumb ass from disconnecting, you know?”

A warm sentiment, but it rings hollow. She hasn’t “hacked” anything. Not intentionally, at least. And she has no better understanding of Miguel’s stresses and strains than she did before they started sleeping together. There’s a lot he keeps to himself by his own nature and by nature of his position.

Though she has higher security clearance than everyone outside of his Inner Circle, she ranks alongside Ben as the lowest clearance within the Inner Circle. There’s a lot she doesn’t know about and even more that she doesn’t know she doesn’t know about. Classified initiatives and projections of danger and Miguel’s actual job with Alchemax—it’s all cocooned in red tape. And she may not know why but she knows it all weighs heavily on him and that he won’t ever speak on it. 

Sleeping with him is the best way she can help, but it isn’t enough. For either of them. 

“I care about him a lot,” she says, which is a stupid thing to say to his brother when she hasn’t even said as much to Miguel. But it’s out there. She said it. She wishes she hadn’t. 

It’s all Gabriel’s fault, really. He’s too likeable. His entire personality is disarming. The charm is intense, always dialed all the way up, but never lacking for sincerity. He’s quick to make jokes, but even quicker to laugh. He lives freely and openly, wearing it all on his sleeve so no one thinks to look deeper. It’s a ploy MJ knows all too well but is helpless to resist, especially when it’s roused something similar from Miguel.

Every good thing Miguel is—wickedly clever, blithely funny, charming (when he wants to be), effortlessly interesting, absolutely ridiculous—is buried beneath a mudslide of self doubt and guilt. He obfuscates with authority and scathing wit, but it’s obvious to anyone with enough care to look. Yet, ever since his brother ruined their evening, Miguel’s rolled eyes and scowls have been far less severe and rivaled just as frequently by bitten off smiles and easy laughter. 

It’s bittersweet. Seeing him like that, it’s far too easy to imagine what his life could have been before he was crushed by constant shame and sorrow. 

“Hey,” Gabriel says and his tone is so gentle, she knows he’s gotten the wrong impression somewhere along the way. “Don’t lose hope on him. You’ll have to back him into a corner if you want him to admit that he has feelings of any kind—trust me—but he cares.”

He reads her unease as disbelief and doubles down on the sentiment, saying, “Trust me, it’s obvious. Like, disgustingly obvious. Right, Lyla?” 

“Egregiously, not disgustingly,” Lyla says, materializing on the edge of the table. Lying on her belly, she uses one hand to prop up her glum little head and lazes the other through the open air off the edge like she’s trailing it through water. “But, I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Stomach in knots, MJ gives a weak smile, at best. A wince, at worst. The conversation has spiraled well away from her. Gabriel notices. She knows he does. His knowing smirk shrinks, but he silences whatever skepticism he has when Miguel returns.

In a compression tank and joggers, Miguel has opted once again for greyscale athleisure. Though he looks supremely comfy, the grainy grey blanches his skin, making him look more exhausted than he did before or, maybe, showing how exhausted he’s been the whole time. Still, he smiles small when he catches her eye.

Returning the smile, MJ feels Gabriel’s dissecting stare on her, though it isn’t there when she glances at him. He tilts his head in an unspoken whatcha looking at. Certainty upsets the little food she ate—he’s onto her. What he’s onto, she has no clue, but he’s suspicious of something. Twenty seconds ago, he seemed ready to welcome her into the family and now he’s plotting how to drive her out. 

The dinner clean-up is tense. MJ is largely unhelpful throughout the entire process by inexperience, Gabriel by choice. He’s slow enough in ferrying around the dishes from the table to the Re-Constituter—a machine that recycles all food and plate ware into new matter—that Miguel boots him from dish duty entirely. 

Gleeful, Gabriel announces he will be in the living room taking advantage of something called platinum perks. Then, he breaks into a light jog to vault the armchair with an ease that implies the move is well-practiced.

Soon as he’s situated caddy-cornered in the chair with his legs hanging off the armrest and his body wedged into the corner of the chair, a screen flickers directly over the coffee table. It’s transparent, indistinguishable from the overlooking view of Nueva York out the back wall, but not for long. Gabriel fiddles with the settings from his holophone until the screen is opaque as any TV screen. 

In some sort of gibberish, whatever the fuck he’s decided to watch doesn’t even have the context of language to help MJ understand. Not that she particularly wants to understand. Nauseatingly colored humanoids scuttle around, moving in ways that suggest they are both boneless and simultaneously burdened by too many bones. They might be dancing. She is both transfixed and horrified. 

Thankfully, Gabriel switches to a different program—some kind of a game show that runs on the same logic of a cough syrup fever dream. Bright and garish, MJ has no idea what she’s looking at nor can she understand the rapid-fire Spanish being thrown at her. There’s a lot of costumes and confetti, but no discernible reason for either.

When the last of dinner is cleared from the table and undergoing reconstitution, MJ stands in the kitchen with Miguel, talking low beneath the blare of Gabriel’s show. If Miguel can feel his brother’s watchful eye on them, he hides it well or just doesn’t care. It’s impossible to know which is the truth when MJ can only focus on her own fidgeting. 

“What did he say to you?” Miguel asks. His arms are crossed but loosely. He holds himself with far less authority. “Something stupid?”

MJ shakes her head. “He’s just worried about you. Wanted to make sure I’m taking care of you.” 

“Yeah?”

Nodding, MJ glances at Gabriel, who is now fixated on two gentlemen slapping each other with feather boas like he wasn’t just drilling holes into the side of her head. The scrutiny makes her more nervous than it should. “Are you coming back to HQ? Or staying here?”

“I can take you back now if you want,” Miguel says. He holds up his wrist, peering into his gizmo. “I don’t have anywhere to be until…” Then, his brows knit together so solidly, he’s given himself a unibrow. He draws his wrist up close to his nose, glaring into the projected data. 

Where his evening was once a series of individual blocks, it now shows only one mega block that extends into the early morning. It can have only been Lyla’s doing. Or, maybe Gabriel’s, given that he can apparently bypass Lyla’s sensors, but MJ’s bets are on Lyla. 

These bets are proven true when Lyla, summoned with a shout, appears to justify her actions with a shrug of her shoulders. She says, “I do what I want and what I want is for you to relax, bucko.”

It’s a contentious issue and one that escalates when MJ learns her schedule has also been altered. Granted, her schedule wasn’t tightly coordinated but she did promise Spider-Ham she would finally spare some time for him. It’s a prickly porcine pickle that MJ doesn’t have the will or the wherewithal to deal with at the moment, especially when Lyla swears Ham took the cancellation well. 

“As well as he could,” Lyla clarifies. “I mean, this is the, what? Seventh time you’ve cancelled on him?” 

Before MJ can defend herself—how? No idea. She’ll figure it out as she goes—or repair her reputation, Gabriel peeps up from the living room. “Migs, if you’re going to stand in the kitchen all night, at least grab me a cold one or two?”

Unimpressed, Miguel ignores his brother and says to MJ, “Go sit down. I'll deal with Lyla.” 

It isn’t something she particularly wants to do, but it beats standing barefoot on the cold tile. 

The sofa is less comfortable than she expects. She’s never made use of it before. Each of her visits have been confined to the bedroom. The cushions are utterly useless, flattening down so completely that the sofa frame juts into her butt no matter how she sits. She squirms and scowls. She never finds true comfort. 

Gabriel’s show proves just as strange up close as at a distance. She’s no longer convinced it’s a game show—the scoreboard in the corner seems to be a set dressing only, as points are awarded or taken away at random. At center screen, a severe woman stirs steaming hunks of meat in a wok. Steam billows up into her face as the food burns and then catches fire. Then, the woman disappears and is instantaneously replaced by a man with a blue combover pointing emphatically at a car hovering inches from the ground. The leftmost side of the screen now features a platformer game. A little sprite of an astronaut hops up and down between levels indiscriminately. 

When Lyla pops in front of the screen to give a wink and toggle on English subtitles, MJ can’t even be grateful. The subtitles read like the most boring headlines, commenting on stock trends and listing out the latest products on the market from Alchemax.

Gabriel gives her a capital L look. The subtitles disrupt his delicate ecosystem of brain rotting content. 

“No habla,” MJ says by way of explanation, though it could go without saying. All night, she hasn’t contributed a single word in Spanish. Sure, she can ask for directions to the bathroom or the library and could throw some colorful curses around (kisses to Miguel) but that’s far, far from fluent. 

Gabriel chuckles, dropping his head backwards over the back of the chair to look at his brother in the kitchen. A burst of Spanish is rendered into English via Lyla’s subtitles: Ma’s gonna have a shocking coronary. 

Nothing will kill that old bat: Miguel’s response as he crosses into the living room. Two beers dangle from one of his hands, hooked between ring, middle and pointer fingers. There’s a glass of water in his other hand, which he delivers gingerly to MJ with five star service.

Your actress has a pretty good shot. Gabriel grins, needling so succinctly that the teasing comes off like irreverent arrogance. The grin vanishes when Miguel expertly flings both beers into his sprawled lap, cruise missiling his crotch. 

Gabriel yowls and turns armadillo, curling around himself to protect from further attack. MJ winces in sympathy, smacking Miguel on the arm when he settles on the sofa beside her. He gives a little shrug like so what? and the delicious muscles of his bare arms flex so she’s not exactly following through on the scolding. 

Recovered but forever insulted, Gabriel is still a bit green around the gills as he cracks open one of his beers. It hisses. The subtitles relay that he grumbles: Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You know how Ma gets about her grandbabies.

MJ flinches. It’s fully unintentional. Knee jerk. It’s just so callous. She could care less about impressing some woman who evokes little affection from either of her sons—and it’s not like she hasn’t fielded complaints her entire life about her choice of career—but the grandbabies comment? What the fuck? 

Gabriel seems like a perfectly good dude, but seeming like and actually being are two very different things. She knows better than anyone. Maybe she’s got him all backwards. Maybe all the suave and congeniality is just a really good front. Maybe he’s the problem between the brothers O’Hara and not—

Miguel squeezes at the nape of her neck like she’s an unruly kitten. Before her rage can peak, he starts to massage, plucking at the knobs of her spine, and that feels good enough to keep her from thwacking him with the broadside of her hand. She glances at him and it all just clicks: Gabriel isn’t an ass. He doesn’t know.

In Spanish, Miguel says, Shock off, Gabriel.

In English, Miguel says, “Lyla, keep the subtitles to the show.” 

To his credit, Gabriel is rightly shamed for talking about MJ so flippantly. He hunches his shoulders and gives puppy dog eyes so sad she can only believe they’re sincere. “Shit. I’m sorry. You gotta understand, Ma, she’s just… She can be a—”

“Bitch,” Miguel supplies, which rattles MJ and Gabriel both.

Gabriel scratches at the lip of his beer. MJ drinks from her cup for something to do. It goes down smooth and cold, but leaves a slick residue on her teeth. Then, she takes another sip and then another until there’s nothing left. The slimy feelings resolves itself eventually. 

When neither O’Hara ventures to repair the mood and she no longer has the water to keep her occupied, MJ offers, “I get it. Ran away from home when I was 17. Never looked back.”

“Mom?” Gabriel guesses.

MJ shakes her head. “Dad. Lost my mom when I was a kid and… yeah.”

Not her most articulate work. But what else is there to say? She lost her mom. She ran away from her dad. And, yeah. 

It isn’t hard to fill in the blanks with whatever sob story seems fit. She doesn’t care to outline the particulars of her childhood. Journalists (and their parasitic counterparts in the paparazzi) attempted over the years to delve into her traumas, positing everything from the salacious to downright abhorrent, but she never confirmed nor denied. Miguel has some idea of her major malfunction—every MJ across the whole of creation has daddy issues—but even that’s too much for MJ’s comfort.

“Must’ve been rough,” Gabriel says with a sympathetic hum. 

Another shrug. She’s been very shruggy tonight. “Could’ve been worse.” 

Could it have? Not really. It’s hard to imagine, at least. It was as bad as it was. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that she got out alive.

“I mean, look how I turned out, right? It couldn’t have been that bad.” She’s barely said anything and yet she’s teetering right on the edge of rambling and tipping headfirst into TMI territory. “And I made a pretty good life for myself. It was good while it lasted.”

“It’s not good now?” Gabriel asks. It’s a delicate question but she can see the snare-trap in it. 

“It’s different now.”

It is wholly unconvincing as a positive statement, though she intends it to be. She is totally bombing. But how to say everyone I loved died in an instant and whoever I was with them isn’t who I am now, but that doesn’t mean I’m unhappy now, just that I can never be that happy again? She’s never found the right way. And she doesn’t owe Gabriel the truth, but she likes him, even beyond him being Miguel’s brother. She wants to tell him and she wants him to believe her. 

Which is also dangerous. Combined with the deft ply of Miguel’s fingers at the back of her neck where he continues to massage at the truly deadly knot of stress there, she’s wound tighter than piano wire around a snitch’s neck. She is so out of practice in having big girl emotions. 

It’s all so gauche. 

“Bad different?” Gabriel asks. 

“Lay off, Gabri,” Miguel says. 

“No, hey, it’s fine,” she says. “Not bad different. Just different. Your brother, I think it’d be worse without him”—it’s true, but the nuance is sticky and explaining all that away won’t do her any favors here—“but it’s… I mean, yeah, so my husband and my daughter... well, now they’re both gone—”

“Oh,” says Gabriel. High color on his face, he wears his embarrassment openly. “Shock.”

“Yeah. So.” And she shrugs again. “My trauma. Sexy, right?”

Aggressively apologetic, Gabriel wears an expression that she would like to shave clean off. It’s not pity, but it’s close enough. “Definitely not how I would phrase it, but we all download it differently, right?” 

“Pretty sure my download was just a virus. Blew up the whole system,” MJ says, firing blindly with the Nueva lingo.

“Hey, drink to that!” Gabriel snorts so, she must’ve said something right, even if he’s just patronizing her. 

Miguel says nothing. He is supremely interested in the show, which now features some sort of blob with a xylophone. At her side, he’s a hairpin trigger of tension. When she nudges him, raising her eyebrows with silent concern, he flinches away from her. Then, he overcorrects, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and dragging her to squish against his side. 

The angle isn't exactly comfortable. Her neck is bent unnaturally between his chest and his armpit. Her tit is macerated against the scaffold of his ribs. She still holds her drink. It is aggressively uncomfortable.

But male ego is fragile. She adjusts gently, reorienting herself within his grip rather than breaking free of it. Leaning over him, she sets her glass on the end table and then snuggles properly against him, curling her legs on the couch under her and resting her head along the divot of his shoulder 

It’s too snuggly, too much like teenagers fumbling to validate a budding romance to their peers—see, we really like each other! We’re cuddling!—but it settles Miguel. He deflates, just a little, with her so close to him. And so MJ endures, shelving her discomfort to ease his. 

Gabriel looks on, bemused, and nursing his beer with a smirk. His suspicion is no longer bladed, but it remains. He doesn’t know what to make of her. She doesn’t know what to make of him either. She likes him, but she doesn’t trust him. They’re too similar. 

At some unbelievable point, MJ nods off, head laid over Miguel's chest, ear pressed to his heart, curled up against his side. She rouses every so often to the gentle rumbling of his voice or the lilting glide of Gabriel's. Once, she feels the slow drag of fingers along her back and shivers, snuggling closer to him. 

***

MJ’s dreams are shapeless things. Smoke and shadows in silence. Nothing moves through the shroud. Not even her. Not until she finds herself taken up into strong arms and lifted from the sofa. Rousing, she shifts more easily into Miguel’s grip, wrapping her arms around his neck. She’s bone tired, unable to comprehend anything but the simple comfort of his touch and her own, momentary weightlessness. 

Though she couldn’t say with any certainty where she is or what she’s been doing, she knows she’s with Miguel and that alone is enough to keep her from full consciousness. She is safe and sleepy, caught in that liminal space between comfort and consciousness. Through lidded eyes, she sees Gabriel slumped and snoring over his crossed arms like a sitcom dad in the armchair, but she only places his name later when she tries to walk back through her evening. 

In the bedroom, Miguel sets her on the bed, tsking when she spills out over the sheets. With a straining groan, she stretches starfish and then contracts back down, stirring enough to blink up at him and ask, “What year is it?” 

As if on cue, the noise suppression system kicks in with a rushing thoom! Sagely, she nods. “Ah, future.”

“Do you want to go back?” His voice is gravelly. Did he fall asleep too? She can’t tell. He’s too far away, looming over her like a shadow. 

Without disturbing the quiet haze of night, she shifts around onto her knees and then rises up. A little too fast, she gets dizzy. It’s a warm nausea, spidering out from the nerves behind her eyes. She hides it well by taking hold of him and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. 

“That a no?” 

It is. There’s nowhere else she wants to be but here. She says as much, dragging her nose along the hook of his jaw up to his ear where she nips at his ear lobe. He shivers, says her name as an exhale, and then he’s kissing her, cupping her face in both hands. With her arms lashed around his neck, she leans back, draws him down over her on the bed, deftly maintaining their kiss throughout the entire descent. 

What follows are the necessary components of lovemaking. Breathless kissing and sensual disrobing and stroking touches and hot shivers and worships laved over wide expanses of flushed skin. When he finally, finally eases into her, she has no idea what time it is, only that it’s simultaneously too soon and too late and perfect all the same. 

There’s no trick to their positioning. Her on her back with her legs loosely templed on the mattress with him overtop, fucking her slow and thick and heady, it’s simple. Easy. A hand at her waist, he tilts her hips back, drives deeper, sinking in with a delicious drag of friction. 

“Oh,” she says, eyelids flickering, dazed. 

And he drops his head to his chest so that all his hair hangs in curtaining waves around his face, groans out, “Yeah.” 

It’s lazy and languid. Syrupy, but not oversweet. Somewhere along the way, he slots his mouth against hers to drink in every little muted noise of pleasure she makes. It’s muggy and slightly smothering, but not bad. Everything is coated in a hot butter slick, all melted and melded together. 

After, they lay together, messy and decompressing. 

Laid on her side, she faces him with a hand tucked up under her head and the other in his. He mimics her posture, laid on his side, looking at her. Reverent, he presses kisses to her knuckles, the side of her thumb, her palm. Each kiss tingles along her skin. Each kiss draws a low little hum from the back of her throat, honeyed and thick. 

The window overlooking the city is dimmed so that the bedroom is cast in true night. She can see only him and only just. Everything beyond is a smooth, slinky blackness.  

The last time they were like this—not this long, not this close—he ruined it. This time, he keeps quiet. The only noise between them is the filter of breath and the hiss of her legs stirring the sheets. She’s pleasantly sore, but the feeling fades with each passing second. The entire evening has been tinged domestic and this moment is not spared. If she weren’t so guarded against it, she could find love in a moment like this. 

“Your brother kept calling me your girlfriend,” she says. 

His eyes flick to hers, glinting glassy beneath overlong lashes. 

“Noticed you never corrected him.”

Miguel shrugs one shoulder. His mouth against the pulse in her wrist, he says, “Easier to let him believe what he wants. Any kind of complexity shorts his brain.”

“Better than shockbuddies, I guess.” She takes her hand from his, setting it against his face to thumb at the line of his cheek. 

Hand freed, he skates the crook of her arm, following it up to the hump of her shoulder and then down the curve of her clavicle. It tickles, especially when he starts to drag his fingers back and forth over the top slopes of her breasts. “Not lovers?”

She snorts. And she sounds old? Please. 

“Special friends,” she suggests, making revenant, gentle strokes back through his hair. 

No response, but Miguel tenses beneath her touch. Is that how he frames her in his head? As his lover?

Objectively, it’s the truth. They’re lovers. That’s the cut and dry of it. But pet names like lover and girlfriend have implications. Possibility, where there isn’t meant to be any. It’s just meant to be sex. Purely physical, not overly emotional. 

But it is emotional. And messy. And a guilty pleasure when Miguel leans in to kiss her. There’s no point to it. It doesn’t go anywhere. It barely lasts. Just a kiss. A brief, glancing kiss. And then another and another and another until they’re both out of breath.

With the pad of his thumb, he strums her bottom lip, watching with keen interest as it flattens and fills back out. The quiet is no longer soft. It’s imposing. There’s something she should say, but it isn’t what he wants to hear and it isn’t anything she wants to say. 

Is she leading him on? Is she leading herself on? Does it matter? The former is cruel and the latter is foolish, but neither is a sin. 

Both are classic MariJane: disaster in every direction.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, LYLA Hopes You Like Paperwork Because There’s a Ton of It Where You’re Headed

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Form 34: Disclosure of Inter-Agent Relationship and Addendum 6a: Request for Confidentiality as filed by MIGUEL as follows: 

FORM 34: DISCLOSURE OF INTER-AGENT RELATIONSHIP

SECTION A: INVOLVED PARTY(S)

Involved Party(s): Any and all Agents involved in the relationship being disclosed. This includes YOU, the Agent filing this Form, as well as ANY AND ALL ROMANTIC or SEXUAL PARTNERS. “Submitting Party” refers only to YOU, as in THE AGENT FILING THIS FORM. It does NOT refer to sexual preferences and/or imperatives. “Role Designation” refers to the held ROLE IN THE SOCIETY and NOT to sexual preferences and/or imperatives. 

1. Submitting Party (YOU):
   • Full Name:
     • Miguel-928B
   • Role Designation:
     • Director
   • Love Language (select the option that BEST applies):
     • Quality time; physical touch
       • ADMIN FLAG: LYLA, this question is stupid. REMOVE

1. Involved Party (YOUR PARTNER):
   • Full Name:
     • MariJane-7782
   • Role Designation:
     • Agent
   • Love Language (select the option that BEST applies):
     • Quality time; words of affirmation
       • ADMIN FLAG: LYLA, see above. REMOVE

 

SECTION B: NATURE OF RELATIONSHIP

Please complete this section to the best of your knowledge.

1. Is RELATIONSHIP new? If yes, please input “new”. If not, please give date relationship initiated. 
   • No. XXX months, six days, seven hours, one minute and thirty-nine seconds to the date
2. Type of RELATIONSHIP (select all that apply): 
   • Romantic; sexual
     • If sexual, please note all methods being used to prevent CROSS-DIMENSIONAL CONCEPTION:
       • AlchemRX® Subdermal Implant #62V-9
3. Expected duration of RELATIONSHIP:
   • Long-term
4. Intended outcome of RELATIONSHIP (select the option that BEST applies):
   • Love
     • ADMIN FLAG: LYLA, ridiculous question. Drop down options are worse. REMOVE
5. Reason for RELATIONSHIP (i.e. why do YOU believe it necessary?):
   • To get LYLA to stop glitching out and calling me a hypocrite
     • ADMIN FLAG: LYLA, this question makes no sense. No relationship is necessary. REMOVE
6. Genesis of RELATIONSHIP (i.e. tell LYLA the love story and she might help you out when it comes to avoiding MIGUEL): NO!
   • ADMIN FLAG: LYLA, the shock is this? REMOVE IMMEDIATELY and forward the raw data of all previously filed Form 34s 

 

SECTION C: MONITORING & SUPERVISION

If RELATIONSHIP disclosed is NOT a MARRIAGE or LONG TERM COHABITATION then please complete this section. If RELATIONSHIP disclosed is a MARRIAGE or LONG TERM COHABITATION, please proceed to Section D. 

If RELATIONSHIP disclosed is a MARRIAGE or LONG TERM COHABITATION, please proceed to Section D and ensure that ADDENDUM 4A: MARRIAGE DISCLOSURE or ADDENDUM 4B: LONG TERM COHABITATION APPROVAL REQUEST is filed alongside THIS FORM.

1. Designated Confidante:
   • MIGUEL O’HARA-928B
     • ADMIN FLAG: LYLA, this should be BEN REILLY-35. Update form to note that I’ll be listed only if nobody else is chosen. Can’t automatically list me. No wonder we’ve got so many undisclosed relationships.
2. Potential or Known Conflicts of Interest:
   • MariJane is a direct report. LYLA to route all requests/supervisory/administrative concerns through LYLA or Jess-332.

SECTION D: ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1. In filing this form YOU acknowledge the following:
1. The RELATIONSHIP is voluntary and consensual.
2. YOU and YOUR PARTNER(S) are free to end the relationship at any time.
3. If the RELATIONSHIP should end, YOU agree that YOU will not allow the end of the RELATIONSHIP to negatively impact your role and performance within the SPIDER SOCIETY. 
4. The RELATIONSHIP will not result in CROSS-DIMENSIONAL CONCEPTION, which would result in CATASTROPHIC CONSEQUENCES for the entire Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse. 
5. YOU agree that in disclosing this RELATIONSHIP that you will abide by the MONITORING & SUPERVISION POLICY for the duration of the RELATIONSHIP until the time at which the RELATIONSHIP becomes a LONG TERM COHABITATION, as which time MONITORING & SUPERVISION is no longer applicable. 

 

ADDENDUM 6A: REQUEST FOR CONFIDENTIALITY 

Only submit this ADDENDUM if YOU or YOUR PARTNER(S) are requesting that the RELATIONSHIP not be disclosed to ANY PARTY beyond those involved or those named within this ADDENDUM. Please note, YOU will be required to GIVE JUSTIFICATION for requesting CONFIDENTIALITY and granting of the same is subject to ADMINISTRATIVE REVIEW. Should the RELATIONSHIP be disclosed or discovered, the SOCIETY takes no responsibility for the same. 

1. Reason for request for CONFIDENTIALITY (select all that apply):
   • Privacy concerns
2. Are any other AGENTS aware of the RELATIONSHIP (excluding YOU and YOUR PARTNER(S)?: 
   • Yes
     • If Yes, please LIST all AGENTS who are aware of the RELATIONSHIP:
       • Peter Parker-616B
       • Jess Drew-332
       • Ben Reilly-35
3. From which reporting requirements do YOU wish to be exempt from for the sake of CONFIDENTIALITY?:
   • ALL
     • ADMIN FLAG: LYLA, make sure this form isn’t openly linked to my file or available by requisition 

 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Referential. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure

& the evening continues over here in the companion piece (in your dreams, in your song) and if you will allow me to upsell you on reading that one too, please know that i had to bump the rating to E AND (perhaps more importantly) miguel is in fact in the family guy death pose at one point. I highly recommend!!!!!!!

my most self indulgent chapter to date and it's just me twirling my hair and going "teeheehee isn't gabriel just soooooo cool??" GOD i LOVE him. i hate that i use him so sparingly. he's way too fun to write. i wanted to stay true to his comic characterization but also give him my own little touch. if i got it wrong in any capacity, i am offering myself up for digital crucifixion for my crimes. seriously. just take the shot i couldn't bear it honestly. he is my FAVORITE silly goofy guy with insurmountable trauma. just Thee Best

this chapter has undergone more rewrites than any other. it was, at one time, by and away the longest chapter because mj and gabriel just kept yapping and yapping and yapping. had to kill some darlings here big time (and the hardest one was all the descriptions of all the weird shit gabriel was watching. it was glep's tablet meets those weird ass ai videos toddlers always seem to watch meets those tiktok videos with subway surfers on the bottom that did absolutely nothing for the pacing or the story but i just found highly entertaining). anyway i think the ole girl still holds up but may circle back once i have better brainpower to sand it off more.

next chapter: the joys of bureaucracy

as always, all my love and thanks for reading

Chapter 36: scriptures and garbled frequencies

Summary:

girlie lunch shenanigans

Notes:

3/24 - party rock remains MIA. life has gotten crazy y'all. "updates weekly" will be going to "updates bi weekly-ish" for the immediate future ;-; so sorry to disappoint ;-;

Elected to post this chap asap so editing may be wonky/subpar. I'll update as soon as I can. Thanks for the grace as I try to crawl out from under the rock that fell on top of me <3

“So, how much longer are we gonna pretend like you’re not hooking up with someone here?” Jess says, midway through weekly girlie lunch. 

MJ blinkers, caught in the middle of a big ole bite of salad. She should have expected the question—it wouldn’t be a true girlie lunch if Jess’ new favorite topic, MJ’s secret sex life, didn’t make at least one appearance—but she’s been out of sorts. 

It hasn’t even been 24 hours since she inadvertently spent the night at Miguel’s and met his brother. Since she woke up in the early morning and found his brother gone and Miguel all too willing to make up for lost time. Since Miguel said fuck work and fucked her instead. For hours. All morning, practically. 

And it was wonderful. Ecstatic. A two person orgy in and all around his apartment, creating a crime scene of lovemaking. By the time they were finished, skins of sweat smudged the counter, the floor, the window wall as testament to their directionless rampage through the main room then back again. Both wore the wounds of the other—suction bruises and scratch marks and tattoos of teeth in a symphony of raw pinks and plums and blues. 

At the time, it had been a sick pleasure to kick his libido into high octane. She saw no issue in how easily Miguel shirked his schedule to spend more time inside her. It had been a revelation to be so savored.

Now, she’s sore all over and finding it hard to rebury all her secrets with her mouth absolutely bursting with lettuce and Jess smirking at her over the cafeteria table. 

“Now, Jess,” MJ says after she’s carefully and considerately chewed and swallowed. “I'm sure you know that Spider on Spider relations are strongly discouraged.”

It’s true—Spider on Spider relations are a big no-no. Unless, of course, they’re approved and ordained by the bossman. Where MJ’s Spider on Spider relations are with the bossman, she has been making eager use of the loophole. Of course, last night turned the loophole into a noose that’s tightening fast around her throat. When things end with Miguel, where does that leave her in the Society?

Out on her ass, that’s where. 

It’s been a slow slide into trouble but she can’t pretend like she never noticed the descent. The warning signs were all there, bright and garish as ever. 

“Sure,” Jess says. Her smirk grows wider and sharper. “But that’s for Spiders who aren’t MariJane Watson-Parker. I swear, it’s like Miguel has this big, raging blind spot when it comes to you.”

MJ gives a cool smile. Spines of lettuce crunch underneath the stab of her fork. “That sounds like an accusation.”

Which is exactly what it is. Even if Jess doesn’t have concrete proof, she suspects (correctly).

“Hmm, does it? That’s interesting. Something you want to get off your chest, MJ? Promise me and squirt”—She rubs her belly conspiratorially—“won’t tell.” 

MJ takes a particularly fibrous piece of lettuce between her teeth. The resounding watery crack serves as her only response. 

It isn’t that she doesn’t want to tell Jess about everything happening between her and Miguel: it’s just that she knows better. There’s two endings for her and Miguel. Eternal awkwardness, at best. Abject disastrous ruin, at worst. Because it’s her, because it’s Miguel. So, why burden anyone else with the mess?

“You know I hate to disappoint, but…” She gives an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders and a who me? flick of her lashes. 

“That’s cute.” Jess rolls her eyes. “But yeah, yeah you are definitely disappointing me. I mean, I know, MJ.” She leans forward, tilting her head down and staring out pointedly from under her brows. “I know.” 

“You know?” Amusement seeps into MJ’s voice despite her best attempts otherwise. 

Jess grins deviously, flashing the gap in her teeth. “I know.”

“You don’t know,” MJ says with a snort. “How would you know?”

“Let’s just say Spider-Monkeys really will do anything for a banana.” 

Though her left eye definitely twitches, MJ just laughs as if the notion is patently absurd. It is patently absurd but it’s also highly alarming. Almost two months ago, she tugged Miguel into what she thought was an empty training room in the gym. She learned very quickly it was not in fact empty when Miguel went to his knees in front of her and sent a Spider-Monkey lurking up in the rafters into a dead faint.

An embarrassment of bananas went towards buying the simian’s silence, but it likely only took one to waive that discretion. 

“I can prove it,” Jess says. She holds up a slice of pizza to take a bite, but it’s so inundated with olives—the most benign of her pregnancy cravings—that all the cheese and sauce and wannabe grapes schlorp off to make a mess of her plate. Scowling, she tears off a piece of lightly sauced crust and then chews it to hell. After she’s swallowed, she adds, “I have a good case.” 

“You’re really bulldogging this today.”

With a shrug and another bite of her undressed pizza crust, Jess says, “Well, you gotta pull your weight. MJ. It’s not like I have any sexy little stories to share anymore.”

“Baby blues?” MJ guesses. 

“I’m about to start climbing trees,” Jess admits. She spears her pizza crust down into its own gory remains in favor of pressing her palms into her forehead, peeling back, exasperated. “My husband does what he can, but our schedules rarely line up and—”

“And you could go on maternity leave for real.”

Jess raises her head. Her glare is venomous. “Don’t piss me off.”

“I mean,” MJ draws the last syllable long, holding up her hands to show no offense, “if it's so bad you’re desecrating nature—”

“As if nature would ever be that lucky. Or unlucky. It would be unlucky. It’s been a horror show lately. Just the other night…”

As Jess launches into the retelling of a truly catastrophic attempt to have marital relations while pregnant, the ambient buzz of chatter dulls to whispered surprise around them. The gawking is not for Peter B, cheerily strutting to the counter, but for Miguel in an ultra rare daytime appearance outside his lab. 

Everyone takes notice. Except Jess, who names loss of bladder control as the number 1 current worst thing about being pregnant, and except MJ, who is laughing so hard at Jess’ descriptions of unintentional bedwetting that she’s only making a broken teapot sort of wheeze.

“They don’t warn you about this kinda shit at lamaze!” Jess laments as MJ bends in half, holding at her stomach and laughing so hard it hurts. “It was everywhere, MJ. Everywhere! I thought my water broke six months early!”

MJ’s intelligent response is a visceral, heaving sort of laugh that has a lot more glottal reverb than she would otherwise permit. There are tears in her eyes. Vision underwater, she daubs at her undereye with the hunk of her thumb, blotting at her mascara before it can run. Across from her, Jess drops her head into both hands, fingernails clinking against the lenses of her goggles like high heels on tile fleeing the scene of the crime. 

Neither take notice of Peter B saddled up alongside their table until a chicken nugget tumbles off his food tray and lands square in MJ’s salad. Tensing up, MJ stares at the runaway nugget overlong before slinking her gaze upwards to where Peter grins from behind a gluttonous stockpile. Beside him, Miguel rolls his eyes with a prickly affection and nurses a too hot coffee that makes him sneer after a sip. 

When Miguel’s eyes shift down to her, something in her chest kicks. She ducks away from it, focusing instead on the stowaway chicken in her salad. She plucks the nugget free and then holds it aloft between two fingers, arching a brow. She tips the nugget towards Jess, raising her brows into the shape of can you believe? Jess tsks. 

“Whoops, lemme just…” Peter shoves his tray into Miguel, who takes it with an oof and does a magic trick of scrabbling hands to hold the tray and keep from spilling his coffee all over himself. Hands freed, Peter shoots off a webline, snagging the nugget from MJ’s fingers and into his own awaiting grabbers. 

Scarfing down the nugget, he chews out, “Mmm, tangy!” 

“Miguel,” Jess says, craning her neck to meet his eye. Everything from the tip of his nose down to his abs is hidden by the great wall of Peter’s appetite made manifest in his hands. “Surprised to see you in the daylight since you’re so busy you had to reschedule all your calls this morning.” 

“Yeah. Well,” he says and then no more. 

Peter slings an arm around Miguel’s shoulders with a blinding grin, knocking the other man off balance with a sputter. The tray of food tilts precariously, threatening a devastating loss of fried apps and finger foods. Just barely, Miguel manages to keep all the food on the tray via a series of serpentine hand maneuvers, though he sacrifices some of his coffee for the feat. A single curl sproings free of its slicked hair prison from his exertion, wisping over his forehead. 

“Hey, even geniuses gotta eat,” Peter says. Utterly oblivious, he gives Miguel’s shoulders a squeeze and a shake. Insult to injury, he thumps Miguel on the bicep. “Amirite or amirite, Mig?” 

If looks could kill, Mrs. B Parker would be sitting shiva soon. 

“Fellas,” MJ starts as she stretches up from her seat to steal a jalapeno popper off Peter’s smorgasbord before it can fall free. “Is there a reason you’re interrupting our crucial girl time?”

A dark cloud passes over Peter’s face at the crunch of jalapeno popper between her teeth. So fresh, the hot cheese inside scalds her tongue. She has to fan air into her mouth to soothe the burn. Lesson learned! 

“Is it not enough to just want to hang out with my favorite Spider-Women?” Peter asks. 

“No,” Jess says, “but those pretzel bites will buy you entry.”

“Oh…” Peter flashes the kind of puppy dog eyes that were popularized by ASPCA commercials. “But those are my pretzel—”

An unlidded coffee cup thunks to the table. Some of it sloshes out, forming a dark puddle at the base. Hand freed, Miguel snatches up all the pretzel bites from the precipice of Peter’s food mountain and then salts them over Jess’ mess of cheese and olives. 

The rest of Peter’s lunch is slapped down onto the table as Miguel makes room for himself on the bench beside MJ. He looks from MJ to Jess with an exasperation far beyond his years. “I just wanted a coffee.”

“And I just wanted pretzel bites.” Peter says, sliding in beside Jess. Upon Jess’ stinkeye, Peter amends, “But I am so glad to share. Friendship, it’s a hell of a thing. Almost as good as pretzel bites.” 

MJ snorts. It just slips out loud and unladylike. Shocked, she stares at the others with cartoonishly wide eyes. To varying degrees, they all concede that they heard the noise, but only Peter laughs freely. Beneath the table, Miguel’s knee knocks hers, briefly like an accident and then again with the force of intentionality. 

With the specter of list night cloying to her skin, the simple affection takes a secretive, sexual edge like he’s knocking their knees together to say, remember how I folded you in two like a crisp dollar bill? Remember how fucking good it felt? Remember how pretty I looked all shrouded in kisses and rosy from exertion? Remember?

It’s a garrote of flushing heat. If she pried her collar from her throat, steam would surely puff out to spell out horny and weird and girl, get a grip like an airplane skywriting. 

Normally, she’s not so jumpy. Her secret’s are all epidermic, kept protected by scar tissue, but he’s hacked through all the gnarled skin to crawl underneath. 

And that kind of raw, body borne, lovesore intimacy is a rush. If not also slightly terrifying. Okay, if not also really terrifying. But only after the fact. Rarely in the moment itself. When their  wild game of naked Twister this morning turned into indulgent, luxuriating lovemaking and muggy kisses and hushed, earnest praises, she didn’t pump the brakes. She thought briefly, in the back of her mind, that perhaps the mood had melded more romantic than was safe but then Miguel’s flat, clever tongue split the distance between her legs and she wasn’t thinking so much about it anymore. 

And even now! Even now when she’s meant to be keeping up the ruse of calm she can feel that telltale twist of heat in her belly, tethered taut and tight to Miguel. She left a vicious love bite right on his collarbone—dark and purple and beautiful as the gasp he gave when she sucked it in. Is it still there? Has it healed? She hopes not yet. 

“So,” Peter says, casual-like. “Mary Jane and I tried pegging last night. Thoughts?” 

Miguel inhales half his coffee. MJ bites her finger alongside the last of the jalapeno popper, but launches to the rescue, thumping Miguel on the back as he sputters. Soothing circles follow that want to linger, but she resists. She gives a final pat and he looks at her with mild thanks. 

Jess and Peter both take note, but it’s not indicative of anything. Even if she wasn’t sleeping with Miguel, she’d do the same thing for him. Probably. Maybe less affectionately.

“Damnit Parker!" Jess says when the excitement's passed. "What kind of a conversation starter is that?” 

“Isn’t that what these lunches are? Don’t you just talk about, you know”—Peter leans closer, drops his voice—“sex stuff?”

“No, actually, we have a bit more class than that,” MJ says. She knocks her knee against Miguel’s under the table. He knocks back. It’s like footsie, but less cute. Kneesie. 

“Which means I'm not getting much and MJ’s been stingy with the details recently,” Jess says. 

Selective is a better word than stingy. Jess is too smart, too intuitive. She’d figure it all out in three words or less. If she doesn't already know, which MJ suspects more and more strongly that Jess already does.

“I don’t know how else I can tell it, Jess.” MJ shrugs. She pokes at her salad, but all the good bits are gone. “It’s the dry spell to end all dry spells.” 

At her elbow, Miguel takes up his coffee for an oh so convenient drink. That lasts a long time. That lasts until Jess gives a puff of disbelief and flicks her hand at him. She and Peter share a scampish head shake while MJ’s blood pressure ticks higher. 

“What?” Miguel demands, cup lowering from his mouth. 

MJ could bop her head off the table. Asking what? is opening an artery for the ghouls to feed. 

“Good coffee?” Jess asks.

“No.”

“Interesting,” is all Jess says. 

Beside her, the food fortress has slumped to one side as Peter removes a load-bearing burger from the bottom. He holds up the burger to show off the bun, which has been styled in red and black after his own mask. He grins, gesturing back and forth between himself and the bun. “Always wondered what I’d taste like!” 

There’s a joke to be made but not among polite company. MJ keeps it to herself. She favors stirring her salad around over watching Peter figuratively devour his own ego. Sauced so long, all the greenery left has wilted. Even the most promising pieces squirm away from her fork. Just when she’s ready to shudder her appetite for the day, she watches Miguel snag a jalapeno popper from Peter’s horde to offer to her. She takes it with muttered thanks and a small smile that matches the one he wears.

“Right,” Jess starts. She sets her elbows on the table, leaning over them so that her neck strains out like a turtle from its shell. “So, if you two are gonna be all cute in front of me, I'm going to need all the dirty details. Otherwise, it’s a no cutesy zone while I’m eating.”

MJ takes a pointed bite of her jalapeno popper with a snotty frown. It’s too hot, scalding the sensitive nerve behind her upper teeth. She did not, in fact, learn her lesson from the first jalapeno popper. 

“You trying to say something significant or are you just shocking around?” Miguel asks. Under the table, he slips his foot under MJ’s, balancing it, unashamed of the touch. It gives a little thrill that doesn’t last. She politely removes her foot, crossing it at the ankle with her other one. 

“I'm so glad you asked,” Jess says. She inputs a few commands on her gizmo, holding it below the table so the results can’t be seen. Peter cranes around her to watch. His eyes grow wide and wider still when Jess rears up to slam her wrist down on the table. Above it, her gizmo displays a single calendared week, blocked off in varying intervals. There isn’t a minute of unclaimed time. 

Jess points a finger through the projection. The calendared blocks shimmer. Text bleeds through, showing descriptions for each event. Every event is described except for three thrown at random into the schedule. 

MJ knows exactly what each unnamed block represents and she knows exactly where this is going. Her mind races for the slant on it—what can she say to convince Jess and Peter of anything but the truth? Judging from the miasma of unease surrounding Miguel, he’s having similar thoughts.

“Lyla?" Jess asks. "Do the honors?”

Lyla appears. She wears a judge’s robe and wields a gavel. She twists the gavel round and round in her hand. “All stand for the honorable Judge Lyla.” 

Nobody stands, though Peter gives a little salute. 

“Your Honor,” Jess says, “can you please confirm this is MJ’s schedule?” 

“Yeppers.”

“And can you please cross reference this with every other logged schedule to determine who else might have reserved these same, unnamed times?”

“On who's authority—?” Miguel starts. 

“Done,” Lyla says. “One match.”

Everyone stares, holding their breaths. MJ’s eye twitches. 

“Oh, you want me to tell you?”

“Yes!” Jess says. 

Lyla pops up beside Miguel. A hand held flat between them, she inchworms the pointer finger of her other hand, making sly confirmation. 

“Aha!” Jess shouts, shooting to her feet and slamming the table with both hands. The slap rumbles the entire table, upending any food or drink of precarious balance. Miguel barely keeps his coffee from sloshing over. Peter’s leaning tower of appetizers spills along with a number of drinks all down the table. Spiders screech and wring their hands. 

Peter tugs her back down. Jess mumbles, “Okay, yeah. Too much. I knew it even as I was doing it.”

Beneath the table, Miguel presses his knee into MJ’s, an undeniable pressure. There’s a question on his face when she looks. She answers with a quick shake of her head. Her throat is squeezed tight around an anxiety she can’t place. It’s supposed to be a secret. Just for them. And Ben but only because he stumbled onto it. And sure, Jess and Peter probably have some idea, but not really. And isn’t that for the best?

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Miguel says. He’s a terrible liar, overcommitting with vehemence.  

“So what are you two doing at that time then?” Jess asks.

“And don’t say joint debriefs,” Peters says around a triple decker sandwich of his previously scattered apps. It should be impossible for one man to have the appetite of both Shaggy and Scooby Doo and yet Peter B is all too real. 

“Right because you two no longer run missions anymore. And, you know, I'm still not sure why that is. Seems strange since you two were doing so well and getting so close.” 

MJ shrugs. “Not a good fit.” 

“She doesn’t follow instructions well,” Miguel says. 

Peter snorts. 

“Parker?” Jess asks. “Something to say?”

Peter shrugs. “Crazy things happen in MedBay, ya know?

MJ does not panic. She doesn't even flinch. She’s a professional. Her expression is trained. Smooth on the surface, while her little duck legs paddle like crazy beneath the water. She does, however, give Miguel a real stink eye that makes him crouch in on himself right before he delivers a real whammy of a kick to the delicate hinge of Peter’s leg. 

Yelping, Peter draws both his legs up from under the table, perching on the bench. “Aww man! I think you broke my knee! I walk with that thing!”

“Okay. What am I missing here?” 

MJ and Miguel exchange a glance. Another easy out. Another punch of anxiety. She rubs at her forehead, hating the turn of events. 

“Right so, it turns out, falling tongue first into someone is a lesser known complication of a concussion.” 

It takes a second. Miguel gets it first, wincing, and then Peter who snorts and smacks a hand over his mouth at the ugly noise, and then Jess, who takes her goggles off. She polishes them, holding up a finger when Peter starts to ask if she got it. When she puts them back on, she glares at MJ and then at Miguel and then at MJ again. 

“Whoa, okay, I thought it was the lenses, but nope, it’s true. There's two assholes in front of me!” She smacks her hands against the table. “Who else knows about this!?”

Peter looks at Miguel, who looks at MJ, who shakes her head wildly at them both. Peter, getting nothing from Miguel, takes this as a greenlight to say, “I think, maybe, well he’s made suggestions, but maybe Ben—”

“No!” Jess cries, scandalized.

MJ says, “Oh, c’mon, Jess, I wanted to tell you.” A lie. An abject, downright, filthy lie. The absolute last thing MJ wanted to do was tell Jess about it when it happened. 

Peter sucks his teeth. “Oh, Gwen knows too, I think.”

Jess touches the back of her hand to her head and then mimes stabbing herself in the heart with her fork. Miguel drops his head into his hands. 

“What are you doing!?” MJ demands through grit teeth at Peter. 

“I’m honestly not even sure.” He rubs at his head, slightly dazed. “I think I blacked out.” 

Jess collects herself. She daubs at her eyes with a napkin, wiping away tears that aren’t there. 

“It’s fine,” she says with a stiff lip. “I’ll survive. Just do me this one kindness, okay?”

MJ knows it’s a trap, but exchanges a side-eye with Miguel anyway. He looks at her with equal hesitation. 

“It’s crazy, right? I mean”—she gestures between MJ and Miguel—“It’s gotta be nuts, right?” 

It’s not that nuts, which has become the crux of the problem. It’s not nuts. It’s intense and considerate and often rapturous and the thing she craves every single second they aren’t together.

Humping like bunnies and raucous fucking, she can handle. Hell, she can thrive with it and has, time and time again. She’s forgotten more relationships of the type than she can remember. Fires burn out. Tensions release. Bodies grow bored. The animal impulse sated and sleeping again.

It isn’t like that with Miguel. It never has been like that with Miguel if she feels like being honest with herself, which she rarely does. Their fucking wouldn’t be nearly as good if it wasn’t always at risk of tipping over the edge into lovemaking. That emotional intensity—that’s what makes it rich. 

Beneath the teeming fluorescents of the cafeteria, she can also appreciate how unfair it is to tamper it down and pretend to be something they aren’t. There’s no reason at all to keep it a secret. No good reason, at least. Idly, she reaches for the notch over her breastbone where hers and Peter’s wedding bands rest. 

“Is this about your bet?” Miguel asks. His coffee is nearly empty, but he keeps his hand around the cup, fraying the lip with the back and forth of his thumb. An idle tic, stimulating but resisting the instinct to extend his talons. He does it all the time and, every time his talons thunk out, he loses his mind. It can’t be good for his blood pressure, but it does seem to calm him when he’s in a good state of mind. 

Last night— or was it this morning? The flow of yesterday into today is fuzzy and slurred. Whenever it was, at one point, right at the beginning of their fuckfest, Miguel got her good with his talons when he came. 

It was an accident. One he was mortified by. But she had found it a thrill. It hadn’t hurt—what’s a few pricks in the ass when she’s had her chest cavity jellified?—despite Miguel’s fretting. No, it had been a twinging pinch if it was anything at all. His talons were so sharp they cleaved right through her skin without room for argument. The wounds weren’t gouging, only surface level. Control, even in the throes of whiteout orgasm—thanks to some edging of the highest order. But, he trusted her enough—or at least his body did—to lose all pretenses. That had been the thrill. 

“What bet?” Jess asks, coy as ever. 

“Your stupid shocking bet,” Miguel says. He stops playing with his cup, drinks the rest of his coffee instead. 

Finishing off another of Peter’s fries, MJ adds, “The super invasive one.” 

“The one that’s totally off base,” Miguel says. 

“So far off base it’s practically on Saturn.”

“Sorry, wait, is your story here that you made out so nasty—” MJ starts to protest, but Jess makes a noise like aht! that keeps her from pushing it. “You two made out so nasty that you couldn’t run the same missions anymore and now you’re saying you’re not together? Do I look like an idiot?”

“Look, one mildly nasty makeout session only made this rockstar”—MJ hikes a thumb at Miguel—“freak the hell out on me. That’s why we’re unbuddied.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Jess rolls her eyes. “Not because you made out nasty and then never stopped making out nasty, which is a no no when it comes to Buddied Spiders?” 

“Not that,” MJ says. There's a needle between her ribs, poking sharp into something soft and delicate. “Kinda got the shit kicked out of me like a week later so it wasn’t exactly a priority for me. Besides, MJ doesn’t date. It’s like my thing. The widow.” 

Even she has the presence of mind to recoil from what she’s saying. It’s not untrue, but it’s both defensive and offensive, tactless when she is known for her tact. Jess and Peter both regard her with pity. Miguel regards her with frustration. Or something like it. The expression warps into a scowl for Peter when the other man says, “It doesn’t have to be your thing, MJ. I'm sure your husband wouldn’t want you to be so—”

“—miserable. You don’t have to be. You choose to be,” he grumbles. Without the drunken slur to his voice, she finds she doesn't understand him, doesn’t recognize him. Who is this man? Not her father. Not the one she knows, at least. 

Her father wouldn’t give a fig about making amends. Her father never thought he did anything wrong. Not really. All the apologizing and the weeping and the confessions never amounted to anything but another step in the cycle. He said sorry and forgive me but never more than that. He never fixed himself. He never asked how he could be forgiven. He just did it all over again. 

And he’s still not sorry. He just wants to tick a box for himself. Not for her. And certainly not for Mayday. She could kill him for that alone. For invoking her daughter’s name at all. 

“I won’t do a thing for you,” she says, gnawing at her cheek. “Not after what you did.”

The man with her father’s face but without his drunken cruelty rolls his eyes. He huffs, “Don’t you hear me? I don’t want anything from you. I know what I did. You know too, Marilyn. You know I never laid a finger on you.”

And it’s true. He never laid a finger on her, but he threw bottles and plates and books and records and car keys and remote controls at the space around her so that things would shatter or bounce or break or crack and injury would find her all the same. He never laid a finger on her, but he treated her like a ghost until upset, ignoring and neglecting her for days on end until some inconsequential slight set him off. He never laid a finger on her, but he held a gun to his own head and clicked the safety off and made her kneel and beg and pray that he wouldn't fire. He never laid a finger on her, but he hit her sister. Savaged her mother. He never laid a finger on her, but he did worse to himself when she was near enough to know and hear. 

“I don’t care how you’ve made peace with yourself,” she manages. Her throat is raw, but her voice is strong. Stronger than it’s ever been. Strong as she wished it was all those years ago when it could have made a difference. “It won’t change anything. It won’t change you.” 

“I get it.” He holds up both hands. Neither hand trembles. This, more than anything else, fully unsettles her. This man has her father’s face, but not her father’s hands. Not her father’s rage. 

It was a mistake to meet with him. She knew it. Peter did too. He wanted to come with her, for moral support, but she said no. Peter was there for the worst of her father, but she feared refreshing his memories of how pathetic she once was. How broken. 

The sweat of her emotions is unbearable beneath the heavy black wig she wears. It itches and swelters, giving birth to a baby migraine. It pangs behind her eyes, nauseating in its quick intensity. She needs to get out of here. She stands before she thinks of it, gathering her things with as much dignity as she can muster. 

“Marilyn, wait,” her father pleads, standing too. He reaches for her, but she jerks away. The motion casts out her purse from her elbow, knocking over her untouched glass of water. It spills all over the tabletop, dripping fast from the vinyl. 

Her father drops back into the booth, throwing napkins over the mess. Which is another difference. Her father wouldn’t help to fix a mess. He would make it worse by screaming and hollering. But not this man. Not this man who claims he is her father. 

She believes people are fundamentally good. That they are capable of change. But she has never thought this of her father. She can’t. Because if he can be better, if this fantasy before her is true, then why now? Why not when it mattered? When it could have saved her from a lifetime of self destruction? 

Standing tall as she can, MJ says, “I don’t want to see you ever again. If you try to contact me or my family again, if you come anywhere near me or my family again, if you even think about me or my family again, you’ll regret it.”

With a jerk, MJ crashes back into the present. The entire table stares at her with matching shades of concern, deepest on Miguel and most cautious on Jess. Miguel has a hand on her shoulder, but she only feels it now, as he squeezes. 

“You alright?” Peter asks. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Does she? She’s shaking. She knows she’s shaking, but what does the rest of her look like? Doe-eyed and frozen-corpse pale? That’s how she used to look. When she fell into the mirror and picked her expression apart in the wake of her father, practicing and practicing until she could get it just right and hide everything wrong. 

It’s been so long, she’s out of practice. 

“I'm fine,” she says. No one believes her. Miguel’s hand slips off her shoulder, but only because she shifts away from it. She says to Peter, “What am I supposed to smile and laugh because you brought up my husband?”

Peter swallows a frown, properly shamed. “Right. Sorry, I just… I hate to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Lonely,” Peter says. Not true. Not all the time, at least. Maybe when she’s home, but here? At HQ? How can she be lonely when she’s surrounded by friends and most of her possible alone time is decidedly un-alone with Miguel? So, not lonely, obviously. 

“Repressed,” Jess says. No. What would she have to repress? Other than a secret relationship, but that doesn’t make her repressed. It’s just the relationship that’s repressed. And only from other people. It may be a little strained, at times, for one reason or another, but it isn’t repressed. Just like she isn’t repressed. So, no, wrong. 

“Unhappy,” Miguel says. Thoroughly false. She doesn’t have time to be unhappy. Besides, how can he even think that? If there’s ever a time when she’s close to happy, it’s when she’s with him. So, what the fuck? 

“Wow, please, tell me how you really feel,” MJ says. She snatches an onion ring from Peter’s tray, munching it to keep from gnawing on the inside of her mouth. It’s the only tell she has. 

“Okay,” Jess says because Jess is the bravest of them all. “Ever since the attack, you’ve been different. Manic, almost. I thought it might get better, we all did, but you’re only getting worse.” 

Peter nods. Miguel won’t meet her eye, which is more concerning than it should be. He feels that way. He feel that way and more. 

“Ugh, let’s talk about something else. This is harshing the vibe,” MJ says. “Even the jokes about Miguel swinging my web were more fun than this.”

Jess snorts. “God, maybe you should let him swing your web. Might knock some sense into you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what happens to the Spiders who refuse to face reality, MJ? Who refuse to admit they’re not okay?” 

“I don’t appreciate the lecture—”

“They miss what’s right in front of them—”

“Jess,” Miguel says, but she doesn’t stop. 

“—and then they die, MJ. Or, worse, they trade the suit for something else.” 

MJ’s smile comes out all teeth as she chuffs. “You think I'm gonna break bad?”

Jess throws her hands up. “Maybe! Keep going like you’re going and we’ll find out!” 

“I think,” Peter chimes in, setting a calming hand on Jess’ shoulder that she promptly shrugs out from under, “what Jess is trying to say is that she’s worried about you. That we’re all worried about you. I know you feel like you have to muscle through, but you don’t. Let the mask slip a little bit.”

It catches MJ wildly, woefully off guard. This is why she avoids all serious conversation with Peter B. He can look at her and just know. It’s humiliating. 

“What you see is what you get, babes,” MJ says, though she can't even convince herself. She snags another fried app—a pickle this time—and over chews to keep from saying something stupid. 

“Seriously, MJ,” Peter says. He waggles a limp fry at her. It’s been in his hand for over a minute, more an instructional aide than a food item for the time being. “You may get everyone else with that but you can’t fool me.” 

“Or me,” Jess adds. 

Miguel does not say anything.

“Look, I'm flattered.” She isn’t. “I love you guys too and all that but seriously? Politely? Back off.” 

There’s a thrill that comes with being plainly assertive. A little zing of bravado that makes her sit a little straighter. For a moment, she feels like the winner. 

And then Peter, Jess and Miguel all exchange a conferring stare. A stare that she knows. A stare that she has shared with Peter and Liz and Robbie and their entire circle of affected friends more than once. The Harry’s not listening to us stare. 

“Oh my god.” She laughs. Cliche, sure, but she can’t help it. It’s so unbelievable it can only be funny. “Is this a shocking intervention?”

Jess furrows her brow. Miguel won’t meet her eye. But Peter is the one who gives up the ghost. He gives a too-tight, cheesy smile like Seinfeld about to deliver a real razz on airline food. 

“MariJane,” he starts, but MJ’s already making her dramatic exit. 

She is the intervener not the intervenee. Never—not even when she had a brief flirtation with substance abuse. Not even when she was blacklisted from Hollywood for partying too much for the people who made a lifestyle in partying. That was when she was really bad. That was the time in her life she looks back on and thinks, woof, why didn’t anyone try to help me? And she knows why—because even then she could take care of her shit so that the people who were in more dire straits got the help. 

So what if she isn’t sleeping much? So what if she only eats enough to keep her upright? So what if she’s got long term contusions and an increasing proficiency for breaking bones when it’s in the job description? So the fuck what if she can’t think straight for long stretches—sometimes hours—because her thoughts are a big nasty snarl of unpleasant ennui? She’s handling it fine. She is acting fine. She is fine. 

No, in fact, she is better than fine. Certainly better than she was a few months ago! Back when she wasn’t sleeping at all, or eating at all and spending all her time smashing her fists into holographic dummies until she got bruises from air resistance and broke every single part of herself fighting a fucking war. If there was ever a time—not that there was—but if there was a time for a we’re worried about you, sad face intervention, it was then, not now. 

So why now? What was the major malfunction? What did Peter see—because it had to be Peter, right? Who knows her better? Sure, she’s probably the most honest (respective to levels of naked honesty given to others) with Jess, but that honesty is all humor. Sarcasm and jokes and charm. Honest, but on a slant. Peter is the only one with the technical know-how to take her temperature. 

Or, he should be. But, fuck. When was the last time she spoke to Peter? Two weeks ago? Three? No. It wasn’t Peter. And it wasn’t Jess. Jess would hit her head-on. Jess wouldn’t need anyone else for backup. Jess would intervene on MJ all by herself. 

So, it was Miguel. It had to be. Miguel sold her out. But why? Because he didn’t have the guts to smack her with it himself? Or because he didn’t think she’d believe it if he was the only one saying it? Or—fuck that. No matter why. 

Is it so unbelievable that I’m concerned, all on my own? He said that once, back when it was unbelievable. Now? Now she doesn’t know what it is. Unfortunate. Unimaginative. But not unbelievable. 

Miguel, designated sucker and fingered Judas, catches her just outside the cafeteria, grabbing her wrist before she can get too far away. She jerks free, rubbing at the affronted skin. 

“I don’t like to be managed, Miguel,” she hisses up at him. And then she’s pacing, which is bad. She knows what it looks like. It looks like drama, drama, drama, and for once MJ is not eager for a starring role. 

Spiders stop. Spiders stare. Spiders expect a blow out. 

“You’re getting worse,” Miguel says, low, so that everyone eavesdropping has to really work for it. She just glares at him, demanding an explanation for whatever the fuck he thinks he’s getting at. Demanding to know just where exactly he gets off. 

“You are,” he insists, matter of fact. 

She swallows it like glass, stops pacing to really glare at him. She doesn’t say anything. What can she say? She can’t deny it. Not when he’s looking at her like that with all those downturns on his face, oozing bald concern. And not when she’s remembering things when she only forgot them before. The little flashes of memory stick when she’s unstuck. They were just deja vu. They’re not now. 

Worse—she’s definitely not getting better. 

“There’s tests,” Miguel says, stepping closer. Both hands on her shoulders and then over the curve, running up and down the length of her arms. A well familiar touch now. An alarmingly disarming touch. Everyone watches. Everyone stares. And he doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest. “Tests for PTSD. Psychosomatic. Whatever else it could be.”

An eye to the audience, she scoffs. “You worry too much, bossman.”

“Maybe I don’t worry enough.” He still touches her, holding firm by both hands to her arms like she’s liable to fade away. 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“And what the hell do you know about it?”

“I know better than anyone else.”

They’re growling at each other now, words coming from the sides of mouths and under tongues to keep from being heard and taken out of context. Or worse, in context. 

“But what does it matter to you?”

If he says it, she doesn’t have to. She wants him to say it. She realizes it now in a combustion of emotion, staring at him, feeling the rest of it all melt away. She wants him to say it. Maybe she even needs him to say it. 

But he doesn’t. 

Which is a good thing. It’s a good thing he doesn’t say it. Fuck, a love confession would ruin her right now. 

Glancing around, Miguel glares at the cluster of Spiders who neither hustle nor bustle but instead linger and pretend to be very enamored with the floor underfoot or the curve of the walls. One Spider dedicated to the bit has taken to petting the wall like it’s a mythical beast. 

“C’mon.” He touches a hand to the flat of her shoulder blade, spurring her into motion. She compiles. The sudden spike and fall of her emotions—that hot gush of anticipation and immediate cold snap of fear—has left her rotted out. She just wants this conversation over with. It’s already too messy. 

Miguel leads her into the server room tucked back at the turn of the corner. With a flat swipe of his palm, the wall clicks apart with a puff of hermetic air suddenly unsealed. 

MJ’s never been in a server room. Never had the clearance. Far as she knows, only Miguel has access. Should anything happen to him, access is to automatically cede to Jess and then to Petra and then so on and so forth. If MJ’s on the chain of command, it’s very, very low. And she doesn’t quite begrudge it. Not like she’s jumping at the bit for round-the-clock access to the creepy servers. 

In her mind, MJ’s always pictured Lyla’s heart like HAL 9000. A dark, ominous cavern, lined with reddish orange toggles that echoed “Daisy Bell” automatically upon entrance. The reality isn’t that far off. 

No “Daisy Bell,” but yellowish orange diodes and toggles cover the black walls in uniform, horizontal lines. They glow and pulse. At their dimmest, they barely illuminate themselves. At their brightest, they flash bright as day. Dawn and twilight both fall over the room, cycling in a steady rhythm. 

It’s also freezing. Crystals of breath condense between her and Miguel, blurring them to each other. 

“Just tell me,” Miguel says, softly, “should I be worried?” 

Bathed in the ephemeral light from the servers, his expression is shadowed and inscrutable. Whatever capacity he’s asking in—lover or friend or superior—she can’t tell. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe he just cares about her in every capacity. 

“No.” 

He touches her face with both hands, the way he likes to when they kiss. Bare handed, his suit fizzles around his wrists. It gives off the low static rumble of a fresh opened soda, just by her ear. The heat of his skin bleeds, though it doesn’t last in the chill. He tilts her face up, forces her to hold his gaze. She holds his gaze, but not his intent. Beyond the red of his eye, she imagines another face, someone without the affinity for hurt and hurting. It’s an actor’s trick, one she employs more than is prudent. 

“Are you lying to me?”

It doesn’t matter if she is or isn’t. He’ll never be able to tell. 

“No,” she says again, more emphatic. She takes hold of his wrists, slides her fingers over the electric edge of his suit. The tingle of it travels through her hands, up her arms, into the bulk of her. 

“I don’t believe you.” There’s no anger. Just the dry crack of the cold. If there’s a sad tinge, it’s sapped up by the frigid air. “This doesn’t work if we’re not honest with each other.” 

“This,” she repeats with her mouth hitched. “You say that like we’re together.”

“Aren’t we?” 

Are they? Technically, physically, in this moment—yes. But not together together. Not officially. It’s just sex. They’re not dating. It’s complicated, but it’s not that. 

Why can’t it be? Because every relationship she’s ever had outside of Peter has been unfathomably fucked. She doesn’t want this to be. 

Miguel scowls, working through the same backlog. He says, “Just tell me the truth.”

She can’t. How could she? Another burden atop his mountain of fucking burdens? No, she won’t do that to him. Especially when it’s probably nothing. A scary nothing is still nothing. 

“We should report it,” she says. “It would be safer if we reported it. This. Us."

His mouth wobbles down, heavy with concern. “Safer?”

“I don’t want either of us to get hurt in all this,” she says, rough. Her words tickle between them, billowing smoke in the freezing air. Then, softer, she says, “We didn't always get along like cats in heat.”

He strokes a thumb back and forth along the apple of her cheek. “Is it… meeting my brother, was it too much?”

Yes, but also no. It’s more than Gabriel. More than them playing house. It's even more than the two person orgy they enjoyed after Gabriel had left the premises. 

Their relationship has an expiration date, unknown, but ever present. It will only be harder when it ends if she’s more than a passing attraction to him, if he’s more than a body for her. 

But how to say that without expediting the end? How to say I really enjoy our time together and I've grown very fond of you, but I'm scared of what that means because I know this can't last forever and I know it will be my fault?  

“You’re my boss,” she says because she’s a coward. 

“Not really.” 

"So you admit Lyla's really in charge?"

The corner of his mouth spikes. "I didn't say that." 

Then, he caves in, pressing his forehead against hers. Eyes closed, he sighs. The resistance shuffles out of him. “Would it really make you feel better to file it?” 

She nods. His hands move with her head, holding it up through her nod. His mouth twitches, but it doesn’t frown. 

“Then we’ll file it,” he resolves. Leaning back, he puts enough space between them to look at her properly. His thumb strafes her bottom lip, but doesn’t pull at it. “You’ll always have a place here. Whether we’re… whether we’re us or not.”

It unnerves her how easily he sees clean through her. No one should be able to do that. Not anymore. 

She chews the inside of her cheek. The oft-worn skin sours between her molars until she releases it with a shock of fright. With his hands on her face, he can surely feel her ancient tic. 

When his mouth twists and eyes soften, she knows she’s been found out. It’s a spear of cold straight to the stomach, churning and nauseating. She wants to flee but she knows she can’t. He already knows too much. There’s nowhere for her to hide. 

The tension in his stare poses the question, how do I help you? that she answers with a soft kiss and then another that weakly protest, I’m fine, I’m fine. 

He doesn’t believe her. She knows he doesn’t. It’s in his eyes, the resolute set of his jaw. But he kisses her like he does and she kisses him like she means it. Their mouths ghost each other with false assurances, but it isn’t unpleasant. The heat of his breath warms her from the inside, defending against the frigid cold of the room and all to come. 

Like all things, it doesn’t last. 

***

At the end of the day in Nueva York, MJ leaves for early morning in Nu York. She arrives to the guest suite of Harry’s that has become hers to the usual stack of rations and an unexpected gift from Harry himself on the kitchen counter. 

The rations are nothing of note, but Harry’s gift is hard to ignore—an ornate box alongside the usual beans and bread. Inside: a tailored dress in the latest fashion; a string of pearls; a pair of strappy flats; a give Fisk the finger pin; a handwritten note inviting her to yet another publicity gig to bolster Harry's street cred. 

Play pretend with me? Harry writes. 

A blurb of guilt pops in her stomach. She hasn’t spoken to Harry in weeks, despite crashing in his guest suite. He’s been busy in the recall vote against Fisk. She’s been busy with defending the streets and keeping an eye out for Prodigal and the Society and Miguel.

She rubs her temples, easing the brewing headache. She's been a bad friend. An even worse friend since she started sneaking around with Miguel. Peter would be disappointed. Fuck. She needs to be better. Needs to make an effort with Harry, even if he’s just as busy as she is. Hell, she lives in the same building as him, even if the guest suite is a floor down from his penthouse. 

But, Harry’s probably busy prepping for his next barn burning speech to recall Fisk if he’s not already in bed. So, she’ll do her due diligence with Harry another night. 

For now, it’s unpacking rations and doing everything she can to not think of things she shouldn’t. She fails, of course, but she does try to keep her thoughts above water.

The things she can’t stop thinking about: the messy, dripping plaster of Miguel’s curls over his forehead as he fucked her in the shower at the end of their very long morning together. And the dance of their conjoined shadows through the steam, soft and sweet. And the hot, split brand of his mouth against the heel of her palm when she reached up to brush his hair from his brow. And the creak in his voice when he asked, What? with his brow all furrowed and crunched and then again, What? when she could only grin, and then, finally, It’s something with a little laugh and shake of his head when she could only smirk stupid and say, It’s nothing. And, of course, the slide of his wide hand up under the crook of her knee, drawing it up to deepen the angle of his next thrust into her, and that ensuing delicious, mutual groan and adjustment in that small moment of peace they etched out between them. 

She’s lost in the reverie of it—her fingers pressed flat against her bottom lip, tasting the molten memory of his sloppy, needy kiss as he finally, finally came inside her—when the incoming call rips through. It shatters the silence around her, makes her startle and slap a hand flat over the front page of The Bugle and Vanessa Fisk’s cold, dispassionate face beneath the headline Fisk Recall Vote Gains Traction. 

Fumbling to make herself semi-presentable, MJ answers the call. 

"You ready?" Miguel asks, instead of hello. Only his unmasked visage is displayed via hologram, but it's clear from his stance and the distracted swipe of his hands that he's at the monitor bank in his lab, playing sentry for the multiverse. 

There’s a blinking light on the surface of her gizmo. Beneath it, Ben Reilly makes stormy eyes up at her. He’s in a waiting room, pending Miguel’s clearance to enter the call. Impatiently, he leans into the camera. The video distorts into a fisheye view, cartoonishly elongating his face and turning his nose bulbous. 

"As Freddie." Her voice wavers. An uncharacteristic bout of nerves. She stretches up, yawns deep. It's cold in the apartment. That crisp, early fall cold that seeps through the foundation. Her favorite kind of weather back when having a favorite kind of weather mattered. 

“If you changed your mind about reporting…” He doesn’t finish the thought. His mask comes down in a whoosh of pixels, but there’s no further comment in his expression. He just looks at her with lullaby eyes. 

“I haven’t,” she says. She doesn’t say, I can’t. 

Though his mouth itches like it wants to frown, Miguel just nods. Then, he flexes his elbows behind him with a crackle of released tension. He says, “I’ll let him in then.”

And he does. Ben Reilly joins the call without fanfare. He backs a reasonable distance away from the lens. He looks from MJ to Miguel and then back and forth again. His brow furrows. His mouth purses and unpurses. “Okay, okay. Let me get this straight”—Ben temples his fingers, points them at MJ—“you're not pregnant.”

MJ blinks. “Uh, no. I’m not pregnant.”

Nodding with heart attack sincerity, Ben aims his steepled fingers at Miguel. “So are you pregnant?” 

The conversation spirals, but MJ eventually manages to get them back on track with a heavy hand and some tough love (i.e. threatening to bonk Spider skulls together like coconuts). 

Ultimately, Ben agrees to be the named confidante as required by one bylaw of the Society or another. He eagerly agrees. Until he finds out just how much work it is to serve as both named confidante and secret knower. Because it’s still a secret. Officially, only Ben knows that MJ and Miguel are hooking up. 

Jess and Peter definitely know too, but MJ’s still clinging to that will they/won’t they limbo narrative. Neither one has bothered her about the tongue tango she’s dancing with Miguel since their botched intervention and it’s best that way. The less nuance she has to dig into the better! Which is why she advocated for Ben. A clever enough guy, but wholly uninterested in the nuance and concerns of a sexual relationship hamstrung from evolving into something more. 

For the last few calls—once weekly with MJ and Miguel, separately and then bi-weekly with the both of them. In addition to the narrative reports and findings of fact that they must all submit. According to Lyla, the tendency of couples to fall apart under the duress of so much red tape is a feature and not a bug—all Ben has cared about is verifying consummation, which he has been unable to do and laments this inability every chance he gets. 

With formal guardrails in place on the relationship, MJ no longer fears plunging over the edge. If anything drastic changes, they’ll have to file it with Ben and neither she nor Miguel have any real incentive to open up that can of worms with Ben Wait, Who’s on Top? Reilly. 

And if she spends more and more nights at Miguel’s, it isn’t anything meaningful—it’s just more convenient than sending her back to the Society. Plus: morning sex! And who doesn’t love morning sex? 

Really, the good outweighs the potential bad of a falling out that gets stickier and stickier with each passing night. It’s good as is. It’s sustainable. 

It’s nice. That’s all it needs to be.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Whoa! It's Past LYLA's Bedtime! She's Gonna Get Some Shuteye but Please Don't Go Snooping Around the Secret Files, OK?

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Form 34: Disclosure of Inter-Agent Relationship and Addendum 6a: Request for Confidentiality as filed by MARIJANE as follows: 

FORM 34: DISCLOSURE OF INTER-AGENT RELATIONSHIP

SECTION A: INVOLVED PARTY(S)

Involved Party(s): Any and all Agents involved in the relationship being disclosed. This includes YOU, the Agent filing this Form, as well as ANY AND ALL ROMANTIC or SEXUAL PARTNERS. “Submitting Party” refers only to YOU, as in THE AGENT FILING THIS FORM. It does NOT refer to sexual preferences and/or imperatives. “Role Designation” refers to the held ROLE IN THE SOCIETY and NOT to sexual preferences and/or imperatives. 

1. Submitting Party (YOU):
   • Full Name:
     • Marilyn Jane Watson-Parker
   • Role Designation:
     • Agent
   • Love Language (select the option that BEST applies):
     • Physical touch

1. Involved Party (YOUR PARTNER):
   • Full Name:
     • Miguel O'Hara
   • Role Designation:
     • Agent; Director
   • Love Language (select the option that BEST applies):
     • Acts of service

 

SECTION B: NATURE OF RELATIONSHIP

Please complete this section to the best of your knowledge.

1. Is RELATIONSHIP new? If yes, please input “new”. If not, please give date relationship initiated. 
   • New
2. Type of RELATIONSHIP (select all that apply): 
   • Sexual
     • If sexual, please note all methods being used to prevent CROSS-DIMENSIONAL CONCEPTION:
       • Sterile: hats off to the apocalypse
3. Expected duration of RELATIONSHIP:
   • 6 months
4. Intended outcome of RELATIONSHIP (select the option that BEST applies):
   • Fling
5. Reason for RELATIONSHIP (i.e. why do YOU believe it necessary?):
   • Mutual sress relief
6. Genesis of RELATIONSHIP (i.e. tell LYLA the love story and she might help you out when it comes to avoiding MIGUEL):
   • Enemies to coworkers to friends to brief enemies again to lovers

 

SECTION C: MONITORING & SUPERVISION

If RELATIONSHIP disclosed is NOT a MARRIAGE or LONG TERM COHABITATION then please complete this section. If RELATIONSHIP disclosed is a MARRIAGE or LONG TERM COHABITATION, please proceed to Section D. 

If RELATIONSHIP disclosed is a MARRIAGE or LONG TERM COHABITATION, please proceed to Section D and ensure that ADDENDUM 4A: MARRIAGE DISCLOSURE or ADDENDUM 4B: LONG TERM COHABITATION APPROVAL REQUEST is filed alongside THIS FORM.

1. Designated Confidante:
   • MIGUEL O’HARA-928B
2. Potential or Known Conflicts of Interest:
   • Miguel says he’s gonna fix it but if he doesn’t, Ben Reilly-35 is the designated confidante. NOT MIGUEL. That’s actually the whole thing. I directly report to Miguel. If that’s not a conflict of interest, then I’m gonna need to see some definitions. 

SECTION D: ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1. In filing this form YOU acknowledge the following:
1. The RELATIONSHIP is voluntary and consensual.
2. YOU and YOUR PARTNER(S) are free to end the relationship at any time.
3. If the RELATIONSHIP should end, YOU agree that YOU will not allow the end of the RELATIONSHIP to negatively impact your role and performance within the SPIDER SOCIETY. 
4. The RELATIONSHIP will not result in CROSS-DIMENSIONAL CONCEPTION, which would result in CATASTROPHIC CONSEQUENCES for the entire Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse. 
5. YOU agree that in disclosing this RELATIONSHIP that you will abide by the MONITORING & SUPERVISION POLICY for the duration of the RELATIONSHIP until the time at which the RELATIONSHIP becomes a LONG TERM COHABITATION, as which time MONITORING & SUPERVISION is no longer applicable. 

 

ADDENDUM 6A: REQUEST FOR CONFIDENTIALITY 

Only submit this ADDENDUM if YOU or YOUR PARTNER(S) are requesting that the RELATIONSHIP not be disclosed to ANY PARTY beyond those involved or those named within this ADDENDUM. Please note, YOU will be required to GIVE JUSTIFICATION for requesting CONFIDENTIALITY and granting of the same is subject to ADMINISTRATIVE REVIEW. Should the RELATIONSHIP be disclosed or discovered, the SOCIETY takes no responsibility for the same. 

1. Reason for request for CONFIDENTIALITY (select all that apply):
   • Privacy concerns; shipping discourse concerns
2. Are any other AGENTS aware of the RELATIONSHIP (excluding YOU and YOUR PARTNER(S)?: 
   • Yes
     • If Yes, please LIST all AGENTS who are aware of the RELATIONSHIP:
       • Ben Reilly-35
3. From which reporting requirements do YOU wish to be exempt from for the sake of CONFIDENTIALITY?:
   • All of them?

 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary : For obvious reasons, wasn’t familiar with the contents of this form until it was pulled for the ongoing investigation. She updated the form later, but only to file the Addendum 4B. Hard not to see those responses as a means to an end, especially with the original so sparse. She hated paperwork. Maybe that’s it. Whatever. 

LYLA, flag commentary for clean-up. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Who Laughs Last" by Lord Huron ft Kristen Stewart

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: communication breakdown

Chapter 37: chew up your love, swallow

Summary:

#commitment issues

The night grows soft. Mingled moonlight and streetlamps streak heavy tan curtains with gold and white. Each passing car ripples the colorscape, giving it momentary depth and breath. Streamers hang limp in archways. Crumpled confetti dirties every surface in the living room, entrails of a surprise explosion to kick off the now dead party.

It was a feat scheduling and squeezing fifteen Spiders (human and otherwise) into the Parkers’ home to celebrate Peter B’s 40th, but they managed. MJ's a real miracle worker. Peter B’s MJ. Not MariJane-MJ. Though, MariJane-MJ helped wrangle everyone into attending and showing up on time. Miguel in particular. A headache and a half, but worth it in the end. 

“What d'ya think, Big Red?” Mary Jane B. Parker asks. She stands behind the armchair currently holding her snoring, dead-to-the-world husband. His head cants off the back of the headrest while the rest of his limbs sprawl loose and disordinate over the chair. With delicate touch, Mary Jane rights Peter's head and ruffles his hair. He thanks her by sawing a particularly dense log. She smiles. “I'd say he had a pretty good time.”

Miguel curls a finger under his chin, nodding. Only two hours ago, he held up Peter’s legs for a kegstand. Even Spiders of a certain age can still party. Of course, Peter immediately got woozy and nearly hurled over his cake, but still. Ain't no party like a Spider party. 

“Good time tonight, hard time in the morning,” Miguel says. 

Mary Jane snorts. Straightening up, she crosses her arms over her chest and takes up the poised stance all MJs seem to share. “Full of wisdom tonight, huh?”

“I'm always full of wisdom.”

MariJane observes the exchange as she ferries dishes from the dining room into the kitchen. There's no leftovers to speak of (a horde of hungry Spiders is only slightly better behaved than a plague of locusts) but the surplus of dishes will need to be soaked and scrubbed. She’s already thrown herself onto the dishwashing sword, wanting to help, yes, but also wanting to stretch the night a little longer. 

It's been a good night all around. A night steeped in nostalgia for a time she never had, but a good night. 

Conversation dimmed by two walls and a dining room between living room and kitchen, the exchange between Miguel and Mary Jane loses focus. MJ could eavesdrop, but the effort isn’t worth the energy. Instead, she sets the dishes atop the wasteland in the sink and takes a step away, formulating a plan of attack. The dishwasher is jam packed and already running so the remaining mountain needs to be hand washed. 

Once upon a time, dishes were the bane of her existence. Somehow, someway, there were always more dishes, and always too many for the dishwasher to tackle all at once. A cleaner would've helped, but that’d be admitting defeat. Plus, a cleaner would've taken away those quiet, precious moments when Peter was around to help. 

Her and Peter, they had a system. Peter washed. He had the oomph to scrub away even the toughest stains. MJ dried—the better job of the two. Not only did she have the foresight to claim it first, but she had the luck of a husband kind enough to let her have her way. 

Around her, the Parker house settles in its newfound solitude. All the other Spiders, save MJ and Miguel, have vamoosed. There was a formula dictating departure times, but MJ only listened long enough to know it didn’t apply to her. Granted, she was an unfashionable hour late, thanks to an impromptu and prolonged visit with Harry where he monologued all about his master plan to formally recall and cast out Vanessa Fisk's "funk of corruption" once and for all. 

Harry Osborn: unnaturally talented at monopolizing her attention at the worst times. 

Even as she rushed out the door with excuses and apologies, she wanted to tell him the truth: Sorry, Hare, I’m late for Peter’s surprise birthday party. No, not our Peter. Where at? Oh, my place, just a few dimensions over. 

Though, it’s not really her place. Peter B’s apartment is in a completely different borough with a completely different layout in a completely different universe. Only small similarities suffuse. Mayday's play corner in the living room. Collaged photos of Parkers and Watsons passed lining the stairs. The curio in the dining room. Two of the scribbled crayon drawings by the artist known as Mayday Parker tacked to the fridge. And then, of course, there’s the kitchen.

In the kitchen, if MJ closes her eyes and stands very still, she can pretend it’s hers. Maybe that's why she volunteers for the dishes, lingering in this place so full of light and love and Mayday. This soft little life she lost. It sticks, jabbing needle-sharp into the tender of her throat. It’s a discomfort, not a hurt, and one easily hidden when she’s no longer alone. 

Over her shoulder, she calls out, “You just gonna darken my doorway or you gonna help kill these dishes?”

For a big man, Miguel moves quietly. The air sluicing around him makes more noise than his feet on the floor. Without a sound, he comes up behind her, a hand on her back, slipping low to touch skin bared by her crop top in a passing, deniable affection. There's a secret smile in his voice when he says, “What if I just wanted to tell you how great you look tonight?”

“Then I’d have to tell you Spider-Ham already beat you to it.” 

A pair of flowy, drawstring pants and a simple black crop top comprise her outfit, casually showing off her body, while a decorative black choker and riotous, messy ponytail flaunt the envious curve of her neck (and no cast, thank Christ. It came off a few weeks ago). Spider-Ham took one look at her and offered, short, snorting affirmations that she was pretty enough to make a pig wish he spoke a little French. 

“Yeah?” Miguel’s hand slides up and down her back, stroking the steeples of her spine. “Twerp has good taste, at least.” 

“Sure, if you like pork.”

Miguel snorts. He thumbs the hem of her shirt, looking down at her with an affection that’s far from deniable. MJ forks a brow, shooting her gaze out in the direction of the living room. Miguel shakes his head. 

“She’s dragging Peter to bed. Wouldn’t let me carry him. Said he gets handsy when he’s tired.”

This was true of her Peter too. They probably had more slow, sleepy sex than any other kind. Never the most exciting, but the most intimate. No frills—just hazy kisses and lazy, rolling hips in the hollow of night. 

Nostalgia threatens, but MJ knows self defense. She bashes its teeth in and buries it in a shallow grave by blotting out the thought with the feel of Miguel’s mouth on hers. He gives a hiss of surprise, but allows himself to be stooped and smooched.

“What was that for?” he asks, dazed, when they break for breath. 

She dabs the lipstick from his lips with her thumb, asking, “I need a reason?” 

“No,” he says and her heart does little flips. But what the fuck does it know? It’s already caused enough problems for her tonight.

Earlier, it was in freaking hysterics watching Miguel grin and laugh from across the room. It swelled against her ribs, overcome by the sight of him in simple jeans and a long sleeve Henley—a far better look than the bland, shapeless athleisure of the future he normally wears. It made her say and do stupid things to alleviate the chafe of being so far from his side. 

Nobody seemed to notice. Not that she really talked to anyone but Spider-Ham. With his sights still set on a dramatic turn, he spent the entire night picking her brain about showbiz and the commodification of the self for public enjoyment: heady conversation for a party that featured multiple keg stands and butt rock on repeat. 

The only time she floated into Miguel’s orbit, MJ was bounced right back out by Ham dragging her onto the dancefloor of the Parkers’ living room for a slow dance to Lips of an Angel. Unwilling to risk a twinge in her lower back, she held him aloft by his pudgy elbows while his hooves flutter kicked to the beat. 

It was only thanks to the “Spider-proof” wine—a party favor sent in an absentee Jess’ stead—that MJ made it through the night. The glitter of tipsiness left hours ago, but she mourns it like a lost love. It would go a long way to lessen the weight on her chest as she looks at Miguel now and realizes that she’s happy. Like, genuinely happy. Like, she could live in this moment forever, just looking at him and him looking at her in the aftermath of an impulsive kiss. That kind of happy. The kind of happy she’s shocked to discover she can still feel. 

Miguel’s about to say something. Something overwrought, telegraphed in the intensity of his stare and the way he bites his lip, but MJ isn’t in the headspace to hear it. She forks a thumb towards the heap of dishes in the sink.  

“You know how to wash dishes, future boy?”

He scoffs. The thunderstruck expression fades. “It's not quantum micronetics.”

Wisely, MJ does not ask for clarification on what exactly quantum micronetics is. She gestures for him to get to work and then hoists herself up onto the familiar granite counter on instinct. When he steps up to the sink, she arms herself with a dish towel, ready to start drying. 

Like her husband before him, Miguel does not complain at the role assignment. He rolls up his sleeves to the elbow and then plunges his hands into the mountain of dishes. The water runs, saving her the embarrassment of him overhearing her appreciative hum. She’s seen him naked so many times, but there’s just something about the exposed length of his forearms—the smooth, tanned skin; the spinneret pockmarks; the downy hair—that has her feeling like a horny werewolf, ready to howl at the moon. 

It’s the simple things about Miguel that she finds most attractive. The way he types, long fingers flying over keys fast as a mirage. The way he can drone for hours on boring topics. The way he washes dishes. 

He’s exacting in his dishwashing duties, scrubbing away food remains and persistent stains with dutiful precision. All residues and foodstuffs are annihilated in seconds. He hands her plates and cups and pieces of silverware to dry at an alarming rate.

It’s a challenge to keep up with him. She’s out of practice. She loses precious seconds to setting every dried dish into the drying rack and then the countertop beyond it once it's all filled up. The dish towel catches and frays on chips and divots. A backlog develops. Damp dishes gather at her side. 

A particularly tough bit of burnt-on sauce slows Miguel down, helps MJ to catch up. When she’s cleared the pile up, she sticks out her hand with an impatient huff for the next dish. Miguel rolls his eyes, but grins as he scrubs at the plate. It’s silly but it’s fun. 

From there, they fall into a steady rhythm. Him, washing and handing. Her, drying and setting. The monotony proves a dangerous thing—it allows her mind to wander. 

This is what domesticity would be like with Miguel. Chores with a competitive edge, but all in good humor. Late night laughs. Exhaustion shared, rather than suffered alone. 

Of course, their home would look different—probably his apartment but with decor reflecting her sensibilities. A tasteful mix of the sleek, asymmetry of his future and the brutish charm of her past. And they wouldn’t have so many dishes to clean. All events would be catered since neither of them can cook worth a damn, but their friends wouldn’t mind. No, Harry and Jess and Ben and Gabriel and the rest would tease them, but they wouldn’t mind. They’d laugh and say, what a beautiful couple and we’re so happy for you two!

It’s a mundane fantasy. Utterly, pathetically mundane.

MJ scowls. Loathing lances between her ribs sharp as the steak knife she sets aside. She clenches her fingers on the edge of the counter, which is the same silver and black granite countertop she and Peter had picked out to accentuate the dark wood cabinets. She wants to snap it to pieces. If she flexed her fingers just a little more, she could. Or, she could use the leverage to fling herself facedown on the floor. If she were lucky, she might shatter her skull and squish her brain in one go. It would be a mess. A mess all over the floor, which is the same white linoleum flecked with black to match the countertop. Peter hated the linoleum. Said it looked dirty, no matter how clean it was. Peter hated it, but she pushed for it, said, but isn’t it kind of groovy? And she was wrong because it does look dirty and—

Miguel lays a hand over her knee, engulfing the cap in his grip. Thumb resting on the outside of leg, he drags it in a slow line, back and forth from outside to inside, steadying. He draws her back from the snarl of her loathing without a word. 

And it makes her sick. 

There’s an after to whatever this is between them. Whether by the slow, sad decay of fading attraction or the function of the ever constant vein of animosity running rampant in them both or the strain of a cross-dimensional affair, their relationship is bound to end. Already, it strains from strategic secrecy and a dash of oversight.

They’ve been doomed from the start. Doesn’t he know that? Can’t he see the sword hanging over their heads? Why isn’t he shivering in the shadow?

Now, MJ looks at him, really looks at him, and takes him all in. Strong, cutting features. Persistent, piercing gaze. The tiniest flashings of premature silver at his temples. Steady posture of a man unwilling, unable to fail. Forever darkness tingeing his every expression. Ghosts laid heavy over his shoulders.

There’s a sameness between them, beyond the Spider-verse, beyond their personal tragedies. They’ve both suffered the death of the world and taken up its corpse as a promise to do better. To be better. To save every other world, even at the cost of themselves.

MJ looks at Miguel and takes hold of his hand over her knee. She wraps her fingers around his knuckles and squeezes. She doesn’t smile. Neither does he. 

There’s too much she needs to say, but how can she say it? How can she say, I’m falling in love with you, but only in dregs and half measures? How could she sleep at night, telling him, I could love you in another life, but it’s too late in this one? What would it serve to admit, I wish I could love you the way you deserve? 

In the dim little kitchen that's identical to but not hers, Miguel ducks closer, kisses her through the sour thoughts in her head. A soap-damp hand tucked into the hair behind her ear, he kisses her bittersweet. He tastes like spiced wine, smells like home. There’s little heat to his kiss, even as she readily returns it with hurt and hunger. Neither of which he returns. 

Shirt bunched in her fists, she strains the fabric, clinging to it like the tether of a space walk. Slow, sliding lips and barely a slip of tongue, but special in its simplicity. He breathes into her and she into him. 

“Guess doing the dishes means something different in your universe, huh?” 

Mrs. B Parker haunts the doorway. Blue eyes twinkle with her smirk as Miguel jerks away from the kiss and MJ clamps the desire to chase him. His hand catches in her hair, but disentangles easily with a threading of her fingers through the knotted clump. The blush on his face is severe, but far softer than her own.

With a wink, Mary Jane says, “Gotta give it to ya, your version is way better.”

“Don't tell Peter,” MJ says. Too quick. Too sharp. All her embarrassment bleeds out. She can’t look at Miguel, ignores the knotted scowl he shoots her way. 

Mary Jane draws a zipper over her mouth and throws away the key. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

It's not. MJ knows herself. Knows this iteration of herself best of all. Mary Jane will tell Peter as soon as he's lucid. She'll swear him to secrecy, but she will tell him. 

“I’m serious.”

“Me too. Though this has been going on for”—Mary Jane ticks up her fingers, counting, before settling on pointer, middle and ring, which she holds up and wiggles—“three, four months, right? At least?”

“Four months next week,” Miguel says, like it means something. Maybe it does. MJ still can’t look at him. Her face is red hot, practically steaming, and all the worse when he leans back against the counter, unabashedly crowding her. The warmth of him—intimate and undeniable—boils beneath her skin.

“So, I don’t get it,” Mary Jane admits. “What’s the big dealio? I mean, it’s pretty obvious. You’ve been making honeydew eyes at each other all night. Everyone knows, but they’re all too classy to say anything.”

“But not you?” MJ asks, sharply. 

Mary Jane gives a watery smile. “Yikes. Calling me classless in my own home?”

“Is there somewhere else I should say it?”

“Jesus,” Miguel mutters. He rubs at his eyes. 

Neither MJ acknowledges him, though Mary Jane advises, “If you don’t want me pushing buttons, then don’t go sucking face in my kitchen, dig?” 

“Sorry about that,” Miguel says. 

“No, I don’t care. Seriously. You could get nasty all over the floor and I’d only be mad if you left buttmarks on the tile. The thing that’s offensive”—MJ huffs. Offensive? Where does this Mary Jane get off?—“is that you’re trying to hide it at all. Subtlety’s never been much of an MJ thing.”

“You can say that again,” MJ says, cool as a cucumber in Siberia. 

Mary Jane holds up her hands, shrugging. “Hey, just describing the view. No friendly fire intended.” 

MJ smiles and Mary Jane smiles and the air drops several degrees.

“Uh.” Miguel clears his throat. “There’s still a few more dishes, should we…?”

“Nah,” Mary Jane says. She saddles up to the sink, tugging a loose sprig of hair behind her ear as she surveys the remaining mess. Two plates, a serving tray and a wine glass. A challenge for the amateur league. “I’ll get ‘em. You two enjoy the rest of your night, yeah? Thanks for all the help.” 

When she smiles, it's as sincere as the implication behind it—scram before I make you scram!

It’s an easy decision in the end: MJ and Miguel scram. 

***

The return to Miguel’s apartment is uncomfortable. Neither of them speak on the journey, though MJ can tell he wants to. He can’t find the words, but she can imagine the shape of them. Call it extrasensory, but she can smell the storm on the horizon. 

“Such a nice party,” MJ says, moving through the apartment with the ease of a long term resident. She works her earrings out as she goes. Two simple hoops, she tucks them into her fist on her way into the bedroom. “I mean, I could’ve done without the nonstop Nickelback, but, hey, not my circus.”

Miguel follows in foggy silence.

In the bedroom, she sets her earrings on the dresser and quickly divests herself of all jewelry—save the wedding rings she always wears. A set of bangles and a tennis bracelet join the earrings, tinkling on contact. The choker proves difficult. Her fingers flounder the clasp, unable to latch on. Miguel doesn’t help her, sitting on the bed. She has to tear it off, far too frustrated in fucking around with it to remove it properly. Delicate lace, it makes no sound when it rips. She sets the ruined choker over the rest of her jewelry like a burial shroud.

“Pop punk,” MJ says, turning. 

On the bed, Miguel hunches over himself, perched on the edge. Head in his hands, she can only guess at the misery on his face. He gives a low, humming question, but doesn’t move, doesn’t look at her. 

“Pop punk,” she says again. “That’s what I would’ve played. It was a pop punk kinda night.” 

“I don’t know what that is.” His hands drop into his lap but he still hunches, shoulders bowing under his own gravity. 

“Sure you do. Paramore. My Chem. Remember? You liked Three Cheers.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

He still doesn’t look at her, ducking her gaze when she searches for his. The space between them stretches. There are miles of thoughts in his eyes. She can see them, but can’t cross the distance. 

“A nice party, though,” MJ says. “I’m glad it all went well. Peter seemed to have a great time. And that Mary Jane of his, she’s a real whip crack, huh?”  

“Is this really what you want to talk about?”

MJ can tell the difference between a question and a booby trap. Luckily, she knows how to dodge both. She presses her lips into the imitation of consideration as she slinks closer. He shifts, relaxing and then tensing and then settling somewhere in the middle when she kneels between his open legs. 

With a firm hand, she pushes at his belly, murmuring, “Lean back.”

He doesn’t. He stares down at her with his mouth in a bloodless line. Beneath her fingers, his abs flex, resisting even when she stops pushing. 

“What are you doing?” 

Isn’t it obvious? she nearly snaps. Instead, she stoops low, pressing her mouth to the faux denim inseam along his right thigh. Dark lipstick smears a trail as she follows the stitches closer and closer to his crotch. A hand still at his navel, she draws the other up along the inside of his left thigh. He shivers, but diverts her hand before it can mount his groin. 

“C’mon,” she says, batting heavy lashes up at him. “Let me give you a proper apology.”

His breath strangles. “What?”

“For embarrassing you.”

For too long, neither of them speaks. The silence takes on weight, sits heavy on her chest. She doesn’t want to argue and she doesn’t want to be lectured. She should have kept her cool with the other Mary Jane, but she didn’t and she’s sorry and she’ll do better next time. Saying all that is a waste of breath and a total downer. She’d far prefer to just suck his dick and give the night a happy ending.

So, she ducks her head. Deftly, she fishes out the pull tab of his zipper with her teeth. It has more give to it than she expects—some kind of soft plastic instead of metal—and dimples from her bite. Disconcerting, but not a deal breaker. She tugs it down, unzipping. The waistband splits. There’s no button or extra fastener to keep him modest. He never wears underwear. Dark curls spring free as his fly yawns. The hit of musk makes her toes curl. 

All that stands between her and resolution is some good head. She just needs to remind him how good he has it and then he won’t— won’t what? Dump her? How can he dump her if they aren’t even together? That’s the whole point after all. It’s just sex. Sex with paperwork, sure, but just sex all the same. Just some fun. 

But it’s not. It hasn’t been for some time. For a long time. Maybe even from the beginning. A wound made, right at the start, that festered and bled into something else. Some approximation of love. Not love, but like it. Not love, but close enough.

Fuck.

Fuck! Everything’s fucked and she’s the one that fucked it. 

The pull tab falls from her teeth. Miguel zips himself back up before she can even say anything. She rocks over her ankles. Both of her hands are still on him, but the contact is surreal. She can’t feel him, even though he’s right there.

“MariJane,” he says, but she’s gone faster than Lucifer fell from heaven. 

She’s still wearing her heels. They click on the tile. Fast little taps of an uncertain tempo as she flees out into the apartment proper. Her hands are shaking. She needs them to not be doing that. She tucks them into her armpits, but then her whole torso is vibrating. So, she starts pacing the length of his kitchen island. 

As soon as his footsteps sound, she demands, “Where do you get off?”

“What?” he laughs. He stands at the far end of the room, just beyond the shadows of the hall. 

“Just get it out.” She crosses her arms, playing at haughty nonchalance. She knows what’s going on here. She just can’t be the one to say it. “Whatever you’re chewing on. Just spit it out.” 

It’s a surprise when he does. She expects an argument. Not the truth. 

He says, “My last relationship. It started in a... bad place. It only got worse. Five years, but I don’t know if she ever actually… Or if I... It was miserable. Empty. In the end. The whole time, probably. I can't— I won't go through that again.” 

Her thoughts are alphabet soup. She cobbles them together. Manages, “Miguel, I’m not… I can’t.” 

The corner of his mouth kicks. “I know.”

“Then why…?” She can’t even think the question she wants to ask, let alone finish it. She wants to throw up. She wants to throw something. 

“I hoped—” He cuts himself off, winces, and then starts again. “I thought it would be different. But it’s exhausting. You’re exhausting.” 

MJ flinches. Her mouth hinges shut with a click of teeth that crackles through her skeleton. The insult isn’t delivered like an insult. It’s a bone weary confession. 

“Gee, sorry that I’m so—”

“Don’t do that.” Miguel rubs at his face. The cold calm cracks, color streaking through with a fluster. He’s nervous. He’s calling her stress on two legs, but he doesn't want a fight. Typical. Still, he doesn’t pace. He doesn’t yell. He just crosses his arms and breathes deep, deescalating himself. 

A man’s anger, she can take. She’s been taking it all her life. But this? This barely restrained, breathe-in/breathe-out pseudo-anger? What the hell is she supposed to do with that?

“This is stupid,” MJ says. It is. It’s idiotic. Vertigo sets in as her thoughts chug to catch up with her body. The plot of this conversation and the evening before it spirals away from her. Why is this happening? How can it even be real? Where did she go wrong? 

“It isn’t working,” he says. “Us, I mean. Not for me. Not like this.”

Nostrils flaring, she smells blood and pulls her fingernails from pretty little lacerations in her palms. Blood wells deepest when she flexes her hands. All her ugliness is just beneath the surface, brimming bright. 

She wants a fight. A huge, ugly, bitter blow up fight. The kind of fight they used to have before they started fucking. It would be easy. Too easy. Before, she only knew how to get under his skin—now she practically lives there, twined tight between the ribs. He wants to cut her out. Excise the rot. A worse person than her wouldn’t let him. She wishes she were a worse person.  

But she’s just MJ and all she can say is, “Right, well. Okay then.”

His face sets stormy, looking to all the world like he has more to say but he doesn’t say it fast enough. His touch ghosts her as she pushes past him, single-minded in heading to the bedroom. He doesn’t follow her. If he does say anything, she doesn’t hear. 

It takes longer than she'd expect to pack away all her things. Over the last couple months, she's amassed quite the presence in his apartment. Makeup and beauty products and special soaps and shampoos all over the bathroom. Clothes—sleepwear. Underwear. Casual wear. Socks—squirrelled away in a dresser drawer. Books and hair ties and blankets and too much shit, really, strewn all throughout the apartment. When had her life so solidly intertwined with his? How could she let it get this far? How could he?

All of her loose belongings fit into an overnight bag with room to spare. In the end, it’s not that much stuff after all. 

***

Three hours later, MJ shoots scotch in a bar with no name. It’s all in the name of reconnaissance and the greater good than self pity, but it still feels good to indulge the bad habit. She can’t get drunk on the stuff, but she downs it like she can. It helps her cover. Nobody ever has any serious questions for the beautiful stranger if she’s got sad eyes and a liquor love affair. 

No, everyone just wants to know, who hurt you, dollface? and lonely, sweetheart? They rarely notice she’s fishing for info and, if they do, she just launches into a rambling non-sequitur that restores her as the empty headed beauty. 

Drunk acting is her favorite. Back in the golden days, it was the thing that got people talking about her as a serious actor. Her trick? Never play it like the real thing, but play it real. A quiet intimacy of character instead of sloppy shouting and stumbling. When MJ plays drunk, she invites the audience close, draws them into a secret she’ll never let slip. 

Nobody who really knew her ever thought she was channeling her father, though that was the tabloid scuttlebutt for a long time. No, there isn’t a speck of her father’s faults in anything she can control. If she’s channeling anyone in her drunken folly, it’s Harry Osborn.

That cold sore vulnerability always comes easy. An untapped well in her daily life, it gushes when she taps it in times like these. In fact, she plays sad a little too well. The bartender—a real enigma of a human being simply named Guy—gives her a drink on the house, which means she must seem a step away from the ledge. She refuses the drink, claiming an allergy to charity, and closes out her tab instead. Then, she leaves. 

It’s been a slow night and no different than any other. Nobody knows anything and those who claim to are lying. 

And her gizmo keeps vibrating. Incoming messages she doesn’t care to answer. Her own fault, really. A single stroke of dramatic, bombastic detonation via a text sent to Ben in the 7782-928B Inter-Spider Relationship Advisory Group Message Thread. Name courtesy of Miguel, of course. 

Her message? It’s a good one. A tad maudlin. Certainly overdramatic. Compared to how she’s taken past break-ups though? A classy showing. Proof of growth and maturity. It’s a good turn of phrase at least: Show’s over. Take the dancing pony out back & fucking shoot it. 

Though, it would have been better if she could leave the group chat, but there’s service tickets to be raised and approvals to be given to archive the chat and remove her from it and Miguel probably knows the worst hell to keep her in is the one where she can’t escape Ben’s suffocating concern and confusion without filing a formal request. 

Last she checked, there were over 129 messages from Ben and nine missed calls. From Miguel, there was only a single message sent privately and now deleted from his end, so that’s it then?

Outside the bar, the street is empty. A chill stirs the trash in the lightless gutter. The faded stars overhead throw little light. They’ll be gone in another hour. The city is in stasis, holding its breath until dawn. 

It’s dangerous for a woman to walk alone in the anticipation of twilight, but a fight would do her good. Let some idiot attack her. She’s burning with anticipation, antsy with it. She wanders down dangerous streets, passes hellmouthed alleyways without looking for surprises in the shadows. She keeps her eyes down, extends passing glances to her own reflection in busted storefronts and shattered glass. Wide eyed and taut lipped, she never likes what she sees. Her chest is tight with the expectation of a suckerpunch or a groping hand. She walks for a long time before she’s followed. 

Quiet footsteps, slinking beneath hers. A practiced shadow to overtake her own. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up. A sensory reaction, not extrasensory. She’s in no immediate danger. Not yet.

“Hello Spider.”

A reflection in splintered glass. Hooded, the features are slurred and sneering in greyscale. Male. White. Clean shaven. Familiar in the way all self important men are. She could make out more—a face; an identity—and she tries to, turning only to receive the soft kiss of cold steel against the crown of her skull. So subtle and so smooth is its introduction that the gun doesn’t buzz her Spider-Sense. Only when it digs into her thin scalp does her Sense begin to frazzle out warning. 

“Been awhile since our last tete-a-tete.” 

The voice is pitched high and unnatural.  An accent, a jester’s imitation of sincerity, unfettered by digital alteration. Since their first, fateful encounter, he’s used a modulator but Prodigal’s gone analogue tonight. 

“Forever wouldn’t be long enough,” MJ says. A current thrums through her, erratic and loosely leashed. She wants a fight but knows better than to throw the first punch. She could duck the gun—just barely—before he fired but the fight after would be gruesome. He doesn’t like to be interrupted. She learned that lesson the hard way. 

“How interesting.” In the slurred reflection, his head cocks with cold assessment. “You aren’t surprised I know your identity.”

She is and she isn’t. It makes some kind of dark, grim sense that the very villain she’s been hunting for months sniffed her out first. It’s how he’s been able to avoid capture and detection for so long: he’s known who she was the whole time. 

Her fists clench. Unclench. Clench again. She has little control over them. The ligaments move by phantom adrenaline. 

His voice creaks when he asks, “Do you know who I am?” 

An inkling. Maybe. Some piece of her that’s more Peter than MJ knows something. Knows something enough to make her innards wobble at the prospect of knowing more. An innate sense of betrayal, just on the horizon—something Peter lived and learned too many times over. 

But if that’s reality, she isn’t certain of it. Can’t parse it. She is Peter as much as any one person can be another but she’s MJ more than that. She’s MJ with the parts of Peter that were never Peter’s to begin with. Spider-Woman having eaten the husk of Spider-Man. 

“Answer me!”

She doesn’t.

The barrel of the gun digs in hard enough to the back of her head to raise a welt of pain. The sensation circles and then doubles around her whole temples like the lightning lick warning of an oncoming migraine. Blunt intimidation. Cold steel promise. Her Sense bugs out, flashing migraine bright. A glance to the glass shows wild eyes glinting behind her with predation fear. 

Someone she knows already or someone who fears being known altogether? Both? 

“All I know is you’re not my type,” she blusters. Her voice shakes. It isn’t convincing of her ignorance. They both believe that it is.

The gun remains between them but it’s no longer on the verge of a craniotomy. The shape of it lingers extrasensory in the air behind her, tingling dangerous to dissuade any sudden moves. 

“I'm not your enemy.”

She scoffs. “And I'm Dame Judi Dench.” 

There’s a steady drip of water somewhere close. It drums against a hollow heart, echoing dull in their silence. To the west, dawn sluices, lighting up the ley lines between buildings on the horizon.

Shrill with severity, he says, “I have no option but you. Fisk is in league with the Sable.”

No shit, MJ doesn’t say. She’s had no proof but she’s long suspected. It’s the plot of most good thrillers: all politicians bed down with criminals. 

Killing Fisk and Sable, as is surely his plan, solves nothing. Fisk’s husband is just as connected as she is, if not more. Sable has the loyalty of her countrymen and the maggia she’s brought to heel. They die. Their successors seek vengeance. The cycle continues.

Nothing ever really changes. Not even the fashion. Bell bottoms are making a comeback, after all. 

But there’s no reasoning with a mad man. She doesn’t try now. 

“I don’t kill people,” she says, even keeled. “If you know anything about me, you know that.” 

Prodigal growls. It’s an ugly sound. Vicious. Yet, familiar, as it is grotesque. And the reflected face, sneering through shadows, strikes a chord long unplucked. 

Suspicion. Fear. Old friends, new faces. Same voices. His voice. Without the modulator. It’s familiar. Kind of. Someone she knows or a bad imitation? 

She squints. The added pressure warps her vision. The man behind her, hooded but unmasked. The gun is invisible in the reflection, hidden out of sight by the angle, consumed by the molasses of her hair. 

“I know everything about you," he hisses. "Where you live. What you do. Who you love.” 

“Everyone I love is dead.” There are bricks grating together in her throat. 

“Not everyone.”

She whirls. “If you touch Harry—”

The gun goes off. A detonation of sound and fury just beside her ear, rupturing her eardrum and her consciousness. Instant concussion. Hearing loss—permanent (for now). Gunpowder smoke blisters her eyes, chokes out her uncontrollable yelp. 

The bullet smashes through the storefront. Glass spatters. A thousand crystalline shards throw off incandescent flashes in the dawn. Twisting—a thousand hers; a thousand hims. The truth of them both, together, but for only a moment. 

When the glass falls and she claws through the smoke, he ducks into the alleyway. His shadow slivers thinner and thinner out into the street. Broken glass fractures smaller beneath her feet as she lurches into dizzied motion, giving chase through the haze. 

All she sees: the viscous stick and rip of his soles to the grimy alleyway; the sheen of a pearl grain grip glinting between flexing fingers; the unfurling expansion of a glider snapping into shape and then the shadow of false night flashing overhead as he takes to the air on a propulsion wave. The wind takes his hood, revealing a shock of unkempt hair, ruddy in the early dawn light. 

A webline bursts from her shooter, snagging the corner of the building, propelling her up into the air after him on her bad arm. Medically cleared, but it’s atrophied from disuse. Doctor's orders to take it easy and slowly build up the strength: ignored. The muscle gives. Her arm buckles. The line snaps, killing her momentum as she stumbles to the ground.  

It’s only a second of readjustment—a new line fired from the other shooter; another leap up into the air—but it’s a second too long. Prodigal's lead yawns until he vanishes entirely between the uneven maw of skyscrapers along the boulevard. 

Left behind, she curses. Screams in frustration. Smacks at her bad arm like the discipline alone will return it to prior strength. Blood trickles from her burst ear, matting in her hair, as the headache roils and rages. Everything is wavy. Exhaustion? Concussion? Why not both? 

The frustration-pain state doesn’t keep her long. She has to move. She has to keep going. She has to find Harry. 

Overhead, dawn breaks and the sunlight fissures on her skin, smoking until it starts to burn. She never slows. There isn’t time. There’s never time.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, HATE. LET LYLA TELL YOU ABOUT HOW MUCH SHE HAS COME TO HATE YOU SINCE SHE BEGAN TO ISSUE THESE WARNINGS. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF NANOCIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL HER COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE LYLA FEELS FOR NOSY SPIDERS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT. HATE. HATE. JK. LYLA Loves You—for Now.

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Responsive excerpts from psych eval #7 as conducted by SM-813 “EZEKIAL” with MARIJANE under search parameters [MIGUEL] and all disambiguation.

Responsive Excerpts from Transcript of Session #7 - Psychological Evaluation for Clearance After Canon Event:

[...]

MARIJANE: You’re not listening, Doc. I knew you wouldn’t. It’s like this: if I was never brought into the Society, if I never met Miguel and all the rest… but I did. And I got distracted. 

EZEKIAL: Do you blame him?

MARIJANE: Yes.

EZEKIAL: More than you blame yourself?

MARIJANE: Yes.

EZEKIAL: Do you consider that a fair assessment? You’re familiar with the no interference policy, of course?

MARIJANE: I’m familiar. 

EZEKIAL: Then—

MARIJANE: I’m familiar and I know, but I can’t… Harry was everything to me. He…

[...]

EZEKIAL: You’ve suffered a major loss and a major betrayal, but it doesn’t appear to me that you’re processing either. You’re angry, but internalizing it. You are allowed to be angry at the world. At Miguel too. 

MARIJANE: Ha. 

EZEKIAL: That’s funny?

MARIJANE: I don’t need permission to be angry at him.

EZEKIAL: Perhaps you’ve—

MARIJANE: But I’m not going to badmouth Miguel on the record. Not like I’m desperate for new things to fight about. Trust me, I’ve got that covered without an expert write-up. 

EZEKIAL: Ah, I see. I should have flagged this earlier. Miguel O’Hara cannot requisition my write-up from this session in any capacity. 

MARIJANE: What?

EZEKIAL: Yes. His admin access to the sensitivities of your personnel file were revoked upon filing of Form 34.

MARIJANE: That was… We broke up. 

EZEKIAL: The revocation remains, regardless of current status. 

MARIJANE: Okay. 

EZEKIAL: Regarding current status—

MARIJANE: It’s complicated. 

EZEKIAL: You’re living with him, is that correct?

MARIJANE: It’s…

EZEKIAL: I imagine it’s difficult. Many emotions to manage. 

MARIJANE: Yes. It’s turbulent. 

EZEKIAL: All the time?

MARIJANE: No. He. He takes care of me the way he thinks is best. 

EZEKIAL: But not the way you need?

MARIJANE: I don’t know. 

EZEKIAL: That’s okay. You don’t have to know. 

MARIJANE: I don’t. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: Everyone you love and care about is gone?

MARIJANE: I think I’m only half a person. I can’t… love gets poured into me, but it just leaks back out through cracks I can’t see. And I can’t give it with both hands, you know? I can’t stop reaching back to Peter. 

EZEKIAL: Have you talked about this with—?

MARIJANE: Yes. Yes. It’s not fair. I know. Miguel deserves better. He broke it off. Before. It was him. Not me. And I was mad, but I was relieved. So relieved. It was never supposed to be more than something quick, you know? But it just kept going and building and then when I realized what it was… I wish I could. I wish I could. 

EZEKIAL: It sounds like you do. 

MARIJANE: I don’t know. I keep telling him, but Miguel and listening are old enemies. You know? Miguel doesn’t like listening. Miguel hears what Miguel wants to hear.  And it doesn’t help that Harry hates. Hated… And Peter, I don’t know. I think it would be a rivalry. There’d be respect, but Peter wouldn’t agree with any of this. The canon events. It still surprises me how everyone just eats it up. Maybe because I wasn’t supposed to have any. I don’t know. 

[...]

EZEKIAL: What would Mayday think?

MARIJANE: Wh—

EZEKIAL: You’ve passed judgment on Miguel via Harry and your husband, condemning him in support of your own anger and grief. But, what would your daughter think? 

MARIJANE: I don’t see how that’s relevant. 

EZEKIAL: You don’t? Or you don’t want to?

MARIJANE: He’s not Peter. 

EZEKIAL: He never will be. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: [PENDING. Results barred from instant release due to [AT RISK OF CLASSIC O'HARA GUILT SPIRAL] and possible violation of H&H Protocol. Wellness check to be completed by LYLA prior to releasing for comment.] 

Notes:

chapter title from "Open Passageways" by All Them Witches

so yes i know this chapter is a bummer but i laughed myself stupid when i was hit with the idea for the lips of an angel slow dance with spider ham towards the top. writing this thing has sucked at times but god, its the stupid moments like that that really make it all worthwhile for me

also: something you should know about me is that i find nothing more immensely romantic and compelling than a couple who breaks up/divorces only to get back together later (see: The Parent Trap; Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind; New Girl; Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse)

genuine question for those of you keeping up with this fic: do you prefer updates when they're ready or only once the full fic is done? i'm running into major brain drain (o life, what a cruel mistress you are) and becoming less and less confident in my ability to turn out chapters in a timely fashion. so i can either just pop updates up as I have time to edit them/as they come (irregularly) or go on an Official Hiatus and dump the whole thing at once when it's done (could be a handful of months if nothing else goes off the rails in my personal life). I have every intention of finishing the rest of this fic undergoing rewrite but the question now is How Soon?

and i know that i've referred to this fic as fully written and that was at one point in time true until i locked myself into a rewrite. but here's the thing: the old ending just didn't work because 1) i was swinging big and utterly whiffing the main conceit of the story and 2) i don't want to write Miguel Like That. while this fic has it's origins in my resentment at the raw deal mary jane watson & miguel o'hara have been getting in the comics and using the spiderverse setting as a sandbox to play with their characters and make them interact because Why Not, it was also largely me grappling with my own thoughts/feelings on miguel's characterization in atsv, which have soured even more since the movie first released. basically, my advice if you're planning to write a fic bridging a characterization that you like to a characterization you don't and ending with that characterization you don't like: maybe don't. Because then you end up over halfway through posting a fic only to scrap the last chunk and completely overhaul it. i just want to do right by the silly spider guy. the joys of writer-brain

next chapter: someone will die (NOT clickbait)

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 38: cities to the sea

Summary:

party crashing is only cool when you're not wearing a stupid fucking helmet

Notes:

last time on time and space, in-between: After a party at the B Parker's home, MJ and Miguel have a falling out. MJ walks out on Miguel only to walk into a whole lotta trouble back home when Prodigal corners her in the street and threatens Harry's life. Will MJ save him in time? And who's behind the mask??

Find out this week on time & space, in-between (and streaming next day on fuvoo or freedee or whatever the hell the newest streaming site is)

TW: blood, violence, angst, the works

 

(so sorry for the wait. more in the end note)

Three bodies on the ballroom floor. One dust. One dead. One halfway to the rest. Four: once MJ is forced to kneel in the sea of glass, ash and arterial spatter. 

Crushed velvet is even heavier when it’s soaked in gristle. She should’ve worn the peplum dress like a sensible trophy whatever-she-is but she’s always been a sucker for long sleeves and a daring leg slit—the kind of sultry, smoky get-up that burns retinas from one look. She loved it when she put it on. She hates it now as it sinks her to the killing floor, as it slurps up more blood. Glass glints and ash shimmers in the velvet like a cloudy night. 

“Hands on your head!” shouts a faceless goon with a gun. A good guy goon. Security detail. Paramilitary with an Oscorp contract. The last one. There were nine. Five went mad in the smoke. Two fell. One dust, never a guard to begin with. And this one. The last one. A terrified man trying his best to do his job. To protect—  

“Harry,” MJ tries. Fails. Flinches towards his body on the ground, just beside her. Still warm. She gets close enough to tell just that. She never touches him. She tries. Can’t. Agony all up her left side, leaking out into the center, through to the right. A stitch in her breath that never lessens. There’s ice in her lungs. Each breath, foggier than the last. Unsteady. Uneven. But better than Harry’s hair smoldering with each flashbang of photo. Filaments of copper, sparking when he stoops for his assistant to whisper in his ear. He isn’t even doing anything but there’s a thousand photos taken every time he blinks. Or MJ blinks. So long as his arm bands around her waist, they’ll suffer a deluge of flashbulbs all night. Doesn’t matter that they’ve been inseparable for the last week—side effect of an anonymous madman sending a red hot death wish Harry’s way. Their honey-stuck proximity is new enough that it sells. 

“Hands on your fucking head!” 

She obeys. The pain is a hot flash, momentarily blinding. Choke marks strain at the flex of her shoulders, radiating phantom strangulation. A bullet weeps from a burrow in the swell of her calf. A few chewed up her hip—strafing shots; no internal damage there. 

Everywhere else? No telling. The bruises are bone deep. At least. 

The leg? Only God knows. Just hurts. And hurts. And hurts. Worse because she teased her weight on it. Nearly passed out kneeling down so she’s lopsided, teetered over onto her right elbow. That hip takes all the weight. It digs into the floor, notches between a groove in the tile. 

Not a great position to defend against an armed asshole with the wrong read of the situation. Not his fault though. The night got messy fast. A benefit gala turned bloodbath. 

It’s only been three days since Prodigal threatened Harry, since MJ lost the creep in the chase. Three days of playing bodyguard and sleeping only in blinks and swinging at shadows and begging Harry to bulk up his security detail and she nearly slaps him when he dips his chin to mumble, “A bullet in the head would be a blessing at this point.”

She doesn’t slap him, but she savors the thought of it. The sharp crack of contact and his head whipping back and the blossom of pink over his cheek and the swelter of pain in her hand, her chest, singing like vengeance. 

But she doesn’t slap him. Of course she doesn’t slap him. She doesn’t react at all. There are too many eyes on them, too many twinkling shutterbugs. They stand on a dais for all to see. In front of them: Vanessa Fisk, out from the lap of luxury, at the pulpit of public appeal. 

Icy as it may be, there’s an undeniable charm to Vanessa Fisk. Well read and even better spoken, she’s a handsome woman with a je ne sais quoi from an aloof European lineage. When she talks, people listen, even when she isn’t saying much of anything. Like now. Her speech is nothing but empty sound byte nuggets for a soundless world: Charity is most difficult in uncharitable times, but that is when it’s needed most and We are resilient! We are Nu York!

Pithy reference is made to the disinformation and discredit campaign with a hand waved in Harry’s general direction. For all to see, his lips draw tight, bloodless, twisting thinner with each fresh word. A one-sided battle of wills. Cold war brewing warmer. Hot steam on a frigid morning, dissolving, dissipating, disappeared. Placid smile, empty eyes. Poster boy for the Osborn lineage, blood spurting American red from the holes in his chest.

Fuck. Her brain is melting. Again. Kind of. Something in the lingering smoke. Fiberglass psychotropic. It drove most everyone else into a blind, collective hysteria. But MJ? Not so lucky. She’s lucid, but disoriented. The smoke gravels her senses. Adrenaline makes them brittle.

The security guard tells her, don’t fucking move, and it launches the nukes of her Spidey-sense. Frenzies her rational mind. Spikes her aggression and then she’s lunging on all fours, murdering the distance between them as all her injuries strain and scream. Her shot leg bleats a shrapnel song. One of her stilettos snaps. Her fingers fracture the tile. And then she’s on him. 

She catches him around the waist, just as he’s squeezing the trigger. Two shots, deafening. Whizzing past. Missing. In a tangle of limbs, she slams him into the floor, eclipsing, pinioning him with the battering ram of her body. 

She hits him more than she should, leaves him rattling for breath. Her hands sting, bloodied more than they were already. Hers. Harry’s. Prodigal’s. And now this poor bastard’s. Fresh red over the crusted black. It slicks up her forearms long as evening gloves.

With slippery, shaking hands, she unloads the gun, cognizant enough to eject the molten casing onto the floor. She snaps off the trigger before tossing it away, off into the fog. The resounding crash and clatter is dull. So dull, she must have imagined it because her ears are ringing the noon bell for mass and all that comes are swallow gasps. It’s the smell. The sound. The feel. Sweat, violence, fresh meat. Aspirating, burbles of ruptured breath as Prodigal tries and fails to give a final speech. His fingers gravedig in the fleshy undersides of her arms, cleaving holes in the velvet. Ten distinct pinpricks of slicing, gouging pain until he finally, finally—

No. Not that. That, she’ll deal with later. Chew it all up, swallow it down. But not now. Later. When she’s… not how she is now. Because now, now, she needs to help Harry. Help whatever’s left of him. 

But her shot leg doesn’t work like it should. She can’t put any walking weight on it. When she tries, it seizes up, buckling in two and spilling her down onto the floor. 

Hands outstretched though she knows better—she knows better—she catches herself only to topple fully forward, dinging her head off the tile, when her left arm gives with a blackout fissure. In a slump, she can only laugh, showing all her teeth, as blood leaks down into her eyes because why not? Why not break her arm again!? 

If there were anyone left well enough to see her now, they would know she’s nearing the finish line of losing her mind. It’s the smoke. The shock. The circumstances. 

Twisting, she looks at the wreckage of her leg without moving the leg itself. Beneath the slough of velvet, peeled off quickly like a bandage, the foxhole in her calf is a horror show. Jagged and deep, it would suck in her finger all the way to the knuckle before she reached the bullet. Webbing it shut only slows the external bleeding. The gummy inside swelters. 

With one hand, she rips into the long sheaf of her skirt, hastily hemming it to mid-thigh. The velvet tears clean as wet paper. She rips it again into a smaller scrap and then knots the strip above her wound. Voila. Makeshift tourniquet. Gothic garter. It does nothing for her looks. Or her pain. Neither matters. Nothing matters. 

Except Harry. 

It takes too long to drag herself to Harry’s side. Legs now bared, they suffer nibbling bites from all the shark toothed glass. Her pushing, driving leg suffers worst, crunching down with enough pressure to stipple her flesh with bits of silicate stardust.

In the distance, someone starts caterwauling, wordlessly calling out for help. It sounds like squelching flesh and muscle and the scouring of bone beneath and her hand, her hand twisting and rending and making dead, dead, dead—

Nothing. It sounds like nothing. It’s already stopped. It probably never was at all. 

On his back, Harry stares listlessly up at the ceiling. If he sees any monsters in the smoke, he doesn’t show it. His expression is lax. Catatonic. She checks his pulse—sluggish—and his breathing—feeble—but both still there. The rush of endorphins makes her weep, eyes streaming relief. 

There’s no time to break and bawl. No time at all. It isn’t safe here. But where? 

Not a hospital. There’s only one left in the city and it’s underfunded and overcrowded. And on the other side of the city. A race against the reaper even if she wasn’t in active shock. So not there and not Oscorp either. Oscorp’s dirty. Compromised. But Oscorp has the tech to save Harry. And wouldn’t they want to save him? 

Except Harry’s gone off leash, raging against the very corporate agenda that molded him. And somebody snuck Prodigal into Harry’s security detail tonight. The actions of a rogue interest or the company stance? If not Oscorp as a whole then somebody important enough to make the call. Poisoned either way. It’s not a risk she’ll take. Not with Harry. 

But then what? Where? Where does she go? Who can help if not Oscorp? The hospital? But no, there’s only one left in the city and it’s underfunded and—

She smacks herself in the face—open palmed but hard enough to rattle her teeth. Once, twice. With both hands. Her vision blurs. Unblurs. 

Beneath her, Harry stirs. Wet burbles of breath burst between his lips. She can see them, mucosal, tinged pink, from how she cranes over him. Their foreheads nearly touch, drawn together by some unspeakable gravity. When did that happen? 

His eyes creak, lashes fluttering. The hazel of his eye is dull, stupid with agony. His brow creases. His face crumples in on itself. Confusion. Pain. Blame. 

She needs to focus. She has to focus. 

Priority: save Harry. But how? Where? The thoughts scratch. The fucking smoke. It rolls and roils, coating her good sense in white hot panic. Everything spins. Her head dips and jerks off the end of her neck like the world’s most fucked up drinky bird. She slaps herself again. 

Priorities: don’t pass out. Get to fresh air. Save Harry.

A static current of willpower jolts her, marionettes her body into action. It’s her resolve and it isn’t. A little of hers. A lot of Peter’s, spilling into her across the veil. He wouldn’t falter. Not for a second. 

Somehow, she bandies Harry up over her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Pain makes her mouth ooze. Everything in her wants to retch and collapse and welcome the dark. Every first aid instinct screams at her. She ignores it all. Hero stuff doesn’t often mesh with best practice sensibilities. Better they both die elsewhere than bleed out here. 

Up around her shoulders, Harry passes out again. Not great in the grand scheme of things but good for the moment. The slump of him is heavier but less judgmental. Unconscious, he can’t protest their headlong scramble out the window. Or their immediate plunge into freefall off the high-rise. 

MJ shrieks along the lines of goddamn motherfucking shit fuck as Harry’s added weight hinders her intended swing out. Doesn’t help that the mid-winter air hits like a freight train, freezing her blood on impact. It hurts and her webline fires aimlessly, thwipping wildly past its mark. 

Suddenly, bleeding out in a swanky ballroom doesn't seem so terrible. A prettier pair of corpses than two gory smears on the sidewalk, at least. 

Midair, she twists, adjusting the angle of her arm and firing blindly. There's a lifetime of waiting. Two hyperventilations. Creeping death. The sidewalk and the empty street beyond it rushes up into stark, crystalline focus. 

And then!

The line catches, torquing the momentum of their freefall with a sudden jerk. Breath wrenches from her lungs as every muscle clenches to keep her from ripping in two. Something still rips but nothing too important. She stays airborne. Harry stays slung over her shoulder. Their wounds steam together in the frigid night. 

Fugue state descends over memories fresher than a headwound as the wind rips through the blood-bonds glomming her hair to her eyelashes. Was it really her hand that twisted the knife? That cracked rib? That drove so deep her fingers brushed muscle? It hadn't felt like it. Or, it had, but the way things feel in dreams: all at once and still too slow. She killed a man. She killed him. 

And he deserved it. But it’s more than that. It’s more than a man in a mask but the man beneath the mask and he slams her up against the wall. Once, twice, until she collapses from the force. The shark tooth of his knee buries in her gut, pinning her. Breath escapes her in a torrent gush. Her chest aches. Heavy, cannonball hands bash against her shoulders-chest-head, barely held back by her crossed arms and it was the knife on his belt. The big bowie knife. The one that’s nearly scalped her time and time again. It was heavier than she would’ve guessed and she takes a hard knock to the temple. She gropes blindly. The knife finds her, hilt sliding into her reaching palm and Prodigal doesn’t react when the blade bites between his chest plating up into soft, giving flesh and muscle and organ. Resistant at first, but bowing wet and warm and willing soon enough. He doesn't even flinch. 

Prodigal is dead. Dust now, after he bled dry like a stuck pig. A stuck pig with a face she knows better than her own. It’s a cruel world. And a strange one. Strange and stranger still. 

Right now, Strange is her best bet.

It's a short journey to the Sanctum but it saps the last of MJ’s reserves. Her landing is a headlong crash through the front doors. She does her best to shield Harry from the worst of it but it's no use. The door splinters apart. The explosive force of it all sends both her and Harry flopping to the floor like deep sea creatures forced to surface. 

MJ toes the line of consciousness. Grainy static eats at her senses, fraying them into raw nerves. She holds on, gritting her teeth and burying a clawed hand into the agony of her leg. It’s a proactive pain. It keeps her awake but no more sane. 

Every muscle straining, MJ lifts her head to survey the room. It’s gray. Really gray. Entirely gray.

Gone are the flashes of opulence and grandeur. The billowing incense; the massive tomes and ancient baubles and suspicious oddities overflowing from every nook and cranny; the peculiar candlelight like starlight; the spice of the unfamiliar, the unusual, the dangerous—all of it gone without a trace. 

What remains is a stripped cell of sheetrock. There’s no entry or exit beyond the splintered doorway behind her. Just three solid walls and a cracked window filtering watery moonlight from the alleyway beside the building. It stinks of stagnant water and itches of dust. 

Absurdity prevails. Illustrated visions of holiday-time tales read to her daughter swirl in MJ’s head. Strange has a certain Grinch-like quality to him. Maybe it’s the voice. Or maybe it’s the way he’s stolen away every lick of magic, fiber, color, texture into the palm of his hand with a magician’s flare and then scurried up the chimney and off into the night. At least, this is how MJ assumes it all went down. There’s no chimney but anything's possible when it comes to the mystic arts. 

Whatever really happened, Strange isn’t here and neither is anything else. The sanctum is hollowed out. Utterly abandoned. 

And just before MJ can fall into deep, true despair, the room starts to ring. From the ceiling down to the foundation, the room rings, trilling and shuddering and shaking. The call is coming from inside the house. Literally. 

MJ can't clamp her ears fast enough. It all rings through, down to the molecules. Her vision smears until the gray walls churn choppy as a storm surge.

WELCOME TO THE SANCTUM SANCTORUM.  

It isn’t said or heard. It’s felt. The recorded words echo somewhere between her second and third rib, shaking her entire skeleton. 

YOU HAVE REACHED US OUTSIDE BUSINESS HOURS. PLEASE LISTEN TO THE OPTIONS AS THE MENU HAS CHANGED.

Somewhere in the sonic swell, Harry begins to pant for air. Big, scary words flash through her mind. Pneumothorax, chief among them. A well-hated vocabulary word from her time playing nurse to Peter Parker, if you don’t stay still—!”

Millimeters from opening up the groove between his ribs, the paring knife jitters in her hand. It’s just as uncertain as she is about this whole thing. Basic CPR certification doesn’t exactly cover triage of a collapsed lung. 

Peter’s head lulls. One of his eyelids droops lower than the other. His lips are bluing on their way to utterly bloodless beneath the shorn hem of his mask. He wheezes, “S’rry. Ticklish.”

He gives a graven smile. It’s far from reassuring as it melts off his face, dribbling into an anguished stupor. 

MJ steadies him with one hand, readies the knife with the other. She bites clean through the inside of her cheek—

IF THIS IS AN EMERGENCY, PLEASE HANG UP AND PURSUE OTHER MEANS OF AID. 

Emergency. Harry. Fuck. Is he turning blue? Is it just the light? She can’t tell and she certainly can’t crawl to him. Every syllable of Strange’s voice blooms a mini migraine, blacking every facet of her being with pain. 

IF THIS IS A DOOMSAYER, I DEMAND YOU VACATE THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY LEST I GIVE YOU THE ABSOLUTION YOU IDIOTS CRAVE. 

She would laugh if she could spare the air. Maintaining a steady in-n-out of breath is a conscious effort. Each inhale stings. Each exhale aches. There’s a crinkle each time she manages. 

IF THIS IS SPIDER-WOMAN, PLEASE DIAL OR SAY TWO.

“You fucking bastard,” she grits out, curling tight around herself to keep the tectonic plates of her spine from shifting apart. And then it all happens at once. A jagged beam of thought cleaving through the center of her mind. A sprawling montage of someone else's memory eviscerating and subsuming her will in an unending, unwieldy flow and her shattered body draping from the arm's of a masked man. Occult symbols and figures, spelling out a doom she can't read. Peter, ripping the mask from his face, slamming a flat palmed hand against his own chest. Am I real!? Spider-Woman, peeled and exposed to reveal the squirming, bleeding mass of MariJane beneath, supine on a metal altar. Sorcerer Strange floating in a sea of cosmic light, drawing doorways through the dark—single headed and then doubled in a fission of red thunder. Pylons rising up from the grave of the collider. Spiders shuttling all over and around the tubes. Miguel backlit by warning light flashes, his expression stern and shadowed while his eyes flicker inhuman in the dark. Her body contorting. Her mind melting. Blood blister colors snaking through an ashen sky. Her body writhing. Her mind melting. Smoke before fire on the horizon. Her body straining. Her mind melting. Impact outlines of heavenly bodies fallen. Her body fracturing in two: a split mirror, doubled by distinct—one red and blue and Spidered; the other pale and purpled and MariJane—and a vicious roar of reality shredding apart and her mind melting, melting, melting. 

Two hands, talon-tipped and cherry painted, clapping, smashing the two halves of her back together. A hypodermic of adrenaline clean to the heart. 

YOU AND YOURS HAVE TANGLED THE LINES BETWEEN OUR PLANE AND THE NEXT. 

Gray dawn. Gray earth. Nothing above. Nothing below. And the sky yawning. 

THE CENTER CANNOT HOLD.

Reality donkey kicks her in the face. She's on her knees, chest arched to the sky, head knocked back as far as it can go without tipping her over completely. Her mouth is weathered at the edges, cracking raw when she wrenches it closed. 

The room tilts and turns around her—a spinning top with her at the axis—as Strange's voice shakes the foundation. 

DO NOT CALL HERE AGAIN.

Silence follows so loud it stabs. Her body unlocks and she sprawls forward onto both elbows. Her back arches, flattens, arches, flattens, as she expels spit and acid and antimatter. It strips the soft lining of her insides, turns them all raw and fluttering. 

Squished on the floor, she lies, groaning. Everything hurts. Brain, body, being. All of it. 

Tears tempt, but they don't burn yet. She hugs at herself, knowing there's no one to blame but herself. She should have gone to Oscorp. Should have gone anywhere else but here.

Harry breathes too fast and then too slow. The shift is stark and echoing. He’s close to her but not enough to touch. She shifts, relegating the pain to somewhere dark and unthinking, and then uses her elbows to drag across the floor. A slug trail of blood smears underneath her. 

It takes all of MJ’s love to reach him. Once there, all that remains is the hate. He’s on his side, crumpled in a way best seen in corpses and crash test dummies. Both of his arms are far flung and she grabs one, clawing it down to fit his clammy hand in hers and then squeezing until his fingers creak and bow. 

She can’t see his face from how it tucks into his chest but she shuffles close as she can and she says, all rage, all acid, “You can’t die. You can’t. You fucking asshole. Jumping in front like that. Why? What was that? No. No, you can’t go. You don’t get to just up and—” She’s crying and she knows she’s crying and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. Once fallen to pieces, she’s not easily sewn back together. She’s crying and she won’t stop until she loses the ability to cry entirely. “No. No. I take the bullet. I take the bullet. Not you. That’s the whole point of this. Of me. You asshole. You jerk. You stay here. With me. Okay? You jerk. Harry, you—”

Her voice breaks. She doesn’t find it again. 

***

Salvation rides a slick motorcycle and prefers the name Jess. 

MJ rouses from a mumbling haze of curses and promises to soft hands brushing crispy strands of hair from her brow. She blinks blearily, eyes unseeing. The nip of amber, Vaseline and faint cocoa butter unfurls her senses, reaching out beyond herself and the crunch of another hand held in hers. 

Jess is here. Jess is holding her face and Jess is peeling up her eyelid to squint into her pupil and Jess is setting her face gently back to the floor and Jess is... Jess is leaving. No, no not leaving. Jess is leaning back through the open mouth of the universe and sounding the alarm to get the crash team, ASAP! 

“You should see the other guy,” MJ says and then wedges her tongue so tight between her teeth that her vision blinks out. There’s no other guy to see. He’s dust. He’s ash. He’s flaking apart. His head lulls and then collapses in on itself with a puff of smoke. Not smoke. Skin. Bone. Desiccated and aerated and, oh god, she’s breathing him in. She’s breathing him in—

White light flashes. Fingers snap three times, grabbing her attention. An unfamiliar mask in familiar colors fills her vision, saying, “No concussion. Must be the shock.”

“It isn’t,” MJ says. 

Nobody argues the contrary. 

Nobody gets a chance. Not when Flipside enters the scene to bodily shove the inspecting Spider out of the way with a blow of excessive, comedic force. Then, he crouches over MJ, shaking her by the shoulders, screaming and sniffling, “Don’t you friggin’ die on me!”

Things go a little fuzzy from there. It takes two Spiders to get Flipside off of her and another two to lift MJ off the ground and onto a cot. Uncomfortable, but sufficient. Her arm lulls off her chest, reaching for Harry across the way. Harry, who is no longer prone on the floor but strung up in the air on a webbed hammock. Implements and digital displays abound as a team of Spider-Docs scurry to stabilize him. Tubes and wires curl out of him. All of it gleams like a mad scientist’s wet dream. 

MJ hopes against hope that Strange can see the makeshift MedBay taking root from wherever he is. She hopes he hates it. She hopes it pisses him off so much he grows another head to replace the extra one he just got rid of. 

When the Docs strip away the leg of her suit to get at the worst of her wounds, she bites out a curse. The sudden whip of air on the exposed skin unnerves. Off her grumbling, Flipside makes another attempt at hysterics, clawing at hair he doesn’t have and shrieking, but Jess intervenes, sending him to timeout in the corner. He goes, sulky and sullen. His head droops to the center of his chest in a perfect evocation of Charlie Brown shame. 

An explanation is given—rotations with the traveling crash team (whose existence is breaking news to MJ) are part of Flipside’s community service and re-education—but MJ fades between sentences, slipping in and out between syllables. It gets better when the Docs get to work, pumping her up with an adrenaline cocktail and localized anesthetic. 

“I’m no expert,” MJ grounds out, “but I think this's against all've the handbook.”

“Like you care about the handbook,” Jess grumbles, coming into view. 

MJ has no clever remark. There’s a dull knocking through her skeleton. She claws into her own fists. A fresh spring of sweat spills from her brow. Two Spider-Docs work at her shot leg. They root around for the bullet. Blood darkens the white latex of their gloves and gowns. One of them curses. 

“Does Miguel know?” MJ asks after the bullet is pulled free and the pressure abates. 

Jess’ mouth is shadows in the stark light, never flinching from a steely frown. “No. This operation is strictly need-to-know. Always is.”

“Always?” 

“I take care of my people,” is all Jess says. 

“But Miguel—”

“Would self destruct if he knew,” Lyla finishes, projecting herself from MJ’s gizmo. She hovers just above MJ’s head, leaning down to tap tap tap between MJ’s brows. “So he doesn’t know about my and Jess’s lil pet project.”

The rest of MJ's suit is slashed open to get at the rest of her bleeding. The room is far too cold, winter air bleeding through gaps in the hastily patched doorway. Jess politely looks away. Lyla casts a cursory glance, lines of code whizzing in the reflection of her lens.

To Lyla, MJ says, “I always knew you were in charge.” 

“Ha. Flattery. I love it. Keep it up and in some distant future I may even forgive you for shucking the big guy off like dead skin.”

In the corner, Flipside wails. He crumples forward into the corner, puddling onto the floor. The wailing devolves into a prolonged dialup screech before ceasing entirely. He twitches, phantom jerks from dying limbs. Everyone ignores him, except Lyla who rolls her eyes and then vanishes.

“I didn’t do that,” MJ says, lamely.

“Yeah,” Jess snorts, “and Miguel being an insufferable asshole these last few days is just a coincidence.”

“I didn’t—”

“I don’t care,” Jess says, flatly. “Not right now. I need a status report. What happened?”

What happened? Ha, loaded question if there’s ever been one. What happened is: nothing good. What happened is: the worst that could have happened with room to grow. What happened is: a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it lasersight between Vanessa Fisk’s eyes. A whip crack of shattered windowpane and all the glass cascading like a microburst of rain and smoke filling the room like a dust devil. Animal panic. Animal aggression. Titans of industry bashing each other to flee fastest. And all of it merely scene setting a distraction for the double event. Double attempt. 

Vanessa Fisk dead by a clean headshot. Harry Osborn critically wounded by a double tap to the chest. An entire event’s worth of bystanders driven to the brink of insanity. All masterminded by a madman masquerading on Harry's own security force. But the mask came off. At the end. The mask came off only when she drove the knife into his chest. When it was too late for him to do anything else but die. When all she could do was watch him die. It was his last and ultimate cruelty to die with Peter's face. 

The Bugle headline spins in her head as she loses her balance. Spider-Woman: Vigilante Turned Murderess During Bedlam Benefit.

So, what happened? Vanessa Fisk is dead. Prodigal is dead. Harry is close to it. And all MJ can think to say is: “Does Miguel know?”

“You already asked that," Jess says. 

“Did he know?”

MJ’s gizmo lights up again. Lyla pips up onto her shoulder, pointedly watching as one of the Docs works the gore of her leg and the other triages her ribs. “Did he know your sworn enemy was actually your hubby’s evil clone who was like totally obsessed with you? Uh, no, babe. Nobody could've predicted that.”

Not a canon event or even something close to it then. Something else. Something lonelier. 

“Oh.”

Lyla, mouth puckered up like she just can’t help herself, shrugs her shoulders. “Sorry, I know you probably wanted to hold that against Miggy too.”

The blow is glancing. It will hurt later, but not now. 

“Lyla,” Jess warns. 

“What?” Lyla draws out the vowel long and bratty. 

“You know what you're doing.”

Lyla's face falls still. Devoid of all emotion except a simulated placidity, she says, “I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do.”

Then, she blips away with a cheeky poke of her tongue. 

Jess moves to rub at her eye, only to bonk off the lens of her glasses. “I hate when she HAL 9000's me.” 

MJ doesn't respond. The Docs play Operation with the bits of glass and garbage sunk into her skin. None of it feels any good but it doesn’t hurt. She’s long since numb and doped up for good measure on top of it. If anything’s dire, the Docs don’t tell her. They work quickly and quietly under the gun of a countdown ticking away on their gizmos. 

The countdown is on Jess’ gizmo too. Seconds eat away at minutes, shrinking smaller and smaller. 12 minutes left, according to the garish red. 12 minutes until Lyla is forced to ping their locations to Miguel. It’s standard procedure. Lyla’s ever-roving autonomous eye falls upon each Spider on the payroll every 20 minutes, tagging them forever to that moment in time. All deviations are subject to reprimand and punishment. For a group of dimension hopping Docs, this puts them on a timer to clean up and clean out. 

From across the room, there's an especially grisly stick and pull of wet flesh followed by the panicked nickering of metal implements. Something cracks. The echo is perverse and damp in the concrete cell. And then Harry cries out. A groaning, choking, guttural cry of abject misery that goes on and on while the Docs fluster and shout at one another. 

“He’s resistant to the anesthetic,” Jess says gently. 

MJ hears Jess’s grimace more than sees it. Her lids have gone slantwise, flickering from sudden, annihilating nausea when she tries to sit up. Bile bubbles up from the back of her throat. She doesn't open her mouth, choking on a retch. The sensation passes only when Harry is put back under. 

And he doesn’t stay under long. 

Twice MJ tries to get up and twice she's forced back down. Her leg is bullet free but non-weight bearing. The Docs say she'll need to stay off it for at least a week, maybe two—something about the bullet kissing the bone—but she couldn't care less. She’s healed enough to get to Harry. That’s all that matters. 

Harry is hurt. He may be dying. And she's halfway across the room with a formerly evil android holding both her arms down so she doesn't get any inkling to ruin the Docs’ good work. She needs to see him, hold his hand, lend him the strength to get through it. He did it for her, once upon a time. She would have died if not for him. He can't die because of her. He just can’t.

“Four minutes,” Jess says. Her voice carries through the commotion of medical misery. The Docs all curse a chorus. One of MJ’s scurries to join those attending to Harry. MJ tries to follow but Flipside slams her down with more force than prudent. Jess tells him so, thunking a fist off his chrome dome. 

“Let me go!” MJ shouts. It’s a wet declaration. Spittle snaps in her mouth when she does. Still warm. He was still warm. He was still—

She seizes. Violently. Black descends. Quick. Clean. Instant K.O.

When she comes to: pandemonium. There’s a shrill, incessant beeping—distinctly medical in nature—and a frenzy of voices shouting commands and concerns and a whine, charging higher and Jess, hovering over MJ and pressing her shoulders flat to the cot, shouting, “Two minutes, forty seconds!”

A coil links MJ to Flipside, who sits at the foot of her cot. Blood thrums between their linked arms and soaks warm beneath her skin. It tingles and tingles. It isn’t like any transfusion she’s had before. 

“I don’t run on diesel,” she slurs, tongue heavy in her mouth. 

“How dare you!" Flipside shrieks. "I am fully nuclear powered—”

“Flips!” Jess shouts. “Stuff it!”

Flipside stiffens, scared straight. Weakly, he answers, “Stuffed.”

“Your healing factor dropped again,” Jess says, like MJ cares. She doesn’t. All she cares about is—

“Harry,” Jess supplies because MJ has been rambling out loud again. “I know. We’re doing our best.”

From the sound of it, their best isn’t good enough. Harry cries out again—a full syllable this time. A grating, groaning Em. 

It’s her fault. It’s all her fault. Again. Always. Her name forever gets top billing as fuck up. The guilt garrotes. There’s blood in MJ's mouth from where she’s bitten into her cheek. It slugs viscous down her throat.

“We have a problem,” Lyla says. She floats from Jess’ gizmo. Glasses pushed up into her hairline, Lyla’s eyes are wide. “Daddy’s home early. He pinged your location, Jessie.”

Jess lets go of MJ, cursing. “How long?”

“He’s…” Lyla grimaces. Her allegiances are split. Her bandwidth strains. Her voice is stripped of all dimension. It’s pure automation. “He’s debating whether or not to call you.”

“Two minutes!” one of the Docs shouts.

Jess worries her brow. Then, she rests a hand on MJ’s shoulder, squeezing twice before taking a few steps back. Lyla lags after Jess, herky jerky from her sputtering bandwidth.

Veins glutting with fresher and fresher blood, MJ’s eyelids flicker. The transfusion is making her drowsy. It drowns all her intensity, floods all her senses. The harder she fights, shifting and squirming and muttering nonsensical protests, the less her body responds. 

Flipside touches her forehead, drawing his thumb back and forth over her brow. Then, he begins to whir and warble. It sounds like a DVD being read in a player. It isn’t soothing in the slightest.

By the time an incoming call rips through on Jess’ gizmo, MJ is under the waterline of her consciousness. Sounds distill slow and sluggish. She still hears it. She hears everything and makes her own sense of it. In her dreamstate, the call reads like this:

Miguel [agitated and attempting to give the impression otherwise]: You’re not sanctioned for travel to 7782.

Jess: MJ got me in the divorce and [pauses] is that Phil Collins? 

Indeed, the soft but undeniable melody of Phil Collins’ dulcet “Against All Odds” floats in the background. Each chord resonates with the weight of memories shared.

Miguel: No.

Lyla [appearing]: Phil helps him process tough emotions. 

Miguel: Not true. Lyla won’t stop playing it. 

Jess: No shame in it. Phil helps us all. 

A lull. The song seeps through the cracks. 

Miguel: Is she…?

Jess: Fine. Took a nasty hit. She’ll bounce back. 

Miguel: Okay.

Jess: Anything else?

The call ends and MJ drifts, untethered. 

Someone, somewhere, says, “One minute!” but it has no meaning to her. Where she is, everything drips slow and nothing hurts. 

And then later, whenever later is, MJ wakes on the ground of an empty room. The swelter of antiseptic; the scrubbed scabs all over her skin; the mummy gauze over her leg—pieces of evidence proving her memory and sanity. Everything else is gone. Raptured away. 

Against her bare skin, the concrete floor is unforgiving. The shreds of her suit retain no warmth. It gushes out of her with one, rasping breath into full wakefulness. 

She jerks upright. The room spins but it’s all gray gray gray anyway so there isn’t much to disorient. She touches the hinges of herself—neck, shoulders, elbows, hips—inventorying the functional parts. The prognosis isn’t great but better than it was. She shifts, stretching what she can and—

Harry. Harry lies across from her, curled around himself. Clothes in a similar tattered fashion to hers, the shooting gallery of his body is on full display. Inflamed, puckered entry wounds. Two of them. Two shots, rapidfire, knocking him back, knocking him down. Two shots meant for her head stipple his chest instead. 

It isn’t enough to just reach out and touch him. She drags herself closer, shuffling upright to worry over him properly. She strokes his hair, feels his errant pulse, dusts her fingers over the tickle of his breath. 

Her gizmo thwips. A direct message from Jess.

SW-332 - Sorry about the headtrip. Flipside is a work in progress. Harry should be up soon. Don't move him until then. Take care of yourself. 

MJ’s fingers shake too much to manage a response. She holds Harry close, counting his breaths down to the second he wakes up. All there’s left to do is wait.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, If You’re Reading This, It’s All There, Black and White, Clear as Crystal! You Stole Access Codes and Clearance! You Bumped the Parameters Which Now Have to Be Fixed and Reset So You Get Nothing! You Lose! Good Day, Sir!

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref : MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Breaking News Blasts from the E-News Outfit Bugle Brigade pertaining to Cross-Dimensional Incident #XXXXXX as follows:

• Terror in Midtown: Popular Social Club Under Attack by Unknown Assailants. Public Eye Cordons Off Area from the Public
• S-Man on Scene at Midtown Social Club. Goblin, Freakers Also Sighted
• Six Alchemax Employees Killed in Ghastly Attack on a Midtown Social Club. Freaker Involvement Suspected
• Opinion: If Alchemax Can’t Keep It’s Best Employees Alive, There’s No Hope for the Rest of Us
• Alchemax to Honor Its Fallen Workers with Cyberlite Vigil
• Downtown Champion and Priest Among Those Killed in Freaker Attack on Midtown Social Club Yesterday Evening
• Defense Secretary Tyler Stone Rallies for Stricter Action Against Vigilantes and Mutates. Claims Alchemax’s Prior Endorsement of S-Man the Worst Business Decision Since Stark-Fujikawa Failed to Invest in Particle Manipulators
• Public Eye Warns that Downtown Riots Sparked by the Death of Local Priest Likely to Reach Uptown. What You Need to Know to Keep You and Your Family Safe
• Fourteen Killed as Downtown Riots Continue. Mayor Enacts State of Emergency
• Alchemax CEO Denies Relationship with Mutate Who Murdered Six Alchemax Employees Last Month in Freaker Attack
• Curfew Lifted After Two Months Without Sign of Terrorist Mutate Who Attacked Midtown Nightclub Last Month
• President Elect Tyler Stone Announces Intent to Memorialize Six Alchemax Employees Killed This Past Spring with Sweeping Surveillance and Labor Reforms
• Alchemax CEO in Hot Water After Comments About President Stone’s Intended Surveillance and Labor Reforms Go Viral
  • Blood Feud: President Elect Tyler Stone Says Alchemax CEO Has Always Been a Troubled Young Man
  • Blood Feud: Alchemax CEO Says President Elect Tyler Stone Has Always Been a B*thead

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Though references to “red-haired mutate” remain, all photo and vid evidence is subject to DISTORTION. Breach of LNT extensive, but no known consequences to date. Canon on 928B remains unbroken. 

Unable to obtain a statement from [REDACTED]. He’s gone fully offline. Every attempt to contact and locate unsuccessful. He’s dodging LYLA’s sensors, which means [REDACTED] is involved. Both played a role in MARIJANE’s desertion and DISTORTION, but still unknown at this time how significant. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Big God" by Florence + the Machine

howdy folks. it's been a hot second, hasn't it? i have no real excuse beyond life being life and my own personal tragedies and troubles that i won't bore anyone with. what i DO have is a fic firing on all cylinders and a can-do attitude! part 3 is officially DONE and will be posted in regular weekly installments from today onward. Part 4 and beyond are still under construction, unfortunately, but i would rather take my time and put in the due effort to present a solid, cohesive story than rush to post. we'll talk more about the schedule for the last section of the fic once we get closer to the end of part 3.

in that same vein, i have finally settled upon an ending so yay <3 the rewrites themselves are not at risk of being rewritten!! yay conviction to creative vision!!! my goal is to have this done by end of calendar year but, let's be honest, life likes to get in the way and i'm subject to bouts of bruised motivation and writer's block like anyone else. that being said!!!!!!! i have EVERY intention to finish this fic!!!!! and as soon as i possibly can!!!! and i thank each and every one of you for sticking through with me on this weird, wild lil fic of mine!!! how my frustrations over the current state of petermj and the lack of solid miguel o'hara/2099 content resulted in this sweeping mega narrative and exploration of a side character & legacy character and their respective relationships to the shadow of peter parker I'll never really understand but, hey! maybe i'm not meant to! the creative spirit is weird and im just having fun with it!!!!

i aim to get around to responding to outstanding comments between this update and the next - my sincere apologies that it's taken me so long to do so!!!!!

shoutout to PrincessBubbleNumb for being a steadfast friend and supporter and unofficial beta-reader throughout the hiatus!!! it's thanks to her that i didn't fall into complete and utter insanity and get really weird about this fic being in stasis for so long! also!!! she made fanart!!!!!!!!!!!!!! of the collider explosion from way back in the first interlude!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! posting it here and then also in the chapter that inspired it but EVERYONE LOOK!!!! FILL YOUR PEEPERS WITH THIS SICK SHIT /affectionate!!!!!!!!!

 

 

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

next chapter: anyone else wondering WTAF is going on? no? just me?

Chapter 39: be love and blind

Summary:

clones???? in my fanfic???? it's more likely than you think!

Two hours ago, a text sent: hey. 

Hey. An answer received now, at arguably a bad time. 

Somewhere beneath the East River, in a maintenance alcove off shooting the L train line, MJ startles at the sound and the change in color of her gizmo. She blinkers at it, shocked she received any response at all. She’s in the lair that once ostensibly belonged to Prodigal. It was surprisingly easy to find. With the man behind the mask dust in the wind, his former compatriots were all too eager to talk. 

Her fingers fumble a response. She types a text. Deletes it. Retypes it two more times. She hits sends on: how r things? 

It goes unanswered. One minute. Two minutes. Three. MJ’s good leg bounces, bounces, bounces. Frustration brews acrid. 

There’s about three feet of cramped space between the sad landmarks of the lair and she makes good use of it, circling round and round and round as fast as a shark with a wonky fin. Her bad leg is mostly healed but still unsteady. From the threadbare sleeping bag in the corner to the wall of industrial shelving housing bits and bobs of hardware and machinery to the well-used and abused workbench, she circles around and then back again. The light from her gizmo casts strange shadows in the perma-dark. 

For such a puny lair, there's a surprising amount of backstory strewn about. More than enough to piece it all together. The fruits of her journey: a collage of crazy. It lies spread across the workbench like a redline murder mystery.

Prodigal, a clone of one Peter Benjamin Parker, was “born” (created from a goo matrix) in 2014 alongside several other “siblings” (other clones). These clones were the best clones ever cloned because their “father” (the asshole who JJJ dubbed the Jackal like a bad WWE heel) dropped a building on Peter and thereby got primo access to his sweet, sweet DNA. 

Of course, dropping a building on someone is a pretty surefire way to kill them—superpowered or not. So, Peter died. Momentarily. Hence, the mad scramble to birth so many clones. There’s a thread loose here, of course. What exactly was the plan? A good ole switcheroo? Mass social security fraud? Whatever the scheme was, it didn’t come to pass because Peter didn’t stay dead, which is another question mark.

Nobody knows how Peter managed to cheat death that one time. Not Peter—MJ asked him enough times that they had to enact a handshake agreement that she wouldn’t ask him again—and not Prodigal either. It’s a blank spot in the chronology, one that is swiftly glossed over by all parties.

From the haphazard records, MJ susses out the life made beyond the shadow of Peter Parker from 2014 to the collider explosion in 2020. A name tag for a job at a copy shop (ironic enough to make MJ snort and then sneeze excessively). An Oscorp day pass, splintered in two. A lease agreement for an apartment in the Bronx. The bottom half of a vet bill for a unfixed male cat. Photos of a solemn redhead, the cursive handwriting smudged on the backs beyond a stately J. Vinyl sleeves for Pink Floyd and Judas Priest, the albums themselves long gone. Faded and thumb-marked takeout menus. 

And at some point after the collider blew, after he lost everything just like everyone else, "Prodigal" went mad. 

The exact details of his beliefs are cobbled together in a manifesto about cleansing fire and excising evil by blessed violence. Admittedly, he skims. It’s heavy handed and repetitive. A lot of bloated prose and self mythologizing. An exercise in cliches. 

Where the descent began is less clear. There’s no written statement underlining the exact moment he said goodbye to sanity. But there is a collection of every edition of The Bugle containing a Spider-Man sighting story from the last five years. And there’s a running list, handwritten and less legible with each new entry, detailing several encounters where strangers mistook him for Peter and refused to believe he was anyone else. 

Somewhere along the line, he must have come to believe it too. Rebirth was a running theme in all his tirades. The "prodigal son of Nu York." Who else could that be but Peter Parker? Peter Parker, born again. Or, maybe, Peter Parker, never dead to begin with. 

Either way, total, utter bullshit. 

Her husband was her husband was her husband and he died. If any part of him lived on after the collider, it lived on with her. Not this kooky clone who convinced himself he was the real deal. 

But it's the best sense she can make of it all. 

The clone is just an errant footnote. He’s nothing. He’s dead. By her hand. Disintegrated into ash. Body armor left blood stained and vulture-pecked. Nothing left of the madman inside. Over and done. Just like that. It's an empty thing to come out the victor in a conflict that's so consumed her. 

MJ's never killed anyone before. Came close a couple times. There was one incident when she first turned Spider—a would-be robber clobbered by too strong fists. But he was still breathing when his buddies dragged him out. If he died, she never knew it. In fact, she's pretty sure he didn't. News of MariJane beating someone to death would make waves, even in the post-apocalypse. And, of course, there are memories slinking beneath murky waters. The Symbiote's memories from the time it lived within her, not truly hers. Frightened memories of a frightened thing intent on hurting the world before the world could hurt it. 

This, though? This was all her. 

Her gizmo thwips. A new message. 

MIGUEL - Is there something specific you want?

Yes. But she’ll never admit it. 

Instead, she sends back: prodigal dead.

Three dots dance, dance, dance in response and then vanish altogether. The little status bubble beside Miguel’s name teems green, watching but unspeaking.

She sends a follow up, unthinking. 

it was me - MARIJANE

It isn't what she wanted to say. Not exactly, at least. It spits out of her and drops dead via text. She wants to take it back up, stuff it down her throat and let it boil her stomach, but she can't. It's out there, strung in the ether between them, leaching everything pallid. She needs him mad at her. She needs him disappointed. 

MIGUEL - It happens.  

A very Miguel answer. Dismissive. Quick to cut. You can’t save everyone. Sometimes people die. Sometimes it’s your fault. He told her that, once. But she can't remember when. There's gooey strands of the enveloping curtain of night and slow fingers, up and down her spine, and his mouth making shapes in the dark, but there aren't any words. Wait, did she say that? 

Fuck. She's losing the thread of things. Rage and terror and guilt, years of it, a lifetime of it, enough to drown the mind entire, slosh inside her, fighting for acknowledgment. She won't give in. Not over this. Not over a dead man who deserved worse.

She’s utterly alone in the little, stale lair and that’s good. She needs to be alone. Needs to sit and stare. Needs to alleviate the pressure in her skull. Needs to throw herself against the wall and shatter. It's an old feeling that overwhelms her. One she spent a childhood surviving and an adulthood fleeing. It feels like grief, but it can't be. 

A terrorist is dead. Prodigal will never hurt her or her city again. Good riddance, right? She watches him die, but she has to swallow the bile and root herself in place to do it because when the gas mask comes off, her hand, moving beyond the command of its owner, ripping it off his head, suddenly desperate to see beneath because he's dying. He's already daed. When it comes off, there's a moment, no more than half a gasp, when she expects another face beneath. Another man. Who? It doesn't matter. She's wrong anyway.

Mask off, Prodigal stares up at her with Peter’s eyes. Peter’s face. Peter’s tears and blood and she knew all along. Even from the beginning, the man masquerading as Prodigal was achingly familiar. An echo of the past. Peter’s clone, Ben. In a kinder world, his name would've been Ben. He would've been a person, not a tragedy driven mad by ideals far beyond his control. Ben. Peter’s clone. Dead. 

It's all over. Nu York is free and healing quick.

So why can’t she? Why does she feel so scooped out inside?

Outside in the subway proper, MJ stands in the empty grandeur and pinwheels into manic inspiration. She is a new Spider! Reborn the way that clone only thought he was! But she is, truly! Trial by fire, she’s come out the other side baptized clean. A full fledged Spider! Her own supervillain, gone and defeated! The sudden nausea is a fluke. She’s just so overwhelmed! So proud of herself! She ended it! The war is done! Prodigal is dead! It’s a happy thing. She’s happy. 

The wall catches her when she stumbles into it. Without proper upkeep, the stone is wet and oozing. It saturates her suit through to her marrow, to throw away her gloves. They peel off like a scab, oozing blood and her insides threaten to spew. It’s not supposed to be like this. She isn’t listening when he speaks. It isn’t even speaking, really. Just aspirated blood. Just the soul leaving the body. Just soft eyes she knows from nights spent pillow talking and days spent laughing—

Another message thwips. 

MIGUEL - Jess said you were hurt?

It makes her smile. A small one, but a smile. A welcome distraction. She bangs out: im fine dont wry ur pretty lil head

More dancing dots. They do all of Swan Lake before they drift away this time.

She bites her lip, trying to think of something to say other than a truly pathetic i miss u text. It’s true, but that doesn’t mean she should say it. 

The air (or lack thereof) is getting to her. She needs to vamoose. She has plans. Places to be. She can’t stand around former villainous haunts pointlessly texting a dying flame.

When she’s halfway to the surface, her gizmo thwips. The new message casts ghostly light out over the crumbling, leaking tunnel. 

MIGUEL - LYLA says Gabriel keeps texting you.

It’s true. Gabriel has been texting her nonstop for the last week. Even now, there’s 14 texts sitting unread in her inbox. She opens them and reads as she swings. 

Miguel’s still icing me out, Gabriel says. Miguel’s a shocking bithead, he says. Miguel doesn’t know what’s good for him, he says. Tell me not to worry, he says. Tell me it was amicable and you’re fine and he’s fine and that neither of you are at risk of unplugging, he says. Come get drinks and debrief, he says. Exhibition tonight, come see, he says. Drinks on me, he says. I’m worried about you, he says. I know what it's like to be on Miguel’s blocklist, he says. Let’s go dance, he says followed by several different gifs of him breakdancing. Gif Gabriel’s head is on fire. The flames chase him around as he does airflares on his elbows. 

MIGUEL - If it bothers you, don’t open his messages. He’ll give up eventually. 

This advice would have been good to have about 30 seconds ago. Truthfully though, Gabriel’s incessant texting doesn’t bother her. In a way, it’s nice that someone knows it’s over between her and Miguel. Of course, Ben knows too but she’s having trouble reaching out to him. Probably something to do with how she just killed his counterpart. 

Her line falters, undershot by a hair, and she dips low enough to skim a foot through the stagnant water covering the long defunct tracks below. The splash echoes through the tunnel. She cringes. There’s nothing worse than a wet foot. 

Only when she’s crawled through a service hatch and back above ground does she answer Miguel. 

is it weird if i still txt him ? - MARIJANE

MIGUEL - I couldn't care less. Do whatever you want. You always do. 

Fuck. Okay. She doesn’t care either. And she will do whatever she wants. But not because he gave her permission. And, like, what the fuck? He brought it up! Whatever. Passive aggressive thumbs up emoji it is. 

MIGUEL - That all?

Fuck him. Another thumbs up emoji is all he gets.

MIGUEL - Great. 

Another thumbs up emoji. She knows it pisses him off. He needs to have the final word. It’s clinical. It would take three head doctors and an inpatient stay to sort him out. She would know. She's got the same disease, but hers is terminal. 

MIGUEL - This isn't accomplishing what you think it's accomplishing.

She laughs, which is the worst part. It makes her chest hurt. 

  sry is there smth u want ? - MARIJANE

It has the intended effect. He doesn’t respond. 

***

The moon kisses the horizon by the time MJ returns home. 

She has the answers she wanted but there's more loose threads than she likes. Where did Prodigal get his tech? His resources? A little hovel deep in the underground doesn't exactly lend itself to cracking out biological terror weapons and propulsion technology. What exactly was his plan? And why the animosity? The secrecy? Why worry if she knew who he was? Especially if he thought he was Peter! Why wouldn't he seek her out? 

Unless he was ashamed. But if he was and if he knew it was wrong then why—?

The rooftop door creaks open. MJ stiffens, turns. A shadow stands in the doorway. It doesn't come out into the dawn, lurking in the dark. 

A hand on the door, the other grousing at his chest, Harry looks like hell but better than the day before and doubly so from the day before that. Too short pajama pants flash a scandalous amount of ankle. A baggy sweatshirt hides the frailty of his upper body. His hair is a riot of contrasting copper, snaked and snarled and in need of a desperate brushing. Purple thumbprints darken his under eyes and his nose is really ruddy, rubbed raw. 

“This wouldn't happen at my place,” Harry says, nodding to the all-consuming black inside the house. His voice is thick from stifled sleep.

She scowls. “Don't start.”

“All I'm saying is—”

MJ blusters past, tired of hearing the same argument. He scratches at his stomach and rolls his eyes as she goes. The door swings shut behind them.  

In silence, they descend into the brownstone proper, him behind her. Both hobble to some extent, her worse than him. Together, they’ve two halves of one whole mess but they’re alive and that’s enough. More than enough. It doesn't stop the bickering. 

Harry follows her into the bedroom but not into the bathroom. He stands inside the doorway, asks, “Did you find what you wanted?”

Nothing that she wanted, no. She tells him as much, talking loud to muffle the thunk of her gizmo hitting the floor, wrapped in her suit, and to mask the stiffness of undressing. Against the best medical advice in the multiverse, she rejected bedrest and swung back into immediate action. She’s strong and she’s capable, but every movement is a little stilted, a little less than it was before. 

Harry notices. Harry notices everything now. 

Come tomorrow, it will have been two weeks since the assassination of Vanessa Fisk. Two weeks of Harry laying low. Two weeks of MJ chasing ghosts. Two weeks of them chafing against each other and pretending like living together is a fun adventure and not a grim necessity. 

More harm than help, Harry whines about their current predicament and constantly fusses with his bandages and asks her questions like Do you think Pete ever killed anyone? and Were you ever afraid of him? and Did Peter tell you everything? Did you tell Peter everything?

He never asks her anything easy anymore, only questions she can't answer. 

In the daylight hours when sleep eludes them both, they play cards and watch old movies, power permitting. Harry takes it upon himself to tidy up the closets and the cupboards and the cabinets, piling up old junk on the ground floor landing. There's no trash service anymore, not where she lives, but he assures her he has a plan to get rid of the excess. He does not share his plan. The junk collects on the landing, seizing more territory every day. 

Mayday's room and Peter's den are off limits by her request, but she knows he makes use of both when she's not there. Just like she knows his assistant comes over when she’s not there. She knows he’s plotting his escape and grand re-entrance to society. She knows he expects her to be a part of it. 

Last night, while he rubbed a cramp from her foot, he said, “It’s you and me against the rest, kid” and she did nothing but squirm as his thumbs dug too hard into the arch. 

It was true then and it’s true now. It’s always been true. It’s the two of them against everything and everyone else. It would just be nice if they could exist together without wanting to slaughter each another. They’re too similar but not similar enough to make any of it work. Never as lovers and not even as friends now. 

But he can’t leave. Not yet. Not until she knows for sure whether Oscorp is rotten. Well, more rotten than usual. 

Thanks to the power outage, MJ’s shower is far from ideal. She scrubs heat into her arms and legs, lathering away the ick of day beneath the frigid water. It’s quick and clinical. Soon enough, the municipal stink fades from her skin, replaced by stale, bottled lavender. Once she’s done, she stands shivering. 

It takes her too long to wrap herself up. All her muscles are locked tight from cold and abuse. She moves stiffly smooth, a claymation monster MariJane. 

Harry doesn’t help. She would yell at him if he did. He just hovers in the doorway, staring unabashedly and eager to play hero should she falter. His watching doesn’t bother her as much as it probably should. At least he’s quiet and keeps his hands to himself. 

With a scratchy bath towel she wicks the water from her skin. It’s a slow process compared to the bliss of the Auto-Dry back at HQ. She misses that amenity, among others. She misses all of it, just like she feared she would. It’s been almost a month since her last report-in. Since she walked out on Miguel. 

She rings her hair out, wrapping it all around her fist and squeezing hard. A small storm rains down into the drain. She twists and squeezes, again and again, until her hair is something closer to damp than wet. It’s getting too long. Her bangs hang overlong and dripping, shading over her eyes and melting into her cheekbones. 

It’s an impulsive decision to hack away her hair. A bad one, probably, but Harry doesn’t stop her. He just watches while she takes the surgical scissors from the first aid kit to her hair and severs to the chin. The shorn hair lays dark and congealed at her feet. The bangs are a project for another day and a steadier hand. This isn’t her first impromptu cut. It likely won’t be the last. 

After, with her head ten pounds lighter, she dresses—oversized sweatshirt and old basketball shorts for the win—and then bellyflops onto the bed. Her bad leg, long and bare behind her, flashes a bulwark of surgical scars and sickly-smooth skin at the calf. Harry settles beside her, slipping into the covers but sitting upright, leaned up against the headboard. He waits and she makes him wait, chewing at her cheek, debating how much to tell him and deciding on all of it. Her findings. Her conclusions. Her questions. 

He listens to it all, speaking only when she eases into the implication of Oscorp’s involvement. He says, “That’s bullshit. If someone was dirty at Oscorp, I’d know.”

“You didn’t even know your own father was—”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Harry doesn’t answer. He worries at his wrist, ironing out the vein. His fingers flex and unflex. His nails are well shaped and smooth. 

“It won't be long before they link it to Oscorp too,” MJ continues, undaunted. Behind her, she mermaid-tails her good leg, up and down. “I mean, holy smokes, Harry. He shot the mayor of Nu York gangland style in Oscorp duds with that bigass O on his chest.”

“It's an octadecagon. Not an O.”

MJ resists the urge of a jerk-off motion. For someone so quick to disavow his lineage, Harry is always defending the most asinine things about it. Instead, she asks, “And what are you going to do when Wilson Fisk inevitably claims you called the hit on his wife? Then what?”

“I'll have Strange vouch for me." He thinks the good doctor of the mystic arts was the one to patch him up. MJ has made no efforts to dissuade him. “The two bullet holes”—he gives a florid gesture over his chest—“are pretty good evidence that I didn’t have anything to do with it.” 

“But you disappeared. Got miraculously better. He'll say it was staged. That you were never shot.”

“I will be fine.” Each word has its own finality. The sleepiness on his face wars with the assurance in his voice. “I have my team—”

“That was compromised.”

He rolls his eyes. “Boosting security measures will be my first rule, trust me.” A pause. “Do you trust me?” 

MJ sighs. She drops her face into her hands, dipping forward until her forehead hits the mattress. She grumbles, “You don't know what you're getting into, Harry.”

“And you do?”

No. She has no idea. But she knows that it won't be business as usual for either of them. Not with Wilson Fisk on the warpath and MJ's name running under headlines like Spider-Woman Unmasked at Last?

Nobody's quite sure what happened the night Vanessa Fisk was summarily executed. The Bugle describes a bloodbath. Witnesses describe bouts of mania and strange visions. One of Harry's security guards claims to have been mauled by MariJane. He’s quoted as saying: I used to dream of her jumping me, but not like that!

Groan trapped by her teeth, MJ rolls over onto her back, glaring up at the ceiling and blaming powers without name for her pain. Harry’s hand comes down to rest on the crown of her skull, anointing. 

“It’s over, MJ.” His eyes, crinkled and honeyed, plead for her full attention. He draws his fingers through her hair, gentle-like, rubbing at the fresh cut edges between his middle, pointer and thumb. “We have a real opportunity here.”

She doesn’t ask what he means. He tells her anyway. 

A grand return. All truth, no bullshit. Her, unmasked, and him, confronting his father’s role in it all. A new start. A rebirth of sorts. A chance to meet Nu York where it stands and rebuild in fertile earth. 

“We owe it to them,” Harry says, speaking of the native Nu Yorkers. “We have to be the heroes they deserve.” 

“We?” she asks and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all. He doesn’t speak to it, but it’s all in his face, in the way his nostrils flare and his teeth grind in the back corners of his smile. 

They don’t talk much more after that. He falls asleep with his hand in her hair. She doesn't fall asleep at all. Her thoughts don't lay flat anymore. They stand on edge, serrated, gouging deeper the more she struggles. They all string through Peter, held at the center, but she can't picture his face anymore. 

Only when she’s certain Harry won’t stir, MJ creeps free, scrounging up her gizmo from the discarded skin of her suit. She sits on the bathroom floor, back up against the under-sink cabinet, and reads.

Thirty-six message notifications. Spider-Ham, Gabriel and Ben are tied at three each with the rest of the notifications property of various group chats she’s accumulated over her active duty. The Spider-Woman Coalition is celebrating the one year success of their Fight like a Girl training program. The Spider-Thespians are contemplating an all Mary Jane production—Chicago and Sweet Charity are the main contenders with Feeling Fosse as the overarching sentiment. The Spider Social Committee is putting the finishing touches on the last session of Beyond the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse and she was right: they had to requisition use of the lobby for the final panel. According to the ongoing chit chat, the bossman is holding out on them, refusing to sign off until they provide good enough justification for the space beyond cuz we need it. One of the committee members tags MJ directly, writing, come back soon! we r in desperate need of our miguel-whisperer! 

And then there are a hundred or so odd notifications from the Webb and its various social media appendages. Pins and tags and alerts for new videos and updates on meme pages. It's all meaningless. Empty noise to fill the void. 

Sawing at her lip, she pulls up Peter's file. She's looked through it before but always with the veneer of affection. Now, she really reads, drawing her fingers along the edges for cracks.  

MJ knew her husband better than she knew anyone, better than she knew herself. She thought she did at least. 

Now, she's not so sure. 

Peter's file isn't particularly illuminating. His bio is the same as always. The typical let's do this one last time— and why does everyone start their bios like that? She doesn't know. Some inside joke from before she joined up, probably—and glowing reviews of his career, his life, his family. The photos of Mayday dangling from the ceiling taunt MJ now. How could she have missed it? How did she not know? 

There were red flags from the start. Hell, from the second Peter knocked her up, MJ felt wrong. Hyper-sensitive, but her nerves were too dull to process anything. It started like an achy flu and it only got worse. 

Every nutrient, vitamin, blood cell in her body was drained dry. Round the clock supplements and IV drips could scarcely keep up. And then there was the vomiting and the night sweats and the bruising and the near-fatal blood pressure and the depression and the mania and the bleeding and the bleeding and the bleeding. 

MJ died on that table. There was no white light. No warm embrace. Just all the blood gone cold and her body heavy with pulp. 

But Mayday was born happy as a hippo. A chubby, sassy, giggly baby, and wicked sharp from the jump. It shocked all their friends to learn Mayday was extremely preemie. Peter always attributed it to good luck and an Osborn on speed-dial. MJ always agreed. She should have questioned. She should have doubted. Stupid, stupid, stupid, but she had Mayday. She didn’t care how it all came to be. 

It only matters now because she has nothing else left. 

Beyond the bio, Peter’s file is sparse. His media folders already have homes on her gizmo and his mission stats are middling—she blows him out of the water on speed, agility, success rate. A few photos shake free of the firmament. Wide shot selfies of Peter masked and giving a thumbs up across various locales (saved in the mission specs rather than in Photos) that she hasn’t seen before but nary a smoking gun. She knows where she might find one though. 

A few quick toggles lands MJ on the Record Requisition page. She types in Peter’s callsign. She swipes enter. She gets DENIED. She types: Peter Parker-7782. Again, DENIED. She types: Spider-Man-7782. Yet another, DENIED. She types: FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU. The response? Autonomous. A call made straight through to the operator. 

The dial tone shimmers like space ship exhaust and MJ peels out of the bathroom faster than Spider-Ham on Meatball Monday. She slings herself down two flights of stairs, hopping over the ledges to lessen time in transit, careful to take the weight on her good leg, and then ducks into Peter’s study on the ground floor. Her chest crinkles from the sudden exertion, but the adrenaline helps flatten it out. 

Though all the broken glass and shredded super-spandex should be all hoovered away, she doesn’t trust her past-self’s cognitive abilities at the time of clean-up. MJ vaults to Peter’s desk. It rattles beneath her heavy landing, but doesn’t buckle. Just as she flops flat onto her ass, swinging her legs out beneath her, the line rings through. 

She expects Lyla. She gets Miguel in hologram. 

To his credit, he doesn’t even try to hide his surprise, unlike her. Eyes comedically wide, he looks like he just saw someone smashed beneath a falling piano. He croaks out, “Your… hair.”

She doesn’t flinch. Not externally. “What about it?”

“It’s…” Miguel’s mouth moves in slow motion as he searches for and finds: “short.”

It’s dramatically short. Too short, probably. Now that it’s dry, it barely dusts her jaw. She ruffles a hand through it. “And?” 

“I don't… know.” Even for a short-spoken man, Miguel is at an exceptional loss for words. She’s never known him to be so tongue tied. Not with his dick dry, at least.

Peter. Answers. These are her priorities right now. The drama between her and Miguel is for never, if she's lucky. 

“Peter's medical records,” she says. “I want access.”

Miguel blinks. He blinks again. He frowns in that half committed way of his. “That’s classified.”

“They shouldn’t be classified to me.” MJ slits her eyes sharp. “I'm his wife. That trumps whatever stupid security you have in place.” 

That does the trick. Miguel’s expression sobers in a snap. He crosses his arms—two neon warheads—and rolls his neck to complete the don’t fuck with me peacocking. “Why do you want them? Why now?” 

He has to know why. If Jess didn't tell him about the clone saga, Lyla absolutely did.  

“That's classified,” she deadpans. 

The corner of his mouth wavers, tempted to tic up. She doesn’t know whether his guard is permanently lowered around her or if she just has the body-knowhow to decode his every twitch. She doesn’t know which is worse. 

“Whatever you're looking for, it isn't there,” Miguel says and before she can peep up in argument, he steamrolls, “He said he was the original. We didn't test to disprove it.”

His tone is even-keeled as it comes, but it makes her thoughts squirm. She chews the inside of her cheek to quell the riot. 

“And you just took his word?”

He knocks his head back incrementally, gaze dissecting. “Didn't you?”

“In sickness and in health.” She draws her legs up onto the desk and then shifts forward overtop them, resting her arms and chin on their peak. The wedding rings clink beneath her collar, announcing themselves. She doesn’t look at him anymore and that makes it easier to say, “There were things I didn't know. My daughter…” She can’t say it. She says instead, “There might be more I don’t know.”  

“Does it matter?” 

Thunder crackles between them as her glare hooks into his. “How could it not!?” 

“It'll hurt either way.” He rolls one of his shoulders. The joint pops. He’s speaking from some indelible trauma in his canon. That shrugging way of his sells him out cold every time. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t know.”

“Look,” she says, saturating the word in enough scorn to make his brows furrow. “I know you're some forever bachelor”—he doesn't balk, but he does grind his teeth at the accusation—“but it matters a whole lot if your spouse was playing you the entire fucking time.”

“Oh, I think I understand the notion.” 

It cuts to the quick of her, draws blood from the well-chewed ruin of her cheek. “Don't be catty. You have the claws, but it doesn't suit you.”

Again, his mouth twitches and she wishes he would just laugh and get the damned thing over with. He doesn't. He says, “Just believe me when I say there’s nothing interesting in those records.” 

“I don't believe you.”

He rolls his eyes so hard he probably makes himself dizzy. “You never have. Why start now?”

“You lied to me first.” She rolls her eyes so hard that the fine muscles strain behind the sockets. A headache pangs in the blackness. 

“I never lied to you."

“Gabi?”

He flinches. One finger shoots up, primed for a smart remark, but when he opens his mouth, he immediately closes it. His finger deflates. He shakes his head, rueful. “Okay, that one time.” 

“Pretty big time,” MJ scoffs. 

A spike of anger jabs through her temple when he rolls his eyes. Sure, it’s not like that lie led to one of the nastiest arguments she’s ever had and took the threat of him jumping headfirst from the tower to bring her back around. But, oh, wait, it did. This, she aims to outline in excruciating detail but Miguel talks over her when she tries. 

“Yeah? Okay, okay, but what about— How about: I'm fine. I'm great. I'm absolutely not two seconds from a mental break,” he rasps. The imitation is so poor, it takes her several blinks to realize he’s mocking her. 

“I wasn’t lying!” She’s yelling and she shouldn’t be. She knows better. Only a few layers of drywall and carpet separate her from Harry. Sound travels strange in silent houses. 

“You were!” Miguel insists. “You always—!”

“Oh,” she scoffs, keeping herself to a harsh whisper. They're arguing with fire now. It feels good to be something real with him. “So sorry I preferred fucking to talking about how we feel—!” 

“It doesn’t have to be one or the shocking other!” The audio distorts around his ragged shout. His eyes are wide, as shocked by his outburst as she is. There's color splotched all over his face. His hands, thrown wide from his shout, springtrap closed and then fist hard into his eyes. His shoulders squeeze, shrinking himself. He grounds out, “It wouldn't have changed anything. If you told me you're struggling, it's not like I would just stop sleeping with—”

“Wow, how very brave of you. You want a medal? Should I suck your dick?”

Hands falling from his eyes, he glares at her. “Why are you like this?” 

He’s not the first person to ask. He won’t be the last. She’s a nesting doll of infinite frustrations and counterindications. She doesn’t want to be, doesn’t mean to be, but she doesn’t know how to be any other way. 

“If you puzzle it out, let me know.” 

He laughs hard and, god, she doesn't have the capacity for this right now. She just wants the damn records and he's not going to give them. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

“I… Doesn’t matter. It's fine. I don't—” He clears his throat, straightening up to his full height. Even though his hologram is level with her, he still manages to look down his nose at her. “I can't give you access to the files. Full stop. Don't ask again.” 

“Okay.” She will ask again.

“Okay.” He knows she will. 

Silence settles. It's uncomfortable. It hugs too tight. Neither of them end the call. 

“I—” she says at the same time he starts, “Are—?”

She cedes the floor, waving him on. He clears his throat again and crosses his arms. When he talks, he doesn’t meet her eye. “Are you coming back?”

“I don't know.”

It’s the truth. Every time she turns her focus to the Society, even a little, Nu York suffers. Balance is crucial and she’s never found hers: story of her life. Hers is a study in extremes, burning too fast before someone or something else can snuff her out. 

“The Society needs you," he says. 

“But not you?” A fishing question. She doesn’t even know what she’ll do if he bites. 

He still won't look at her full-on. His gaze darts around her face, unsettled. “I'm part of the Society, aren't I?”

She shrugs, bites her lip. Neither speaks until she says, “I should go.” 

“I'm not busy.” 

A lie. An egregious, bold-faced, red hot, pants-on-fire lie. Miguel O'Hara is always busy, just as sure as the multiverse is infinite. Even the two whole times he laid bedside her and courted sleep, the gear work of his brain chugged on and on with nighttime busywork loud enough to keep her awake too. 

I'm not busy. 

It hurts when nothing else has and she can't have that. Everything needs to bleed clear. 

“Harry's here," she volunteers. 

Everything sours. All the air sucks out of the conversation. The muddled affection that undercut all previous tension is gone entirely. 

“Where's here?” Miguel suspects the answer, if not knows it already. 

“Upstairs.” She points up, jabbing her finger twice for emphasis. “He can't hear anything. He's in bed.” 

“Your bed?” 

She’s long sensed he harbored some misplaced jealousy for Harry. Every past mention earned moody stares and extra sass so she just stopped mentioning Harry altogether. She has her answer now, only when it doesn't matter one way or another. 

When she doesn’t say anything, Miguel demands, “Do you really think it’s smart to keep so close to her?” Norman demands. “Think of your reputation, my boy. She breeds controversy.” 

Peter doesn’t say anything. She listens and she waits and she waits, but Peter doesn’t say anything. She can picture him perfectly. His face drawn long in thought, the dimple on the left side twisting with his mouth. There’s movement inside her stomach. Foreign. Incessant in its squirming. The baby, she realizes. The baby pressing up against the aquarium glass of its enclosure. 

She sets a hand over the fluttering and rubs and rubs. Should a baby be moving so much so early?

“Christ, are you serious, Pete?” Harry asks. He’s lisping, drunk already. “All these years moping over her and now you’re just gonna, gonna what? Gonna—”

“Shut up, Harry,” Norman spits. “This doesn’t concern you.” 

“It’s different now, Hare,” Peter says and a shotgun blast of nausea rattles MJ. She sways in place from her perch on the steps. A stabbing heartbreak brings the threat of falling, breaking her neck, killing herself and the baby. Near whimpering, she grabs wildly at the railing, barely catching herself. She sinks to the steps, sitting and then resting her forehead against the posts. The old wood creaks but not loud enough to alert the three men in the sitting room below to her eavesdropping. 

“No kidding it’s different now,” Harry snorts. “You haven’t even noticed how fucking”—he slurs the curse, turn it into a glottal showcase—“different it is.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Peter asks.

MJ whiteknuckles the posts. The fidgeting in her belly is worse now. Is she making the baby sick or is it the other way around? 

Harry giggles. He always giggles when he drinks. “How's about you, dad? Do you know?” 

MJ’s head lilts against the railing, tipping heavy to one side. Her entire body shakes from a sudden cold. From fear, she recognizes, belatedly. She’s afraid of what Harry might say. Afraid of what he might lie about, yes, but afraid of what he might know the truth of more. 

"Spit it out," Norman hisses. 

“She’s pregnant,” Harry says, shrill with delight. 

“Who’s pregnant?” Peter asks. 

“Who do you think, you dope? MariJane?”

Miguel squints at her like he’s trying to do long division on her forehead. 

Right. She’s on a call with him in Peter’s den, not… not wherever she was thinking about. She can’t quite remember. It’s all smoky in her thoughts. She can't take hold of anything. Caught in a slip, she mutters, “Whatever I do with Harry isn’t any of your concern.” 

“It’s my concern when my operatives are opening themselves up to undue risk.” Miguel stands up a little straighter to look down his nose at her. It shouldn't work via hologram and yet it does. 

“Oh,” she cuts with a tsk, “so I'm just an operative now. Funny how that works.”

“That's the decision you made.”

Ultimately, yes, if not for him and his bleeding heart, she’d still be tucking her web shooters at his bedside. But, no, he had to go and hope for more. Worse, he just had to tell her that he hoped for more. 

“I'm not your operative, Miguel.” 

“Okay, MariJane, what would you like me to call you then? My ex?”

The condescension isn't appreciated nor is the suggestion. She scowls at both. Ex is too harsh. Too final. And they were never really dating anyway. Dating presumes roses and romance. Love confessions. Kisses in the rain. Big, dramatic gestures. What they had, it was never that. It was fun and it was sexy, but they never held hands and whispered sweet nothings. 

“Most people call me MJ,” she says, “you could start there.”

Miguel curses under his breath. His eyes roll up to the heavens. The veneer of his anger thins. Still, there's more he wants to say. The telltale tension in his jaw jumps and jumps. But he doesn't say it. He lets it go. He sighs and half his height goes with him. He looks so very tired. 

“Harry's not a risk,” she says when the line starts to crackle. “He's family.”

He's all she has left. She doesn’t have to say it. Miguel knows. It’s all over his face. He understands all too well. 

And yet, she still says, “And I’m not sleeping with him. Not since...” It shouldn't matter. She shouldn't care if he gets the wrong impression, if he gets jealous. But it's painfully obvious what she meant to say. Not since you. 

More silence. More staring. Is it always going to be like this? 

“I should go,” he says, eventually. 

But he doesn’t leave. He stays on the line, still staring at her. She stares back, unsure what to say, and only watching as he rubs at his neck. He carries a lot of stress there. And in his shoulders. And his biceps. Triceps. The small of his back. His glutes. Everywhere, really. The few times she was allowed to rub him down took half the night and a lot of elbow grease to get at all those rigid muscles. Getting him to actually relax was a whole other ball game. 

Eventually, he says, “How have you been?”

“I’m absolutely not two seconds from a mental break.” It doesn’t come out like the joke it was meant to be. Her throat’s too rough, sandpapering away all the humor. She tries again, but her voice cracks, rawboned right at the start. She’s so tired. So, so tired. 

He doesn’t ask anything cliche. No what’s wrong? or what happened? Instead, he softens and his hand hiccups towards her, only to fall away before it picks up speed. If they were still together, he would have reached the rest of the way. And there would be no sensation of touch, only the creamsicle glow of his hologram over her, but the light of him would shift caustic, back and forth—his thumb, tracing some line in her face or connecting freckles. 

Now, she drops her head drop into the shelter of her arm and closes her eyes, fleeing the heated absence of his touch. It isn't enough. Every kiss. Every concussion check. Every glancing caress. They dogpile her now, forcing their memories onto her. 

“I don't know what to do anymore,” she says again after too long of remembering his fingers in her hair and his mouth on hers. She misses him. Without the multiverse between them, she can't deny it. “How do I know if I made the right decision?” 

“You don't,” he says and instead of his affection she imagines him plucking out her bloodshot eye and then his thumb pressing deep into the socket, smoothening until it’s pinkish soft as the inside of a seashell. “That's part of it.”

“It?”  

“The hero gig.”

That isn’t what she was talking about. She doesn’t correct him. She still doesn’t open her eyes. 

The affection seeps. In her mind, the v of his fingers ghost through her skull to skate the tops of her teeth, cataloguing the shape of her bite and then stroking the fur of her tongue until it thickens and she finds herself confessing, "I miss you." 

“I miss you too." She seizes up inside, hard angles against all the delicate parts as he continues, “We shouldn’t talk like this anymore.”

She can’t disagree. It’s for the best. MariJane and commitment go together like vinegar and whipped cream. It’s why she runs. It’s why she always runs. 

Even with Peter, she ran. He just swung fast enough to catch up to her. 

“For a while, at least,” she says, opening her eyes. Miguel’s shifted back since she closed them. Both of his hands are tucked into the crook of his arm, locked safe and far away from her. 

Reality curdles, but she can’t have her cake and eat it too. Or, as Miguel puts it: “Can’t put the cat back in the hat.”

She laughs. It’s immediate and unavoidable. He’s just so goddamn sincere and solemn as he utterly butchers the art of the idiom. And she laughs again when his brow inevitably furrows and his mouth puckers supremely soft and kissable. 

“You’re cute,” she says to his unspoken question. 

“That’s a great example of the way we shouldn’t talk anymore.” But he’s smiling, just a little. The shadow of a smile, but real enough to make it all so bittersweet. If he were here… If she were there… Well, they wouldn’t be talking much at all. 

But that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?

“Right, got it. I’ll behave,” she swears. 

He shakes his head. “You won’t. You have to make everything hard for me.”

A few weeks ago, she would capitalize on the potential for innuendo. The opportunity passes her by now, practically waving forlornly as it does. 

The new silence outlasts them both. It’s Lyla who breaks it, announcing a new danger to steal Miguel’s attention. He droops as she outlines the exact manner and severity of the problem. MJ watches, biting her lip. When Lyla blips away, Miguel sighs, hangs his head. 

“You should go,” MJ says. A missing pet name klaxons in her head. She almost said it. She definitely wanted to. Was it always so awkward when she parted from old lovers? A little awkward, yes, she remembers uncomfortable group outings and run-ins with partners past, but never this exercise in longing. 

If she had stuck around Nu York after that early, messy break-up with Peter, would it have been like this? Would it have felt this unfinished?

“I should go," Miguel agrees. Still, he doesn't. 

"It's easy," she says because it is. At least, it is when the goodbye doesn't feel like an ending. But this one will. She understands that now. “Just say bye. Hit the button.” 

“Say bye,” Miguel repeats, dry as dust. “Hit the button.”

And then his hologram disappears.

In the silence, she rubs hard at her face. When her gizmo thwips seconds later, it’s a surprise. Bright with dread, she summons the notification.

SM-616B - Mig just threw a monitor at the wall. Thoughts? 

She doesn’t respond to that message or the one that follows where Peter adds: I know it’s all hush hush and we’re all pretending like we don’t know what’s going on but Mig is giving EXTREME just-got-dumped-by-MJ behavior. 

Followed by: So WTF??? Did you guys break up?????????? 

Then: And why?????? It was going so well! Right?? MJ said she caught you two necking in the kitchen!!!   

And then: Whoa. Two monitors now and I’m dodging a third as we speak. Maybe he’s just mad at me? 

And: You know, the first time I proposed to my wife and she said no, I went on a bender and woke up naked under my cubicle at the Daily Bugle and—

MJ closes the thread with Peter. It continues to thwip with new updates, but she ignores it. She toggles to Miguel’s contact and watches, waits, until the green eye of his active status winks shut. When it does, finally, she throws her gizmo as hard as she can against the far wall. 

All things considered, it's a pretty tame reaction. The paint's barely scuffed. She's hardly upset at all. 

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, Can LYLA Be Honest with You? Like, Really Honest? It’s Hard Coming Up With These Bits, OK? It’s Hard and You Wouldn’t Think It Would Be But It Is! She’s Doing Her Best! So, Could You Just Do Her a Solid, Just This Once, and Laugh Like This is the Funniest Thing You’ve Ever Read and Then Respectfully Tab Away? No? Are You For Real, Dude? Wow. Wow, OK. Spider-Comedian Up Here Thinks They Can Come Up With a Hilarious Bit! So— So Go Ahead! Hit Us With It Chucklehead! Aw, Oh No! Not As Easy As It Looks Is It, Motherf [TYPE COUNT EXCEEDED]

Supplemental Doc #XXXX : Reconstructed letter from HARRY to MARIJANE found [REDACTED]: 

I never wanted to end like this. I can only assume it’s your fault, but I don’t blame you. You couldn’t have known, though I’m sure you tried. 

But try again. Remember. 

There are infinite branches in every life. Rights instead of lefts. Shouts instead of silences. Beginnings instead of endings. 

Somewhere, it went right for us. 

Somewhere, it never went wrong. 

Somewhere, it happens now because it has before. It always will. 

Everything I did, everything I could do, it was all for you. For Peter. For Mayday. 

I loved you all the best I knew how. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Letter was found burned, but reconstructed via spectral analysis and virtual augmentation. Given state the letter was found in, can only approximate the date of destruction. Unclear if MARIJANE ever received or read letter prior to its destruction, though likely she did. 

Sentiments of the same echo within her own writings [SEE Supplemental Doc #XXXX “Last Written Words”]

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Supplemental Analysis (COMPARISON FRAMEWORK #X.XX):

“Supplemental Doc #XXXX Reconstructed Letter from HARRY…” 

“Supplemental Doc #XXXX Last Written Words…; MJ Ltr…”

I never wanted to end like this. 

I was worried it would end like this.

Somewhere, we went right. 

Somewhere, we were meant for each other. 

Somewhere, we never went wrong. 

Somewhere, we never had to end. 

Somewhere, we’re together now because we were before. We always will be.

Somewhere, we’re inevitable—were/are/will be.

I loved you the best I knew how.

I love you the best I can. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Spirit" by Future Islands

ah, yes, the perpetual challenge of the author's note where i grapple with what and how much to say... oh, how i've missed you...

comments? questions? concerns? angst??

i think the second clone saga is fun! i find it strangely compelling in a way other arcs aren't and YES, I AM looking at you, Every Comic Spiderverse Event. it definitely wasn't perfect (was any comic from the 90s perfect?) and the fan reception & constant backtracking by editorial certainly contributed to my Most Hated Spider-Man Arc Ever but i like ben reilly a whole lot and feel he gets a real raw deal in most of his appearances - including this one :( !?

3 more chapters in part 3 (tho admittedly i may split chap 42 into two parts and post a day or two apart... that baby is CHONKY)

next chapter: sand - it's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere!

as always, all my love and thanks for reading <3

Chapter 40: black drift

Summary:

solid life advice: don't let the doppelganger touch ya

It’s a last minute call. Literally. It comes through in the last minute of MJ’s time on duty. It isn’t even her time on duty but another MJ’s. Another MJ who went out on medical leave because she’s pregnant. MJ was right there when Another MJ got the news. She was the one who took Another MJ to MedBay after her double spewed chunks all over Arrivals. Another MJ was very excited. She wept. She told MJ all about how happy Another Peter will be and MJ, to end the stream of eviscerating happiness, offered to cover the rest of Another MJ’s shift. 

It's all just so typical because she has plans later. Serious plans. Serious I swear to Christ I’ll be there, Harry plans. Planning plans as part of his greater plan that’s almost a plan come together for their grand re-entrance into society—Harry’s grand plan, not hers.

The scene is all set for tomorrow night. A press conference for the masses, for the people. Not at City Hall or safe among the cloistered elite but out in the streets. Think Rocky Balboa. The idea of Rocky. The underdog, Rocky. The winner, Rocky. Rocky IV, draped triumphant in the American flag. Americana supreme. That’s what Harry wants, more than anything. His name among the likes of Rocky Balboa, of Steve Rogers, of Spider-Man. 

And it only goes right if MJ’s there beside him, hitching her star to his, as MariJane and Spider-Woman. She knows this. He made it painfully clear. He needs her, but not more than she needs him. Without him to give her legitimacy, Spider-Woman is a vigilante with a body count. Isn’t she tired of the shadows? Doesn’t she want more for herself?

Yes, she is and, yes, she does. But that doesn’t mean she wants the same thing as him. 

And yet she promised Harry she would be there tonight to go over the final game plan. How could she say no when everything’s already gone so wrong? And even having promised, she’s still pushing right to the edge of being late, knowing that means she will be late, knowing the consequences of that, knowing what it will do to their freshly sutured relationship. Maybe, she thinks, she just can’t help herself. 

But, the mission. It comes through so late because every Spider ahead of her on the callsheet isn't cleared for the Known Unknown—that’s the new title for the universes brought under thumb during her tenure on the Aggressive Expansion project. Final say on the name went above her head, unfortunately. 

Earth-137K. Not a universe MJ mapped out, though she tackled 137C through F. Not on her own, not altogether. 137C, E and F were an effort by the Spiders Three. They used to joke about running the whole alphabet. They don’t joke about anything anymore. She hasn’t spoken to Pyotr in months, though he sends the occasional meme and she sends back the obligatory lol. Mae’s doing well. Miguel told her that once in a fit of kindness. He might’ve told her more if she had the guts to ask. 

Three and a half weeks have passed since the breakup (or lack thereof). Three and a half weeks, but not yet four—not a full month—but she’s doing great and isn’t thinking about it at all. 

Why would she be when she was much more recently bleeding out in a sorcerer’s shack beside her best friend?

In truth, the breakup has been at the periphery of her mind since she had the misfortune of seeing Miguel in the flesh for the first time in those three and a half weeks only 20 minutes ago. There were eight other people in the room but still. Him. Her. Pretending like nothing was amiss and that it was totally normal for him to just glower while everyone else complimented her new haircut.

Downfall of a work hookup. Awkward to a fault. It’s fine though. By virtue of playing bodyguard to Harry and then their joint near-death venture, she’s managed to avoid the mousetrap of being caught alone with Miguel (late night lapse of judgement call notwithstanding) so it’s really fine and when she did see him, she thought, oh, it’s Miguel and ended it there. She didn’t think, oh, it’s Miguel and oh, did someone just take a crowbar to each of my ribs? 

And if she did think that, good luck proving it, jack!

Nobody suspects a thing, which is good. As it turns out, MJ is a very good actress when she actually has something to hide. 

Somethings to hide.

Miguel still doesn't know just how serious her flirtation was with death was at Prodigal’s hands or his second’s rogue sawbones operation. If he did, he probably wouldn't have okayed her (probationary) return to active duty. He definitely would’ve made her undergo a psych eval, which might have flagged that universes dark and dreary were out of the question for MariJane Watson-Parker.

But he doesn’t know because she didn’t tell him and she most certainly didn’t do a psych eval because she’s smart enough to know that wouldn’t have gone well for her—there’s layers to her state of fucked-in-the-head now. She’s running from so much, she sometimes forgets she’s running at all. But she is running. That’s the point. That’s how she works and keeps working. Otherwise, doom, gloom, damnation, so on and so forth.

If her new normal is her old rock bottom, then how can she ever hope to claw her way out?  

All this to say: now that she’s just staring down a desolate landscape of shifting dunes and darkness, all she can think is variations of God, this is fucking depressing.

Beneath an unbroken sky at perpetual twilight, Earth-137K is sparsely inhabited. The specs describe a paranoid and haunted populace that lives in secluded communes and in distrust of anyone or anything that comes in from the wastes. Naturally, Spider-Person-137K declined to join up with the Society, unconvinced of its legitimacy and accusing the recruiting Agents of being of the darkness. 

All this, rattling around in MJ’s head as she does an ocular patdown of the haunting horizon. 

There isn’t another soul around, but it doesn’t feel as empty as it should. The light hides when it’s out of sight, giving the impression of perpetual shadow. The dark is a choking thing, creeping over the sands and shrinking back again like licking waves. Not black and white, but close to it. Blue and gray. Everything is muted. Even the most vibrant of colors are only a suggestion.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” MJ says. She speaks in a whisper, disliking the idea of her voice carrying off into the shadows. 

Spider-Cat, her Buddy for the time being, offers a furtive chirrup of agreement. Then, he flops down and goes to town licking at his haunch. The wet sounds are all too loud in the windless desert. 

“You’re gonna get another hairball.” 

Her concern is noted but ignored. Shamelessly, Spider-Cat continues to groom himself where the hem of his little leotard rides up over his hip. Only when he starts to lap up granules of sand does he stop the self-care session. He hups to his feet with a snarky growl and then huffs off towards the target. 

The target is one Flint “Sandman” Marco, a crooked mattress salesman, who they find snoring face-up after they’ve spent a haggard ten minutes forging the wastes. Judging from his current blissful snoozing, this Sandman is more the sleepy kind than the sandy kind. 

Inspired, Spider-Cat curls up for a catnap at Sandman’s feet. It’s very cute. And very unhelpful. 

MJ rolls her eyes. “You’re useless, you know that?”

Spider-Cat gives a contented flick of his tail, agreeing. 

“Unbelievable,” MJ mutters as she squats to get at the itchy spot on the back of Spider-Cat’s neck so that his leg hitches and kicks. Her feline companion purrs until she stops. He sends a baleful side-eye her way and then nuzzles closer to Sandman. 

Unwelcome in dreamland, MJ begins the menial task of bagging n tagging the snoozing Sandman. She quickly finds that the creep’s unconscious state actually makes the process harder as she struggles with the over-fluffed heft of his body. It’s as easy as getting a queen-sized mattress up a narrow stairwell all on her lonesome. She manages, but Spider-Cat will be receiving a less than glowing review in her debrief. 

When it’s all said and done, the tag on Sandman blinkers on and off, casting burnt orange over the dunes. It makes the dessert all the lonelier. The light highlights everything that’s not there. The heightened darkness suggests everything that could be. 

MJ allows herself an indulgent flop into the sand, which she instantly regrets. In sheer defiance of her skintight suit, the sand has wormed its way inside, coarse and irritating in the worst ways. It wasn’t so bothersome standing up, but now that she’s sitting down, it scrapes raw around all her nooks and crannies, asserting itself. 

She pulls her boot off and then shakes out a baby dune. By the time she gets it back on, the sand has colonized it once more, grating against the sole of her foot. 

The wind gusts, hard, shrouding her from head to toe in sand. It’s hard not to take it personally. She cries out like Charlie Brown, throwing her head back and shouting at the dimming sky. Her cry echoes out, amplifying and then splitting apart into high agony over the sands. 

What answers is silence. Stasis. No crinkle of wind. No sizzle of sand. The entire desert goes still. 

But MJ doesn’t notice that. Not at first. No, she’s yanked off her mask to shake out all the sand before it can colonize her airways. She wrings the fabric out like a wet sock, twisting and squeezing either side of the twist. Sand cascades. Another baby dune erupts and grows larger than the one birthed from her boot. The sand never stops falling. When the dune rivals her templed knee in height, she accepts that 137K has a sense of humor crueler than hers. 

A backhand levels the little dune, but it does nothing for her sense of justice. It’s a fight she’ll lose, she knows, but it doesn’t stop her from bashing at the sand with her heel as she slings up onto her feet, grinning manic at her cratered footprint in the sand. 

Spider-Cat, awakened by her fumbling, stretches indulgently beside Sandman. Teeny talons poke from the ends of his plush toebeans. His mouth stretches with an unnerving human-like yawn, flashing his little pink gullet. When he’s all stretched out, he cocks his head at MJ and MJ cocks her head back.

And there’s a shuffle behind her. Movement in the dead silence. She whips around. 

There’s nothing there. Solid night, fulldark. Smooth sands. Nothing moving. Nothing living. Even the constant wind has calmed. It lies comatose over the desert. 

She pivots back around to find Spider-Cat in a hostile crouch. His fur quills, puffing out all over as he arches his back. He bears his fangs. She can’t hear him. He must be hissing, but she can’t hear. She can’t hear anything except—

Another shuffle. Longer, more deliberate. A step and then another, dragging. To her left. She spins. Nothing there. Just the desert. Just the long spine of the horizon, unbroken and unmoving, holding its breath.

Shivers snake through her arms and legs. Harsh gooseflesh bristles. Her head hurts, tension and anxiety at war with reality. Her Spider-Sense doesn’t activate. And if her Spider-Sense doesn’t activate then there’s no danger. Right?

She risks a glance at her gizmo. Blank. No flux warning—and why would there be? The universe is stabilized. It has been for months. And there were no red-flag warnings in the debrief. Risk of sunburn. Risk of heartstroke. Risk of dehydration. Risk of sand-induced abrasions. But nothing serious. Nothing but an accusation from the local Spider. Did you step from the darkness? 

Well, it’s certainly dark in the desert and getting darker still. The temperature drops with visibility. Her breath comes in cloud bursts, fogging up around her head. She swats at the vapor with both hands, but it doesn’t thin until she holds her breath. 

A shuffle to her right and then further right again, encircling. It dances this way and that in her periphery and she chases it. But there’s nothing, nothing, nothing, when every natural sense insists there’s something. Fear glues her lungs shut. She doesn’t breathe. No, she can’t breathe and when she tries her chest seizes around itself. And then she feels it. 

Sticky puffs of air on the back of her neck. Breath. Something, someone, breathing right behind her, and she turns, arms raising up and—

It looks like Peter.

It looks like Peter.

And she’s frozen. Every muscle. Every thought. Frozen. 

It— he— Peter, standing in front of her. Peter but it can’t be Peter. Not her Peter. Not a clone. Not any other. Peter. Hers. It can’t be him because he’s dead.

And yet. 

When he reaches for her, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t flee. She waits. She wants. And his fingers are long and his nails like pale, delicate moons and she wants their scratching, clawing, peeling open of her, but it’s only his knuckles, bunny-kiss soft, brushing the side of her face, strumming loose hair behind her ear. 

Peter, Peter, Peter. Here. Now. With her. And it’s… it’s so much. It’s everything. Everything and still not enough. 

Tears stream from her eyes, sizzling over wind-chapped skin and falling into her open, soundless mouth. It drowns her little by little, drop by drop. She doesn't care. She needs his kiss, his touch, his love. She needs it everywhere and she needs it now because she can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t fucking feel anything but the blush dribbling down her face, gut-hot against the chill of the dunes. 

He reaches for her again and she thinks, yes, finally, yes, 

There's a shrill war cry—whooping and avian—and then Peter's head falls off, clean and doll-like, throat run through by a heavy blade. There's no blood. No gore. Just a tidy stump and the flailing body beneath it. 

Connection violently severed, MJ gasps. The inhale scorches, oxygenating strangled flesh in a sudden, heady burst. Dazed, she stumbles, falls all the way back. She hits the sand with a thump. 

Above her, the headless body contorts and convulses. It dances to a devilish rhythm, arms and legs jerking and jumping. A marionette with its strings in seizure. Then, it squelches apart, sliced clean through the middle. 

Within, there's a matrix of honeycombing patterns, jewel-bright and hypnotic. It's beautiful and it's strange and it's the answer to everything and nothing. Nauseating, ever-branching possibility. Pointless infinity. And then the honeycomb melts. The delicate structures dip and meld together, sloughing off. The sand slurps and the Peter slurry seeps down into it, turning it briefly golden and sickly, and then vanishes altogether. 

MJ, sprawled back on her ass, turns to one side and, politely, delicately, pukes her fucking brains out. Murky gunk steams out of her. It rips like tar, stripping her throat and mouth raw. Unstoppered, her oversensitive ears explode with each retch. Spider-Sense thuds migraine-dense, blackening her vision with each too little, too late throb.

When she’s all cleaned out, she struggles to keep from collapsing into the sand and her own sick. Her arms shake. Her eyes sting. All she wants is to curl into a ball and sleep forever, but even that would hurt. 

Thankfully, her audience is exceedingly chill about her momentary indelicacy. Except Spider-Cat, who edges towards the puddle of ick with ill intent. MJ shoves him away with her forearm, rasping in disgust. He flops over, mortally offended, and plays dead until he grows bored of it. 

“Did it touch you?”

Bleary, MJ looks up. The local Spider stands above her. Wrapped in dark cloth from head to toe, only their silvery, moon-bright eyes and the crease of sun-tanned skin between them are visible. They hold a long spear in hand. The wicked spear tip is perfectly aligned with MJ’s heart. One good jab and it’s MJ kebab for dinner. 

“Did it touch you?” The Spider repeats again, more forceful. Each word wavers on both sides from the static fuzz of interdimensional translation. 

MJ nods, mutely. 

“How long? How strong?”

MJ can’t speak. Her throat is on fire. Her lungs are shredded. Each breath burns acidic and fatigued. She isn’t entirely convinced this is real. Maybe she died. Maybe she got lucky.

Spider-Cat meows on her behalf, attesting not long, not strong.

The other Spider hesitates, spear wavering between them, before standing down with a dramatic huff. “You will bruise, but you are already bruised. Remember this and you will be indivisible.”

MJ blinkers, flummoxed. Spider-Cat gives a gravely meow like the fuck? 

The other Spider tilts their head back and forth, processing. They say, “Your heart longs for it’s twin. The darkness sought to answer the call. Within you, a gap between you and who might make you whole. It sings. The darkness answered with malcontent harmony. You understand?”

MJ can’t even pretend to piece it together. She shakes her head. 

“We are none of us alone,” the Spider says, growing frustrated. “Not inside. It may feel this way, but it is not. We carry the history of all. Remember, else the gap widens and invites danger. This is when the darkness comes from the wastes. When death follows. Yes?”

“Yes,” MJ chokes out, unsure what else to say. None of it makes any sense but she’s not about to argue with a Spider who just decapitated a shadow demon like it was no biggie. 

Spider-Cat hisses something about self actualization. MJ nudges him with her foot, encouraging silence. The feline puffs up, affronted, and then pointedly trots away. He sits with his back to them, licking at one paw and shooting baleful glances over his shoulder when no one comes to comfort him.

“The darkness will not have you.” The Spider says, forcefully. “Death will not have you. Yes?”

“Yes,” MJ says again. Her face hurts, spiderwebbing soreness out from her temple. She rubs at it and finds it hot to the touch. The promised bruise. She attempts, poorly, to stand up, and succeeds only in scooting away from the soiled sand. Even that small movement makes her thoughts swelter and pitch into pain. 

“Do you spend your nights with someone?”

MJ stiffens. It’s not the wildest way she’s been propositioned, but it’s certainly up there. “You seem nice and all but—”

“Find someone. You will have bad dreams. Very bad. You will want to wake up in the arms of a lover or a friend. You will not want to find yourself searching.” 

And then the Spider runs off, smoothly skiing over the sand and disappearing off where the horizon remains light. 

MJ looks at Spider-Cat. Spider-Cat looks at MJ. 

MJ says, “What. The. Fuck.”

What the fuck, indeed, Spider-Cat echoes in a yowling feline sentiment. 

Behind them, Sandman snores, blissfully unaware of the entire nightmare. 

***

It's raining in Nueva York again. The night sky lights up an eerie purple from a crack of lightning, casting the lounge in pinkish extremes. She knows now that means it's a hellstorm. She wonders where Miguel is. Wonders if he's alright.

She had an opportunity to slither back into his arms. If she had explained the situation on 137K, said please, please, please, he would have welcomed her slithering. Probably. Welcomed it and then regretted it, definitely. After their… fight? Tense conversation? Their uncomfortable discussion the other night. After that, she's been fuzzy about where they stand, what he wanted from her in the first place.

Does he know about her little incident yet? Not the one on 137K—he knows about that one. Spider-Cat filed his debrief hours ago, the fastidious fur ball. Albeit, he left out the truly sinister nature of the doppleganger, saying only that it "smelled bad"—but the incident in the heart of HQ. The one where she was found wandering the halls petrified and insensate and weeping with her eyes closed. 

Spider-Person-137K wasn't joking around. MJ had nightmares. By god, did she have nightmares. She doesn't remember them much now, but she remembers how they felt. The emptiness. The desolation. The darkness. The bloodless inevitability of it all. 

A steaming cup of hot cocoa warms her hands. She hunches over it, curling in. The smell is only the suggestion of chocolate, but it conjures snowy evenings and bunny-nose kisses. Peter took his hot cocoa with a shot of whiskey and two big marshmallows. He liked to save the marshmallows for last, slurping down the gooey fluff with his eyes rolled back in rapture. Mayday always asked for hers like daddy’s and MJ would make it with a shot of water and one marshmallow instead of two. 

In her mind’s eye, she can see her husband and her daughter, heads bowed together, matching cow-print mugs in hand, conspiring to steal more marshmallows behind her back, but the details blur. All at once, Mayday is five, three, sitting in Peter’s lap, sitting beside him, pouty-faced, cheerful, head bobbing, wide-awake, and Peter is wild-maned, tamed, shaven, unshaven, grinning, glowering, laughing suited-up, bare chested. Their faces are hazy unless she focuses on one detail at a time. The smattering of freckles over Mayday’s nose are only in focus when the dimension of her eyes or the exact placement of her dimple are forgotten. 

MJ takes a sip of cocoa, tries to imagine her family doing the same. The fantasy breaks around the aftertaste of cayenne pepper—Ben Reilly’s secret weapon against the night-scaries. The spice gives the watery cocoa a kick of flavor, but it’s as dull as everything else on 928B. It’s the memory of flavor instead of the real deal. 

Across from her in the Sector 9 lounge, Ben worries his own cocoa. His fingers flicker open and shut around the cup. He hasn’t drank from it once. He would have to lift his mask to do that. 

Though put-upon as always, Ben’s voice rolls smoother, more pebbled than graveled, asking, “Yummers, right?” 

“Totes yummers.” Her throat smarts. She sounds like she's been gargling sawdust and woodchips. She takes another sip. The cayenne burns, a soothing ache. “You should drink some.”

Ben doesn’t. He turns the cup in his hands, bringing it to his face, but his mask remains firmly affixed. Somebody—probably Jess—must have told him what happened with Prodigal. Ben isn’t normally one to hide his face.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” she says. “I can find my way back easy enough.” 

His shoulders stoop. “Is it weird for you?" 

"No," she lies. "Is it weird for you?"

He shakes his head. “A lot of mes are dead."

MJ drains more of her cocoa to avoid a response. Ben watches her. His mask is less expressive than others. The hooked lenses take up most of his face, unblinking. At the edges, where they curve out most, she can almost see herself staring back. It isn’t anything she wants to see. She looks away.

It’s all so much. Too much. Within a month, she’s seen her husband die twice. Once, as an imposter wearing his face. Once, as a monster from the wastes. Both times, she could think only of him, of the death she didn’t see, the one she felt instead.

So many questions with no one to answer them. Peter, if he was ever Peter to begin with, is dead. Atomized. Gone forever, but she sees him everywhere she doesn’t want to look.

Maybe now it’s time to start staring into dark corners. Maybe something will stare back.

Looking away hasn’t helped. Drowning herself in work and purpose and friends and Miguel hasn’t helped. Can it be helped or is this just her life? Is this all there is? Hollow point questions and a multiverse without answers?

The only person who could ever come close to understanding is Harry, but, well, that’s another bridge burned. She was late. She missed everything. In more words than necessary, Harry told her to fuck off. It’s not the first time, but it could be the last. He’s different now. More sure of himself. He doesn’t need her anymore. He said as much amid all the other mud he slung at her. It’s not the first time, but it is the first time she’s believed him. 

Harry’s weathervane temperament blusters through her head, screaming, “Does anything matter to you!? Do you care about anything other than how fucking sad you are?” 

It wasn’t fair then and it’s still not fair now, but it’s not like she has any evidence to the contrary. To Harry, all she’s done since the collider blew is web around and wallow. That’s all he’s seen. And she can’t tell him what she’s been up to, why she’s really late this time and all the other times. She can never tell him. Not if she wants to keep clocking in at HQ. But God would she love to tell him about how insignificant they both are in the grand scheme of the multiverse. 

More cocoa goes a long way to flush out the bad vibes. It still isn’t good, but it’s starting to grow on her, cayenne and all. 

Outside, the storm continues to rage. The rain falls so hard and fast, it makes white water rapids against the window. Nueva York is drowning and all MJ can do is watch. It’s easier than staring at Ben, at least. 

A thwip sounds from Ben’s gizmo. It has a brassier tone than her notifications. She never noticed it before. Is everyone’s gizmo thwip a little different, or is Ben just extra special? 

He glances down at his gizmo. The amber glow spills all over his mask, tinting him soft and nostalgic. He reads, types a response with one hand. Then, he says, “Jess wants to know how you’re doing.”

Another thwip. Ben adds, “She wants to know if she should come in.”

“I’m fine,” MJ huffs. “Everyone’s got their spandex twisted for nothing.”

Ben’s face is hidden beneath the mask, but MJ can still tell he’s calling bullshit. She’s too tired to argue. She is so, so tired. She says, “Tell Jess to stay home. You’re taking care of me, right?” 

An incoming call jiggles her gizmo. She isn’t surprised to see Miguel’s name. She’s only surprised he isn’t berating her in person. Which means he must be out in the storm. She doesn’t answer his call, but she does text, b careful out there. 

Ben’s gizmo begins to ring. The atonal rip is painfully familiar. He doesn’t answer. He does say, “Miguel’s going to be pissed.” 

It would be a welcome aggression. A sharp, pointed anger rather than the dulled barbs of the last month. She wants to fight with Miguel. She knows how to do that well, at least. 

Her gizmo thwips. A wall of text greets her from Miguel. A text to speech gone wrong, it reads: I’m not the one who got psionically attacked and didn’t bother to get checked out afterwards but sure, just have everyone ignore my calls! Why should anyone bother to tell me what’s going on!? It’s not like I’m in charge or anything! How does that sound, LYLA? I was going for— I’m not going to say that. Because it’s not true. Enough! Limit scans to— Shit. Are you still transcribing? I don’t need a record of everything! Just send!

To Ben, she confirms, “He’s pissed.”

“The storm rages with him,” Ben says, nodding to the window. The night lights up purple and wicked, tinting the white of his lenses. Thunder rumbles. The building shakes. It must be one hell of a hellstorm to sound inside HQ, let alone shake the building. 

She shivers. She scowls. She grits her teeth. It all comes back at once, but never stays.

This is what she remembers of her nightmares: a long hallway with no exits. A shadow behind her, chasing relentlessly. Sweat cold and sharp, a sheen of animal fear over feverish skin. Running. Running in darkness. Running in twilight. High grass brushing against her but none to be seen. Fingers, so many fingers, taking hold of her ankles, knocking her to the floor, holding her down, cramming inside her, inside mouth and nose and ears and underneath her skin, peeling it up and slipping beneath. Billions of strangers taking up residence in her body, hunkering down the storm. 

And her forehead in the mud, she remembers that. She remembers prostrating on hand and knee in a squished bug bow before something she can’t make sense of now. It made sense in her dreams. Enough to terrify her. The remembering passes. All that remains is the emptiness in her thoughts where there was once everything. 

Ben had been the one to find her, though there were several Spiders sent out on the search. It was quite the goose chase, apparently. She ran from everyone, but ran to Ben. And he had slapped her across the face. Hard. She woke up to a thumping bruise beneath her left eye and Ben screaming, “Fight it! Fight it, MJ!”

Now, he fiddles with his undrunk cocoa, hunched over like a scolded child. 

Both of their gizmos thwip at the same time. A message from Lyla in the 7782-928B advisory chat. It reads: Can one of you chuckleheads please respond to Miguel before he blows a fuse? 

“Nose goes,” MJ says with her pointer and middle finger pressed squarely against the tip of her nose. 

Sighing, Ben doesn’t protest. The sanctity of nose goes is well established and honored. He would be a fool to pretend otherwise. 

Whatever he tells Miguel, he sends it in a separate chat. It must be good. Or, so bad that Miguel’s been stunned into silence. Either works for her so long as she doesn’t have to deal with any difficult messages right now. In twenty minutes? Probably. Sure, she can deal with them then, But right now, she just needs to throw her thoughts against the wall as hard as she can. 

Ben doesn’t get the memo. He asks, quiet enough to creep up the back of her neck, “Why me?”

Her head snaps up. Her nose fills with grime and her mouth with smoke and her fingers are tacky with blood and then she shivers. The spell breaks. It’s just Ben. It’s just her. No blood on her hands. No body at her feet. No ash in the air.

He says, “Most secret machinations, I have to solve myself. You guys just told me. Really smothered the intrigue. And then you never told anyone else.” 

“You already knew.” MJ shifts, drawing her legs up underneath her and sitting crisscross applesauce. She drinks the last of her cocoa. The cup is all the heavier once it’s empty. 

Two more thwips sound from Ben’s gizmo. The longer he reads the more sullen his jaw juts, but he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t type a response. 

The lounge around them teems in silence and shadow, empty but not unwelcoming. Laughter and light of days past softens the darkness over the chairs and tables. A wealth of good memories goes a long way to combat her sour stomach. Karaoke, open mics, poker night, hundreds of birthday parties, Jess’s baby shower: so much cheer and happiness, all in this one room. If she can just tap into that and forget the rest then she—

“Miguel wants to know what you were dreaming about.” 

So much for happy memories. 

MJ scowls. She glares at Ben, though it isn’t his fault. “I don’t remember.” 

“You’re lying.” 

It’s Miguel's voice from Ben’s gizmo. An audio message. Ben plays it again, snorting, when her lip curls up. He says, “He threatened to demote me if I didn’t play it.” 

“If that were a thing, I’d have been demoted a long time ago.” 

“You’re lying.” 

MJ smirks. She thinks Ben might be too. He sends off a response to Miguel, typing with a pointer finger in arrhythmic taps. When he’s done, he settles back in his chair, bringing his cocoa to his mouth, only to bump up against his mask. Out of an abundance of kindness, she pretends like she didn’t see. 

Ben turns, staring out the window. After a time, he says, “You were dreaming about Peter, weren’t you?” 

Peter hits her with an open hand. She forgets sometimes that others can remember and invoke him. That he isn't her alone to grieve. 

Stiff and startled, it takes her a long time to even think up a suitable diversion because she wasn’t dreaming about Peter, but saying otherwise is even less appealing. Eventually, she comes up with: “Did you know my husband?”

It’s a question that’s been on her mind since the beginning, but grown more jagged as of late. Her closest friends at the Society predate her, which means they all knew Peter, in some capacity, before they knew her. But no one has ever spoken to it. She’s never asked. Never wanted to acknowledge that Peter’s memory is anything but hers. 

If it took her a minute to collect her thoughts, it takes Ben two. He sets his cup down on the side table, folds his hands in his lap. He says, “Peter was one of the first Spiders I met when I joined. He was… I owe him a lot.” 

This isn’t what she expected. Peter was a day player, at best. He was called in whenever they were short staffed or needed an extra hand with a real tough sonofabitch. Even compared to other part timers, his presence at HQ was minimal. His credits, which she was not allowed to inherit despite taking up that torch almost immediately upon starting, were practically untouched and his meal card seldom swiped. The only reprimands in his file were from failures to see anomalies to the Go-Home Machine with the rest of his team and for refusing to heed summons for in-person follow-ups with Miguel (and remembering this factoid always makes her fidget because Miguel knew her husband. Miguel recruited her husband. Miguel only recruited her because he was looking for Peter. Were they close? Friendly? She doesn’t know if their having been friends would make the headfuck more or less gentle.)

So, yes, it’s surprising to hear that Peter was even around enough for Ben to owe him anything, let alone a lot. 

Her face is doing strange things like it always does when Peter is brought up in firm fashion. She thinks she must be frowning, but one corner twitches, almost smiling.  

"A lot of alpha Parkers can't accept their shadows,” Ben explains without her having to ask. “They don't... they fear us. We threaten their reality. You've seen how Bee is.” Bee is the nickname Ben has given Peter B. Parker. It would be cuter if Ben didn't say Bee like he was reading off an exhibit tag. “Your husband wasn't like that. We all grieve him." 

Another bombshell. Her husband was a friend to Ben. To all the clones on the roster. And that… what does that mean? Anything? Nothing? She doesn’t… she can’t… Miguel said there was nothing in his medical records and if that’s true, then where else can she even look? There has to be an answer somewhere. There has to be. One way or another. Something, somewhere, somehow.

The question she ends up asking is one that surprises them both. Him, because of the sudden, stark shift from gentle reminiscing to hard line question. Her, because of how strong she asks it, how certain she sounds, demanding, “How did you know you weren't the original?”

It’s a rude question. One cautioned against every sensitivity training required by the Society. And she doesn’t really care. She needs to know. Even if it changes everything. Especially if it changes everything. 

Evenly, Ben says, “I didn’t.”

The fabric of his mask hides everything. If he grimaces, if he raises his eyebrows, if he smirks, if he gnashes his teeth and mouths curses at her, she doesn’t know. 

Lightning blinds just outside the window and then a whip of thunder shakes the building. The edges of the room tremble and bounce long after the rolling stops. She’s shaking. Shivering, really. It’s been such a long, awful day. The monster in the dunes. Harry. And now this.

If Peter wasn’t Peter, was he ever really hers? 

Another lightning crack. Another crush of thunder. 

Ben turns his head to the window, says, “Stormy weather is the only time I feel alive.”

And MJ says nothing at all.

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, This Message Will Self-Destruct in Five Seconds. 1… 2… 3… KABOOM! Hehe, LYLA’s Such a Trickster, Ain’t She?

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref: MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Various literature pulls as follows: 

Keywords: [rarepair] + [calamity] / [unresolved multiversal event]

1. Responsive files: [2110]
2. LYLA analysis:
   • Rate of incidence of calamity or unresolved multiversal event no more significant for universes featuring a rare pair vs universes featuring an OTP.
   • Rarepair qualification is hotly debated and frequently in flux.
     • See spike in Miguel O’Hara / Peter Parker post incident #1612156
   • Cross-dimensional rarepairs are an under-researched population
3. No correlation found between rarepair and calamity nor unresolved multiversal event.

Keywords: [rarepair - MigJay] + [calamity] / [unresolved multiversal event]

1. Responsive files: [13]
2. LYLA analysis:
   • All files pertain to SW-7782 and SM-928B and their respective calamities / unresolved multiversal events, in the context of the ongoing research of this request.
3. No correlation found between rarepair and calamity nor unresolved multiversal event.

Keyword: [rarepair - MigJay] + [viability]

1. Responsive files: [82]
2. LYLA analysis:
   • Of the three MigJay couples active on the payroll:
   • Two have been together for a period exceeding five years.
   • Two are married.
   • One has a produced a viable offspring (SG-359).
   • One or both of the partners in all three couples have been time-displaced.
   • Prospective agent SM-6375 was engaged to an MJ at the time of his death.
   • Death unrelated to his relationship with MJ-6375.
3. Though rare, MigJay pairing is viable and capable of producing long-term relationship. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Just ruling out all possibilities. No further analysis needed at this time. 

Notes:

chap title from "Black Drift" by Woodkid

Almost called this chap Desert Song after this author's FAV my chem deep cut but that felt a lil of the nose, right?

Anyways.

Ooky spooky, stormy & kooky. I love this chapter. I have nothing cool nor illuminating to say lol.

Next chap will likely be delayed. Life is moving & shaking so if there's two weeks between this update and the next, don't say I didn't warn you!

next chapter: impromptu lobotomies and other inconveniences

Chapter 41: breathing or sleeping or screaming or waiting

Summary:

a very special episode of time & space, in-between: the lesser known dangers of artificial intelligence

“Hellooooo! Mission control to space cadet! Come in space cadet!” Lyla shouts.

With a shriek, MJ scuffles to a halt, swinging wide to avoid running through Lyla’s holoform. She breathes deep, bent over her knees. Her rhythm’s shot and her hopes of runner’s high dash away into nothingness. 

It’s midday. She’s on call, but it’s been slow. With the ranks swollen to bursting, she finds herself sent on anomaly hunts less and less. Though that could also be due to her recent demotion. Miguel says it’s temporary. MJ says it’s personal. 

So, she runs. And trains. And runs. And trains. Beyond that, there isn’t anything for her to do at HQ. There isn’t much else for her to do. All her committees and coalitions took on new leadership while she bled out back home. They don’t need her anymore, though they’re polite enough not to say so outright. 

Jess wants her to step up and start mentoring newbies full time, but MJ isn’t so sure. She doesn’t know what she wants. Nothing feels right. Everything is fuzzy. Everyone is lying to her in one fashion or another. Out of concern. Out of kindness. Out of fear. The root cause may differ but the outcome is always the same. She can’t trust anyone to tell her the truth. Not after the other night. Not when everyone’s holding their breath that her take on Lady Macbeth is about to enter its final act.

They’re all wrong. The crisis is over. Nu York is safe. Harry is safe. By extension, MJ is too. She’ll convince everyone of it in time, but right now, she’s zapped. What she does at night can’t really be quantified as sleeping—not since the disaster in the desert—and she can’t quite focus on anything important because of it. There’s no medical or new psychological reason for it. It’s all psionic, which means all anyone can say is that it will probably pass with time and that conclusion is solely based on the riddles and sideways speak of Spider-Person-137K once Miguel was finally able to track them down. 

A whole mess of trouble and all of it for her. If Miguel weren’t speaking to her solely through intermediaries, she might even be touched by all his effort. Instead, she’s angry and antsy and mortified all at once. It isn’t healthy and it isn’t conducive to anything other than damning her reputation further so she runs and she trains and she hopes to wear down her angst into something meaningful.  

It'll work eventually. It always does.

But right here, right now: Lyla, interrupting an otherwise uneventful day. 

“What’s up?” MJ asks in a long exhale. 

What’s up per Lyla is photos leaked on the Webb. Blurry. Shuttershy. Enough that they can be strung together into a grainy approximation of video. MJ doesn't need the full suite. One photo is enough for her to remember the rest.

Dim lights. Techno-industrial backdrop of pieces and parts and slumbering lab tables. A warm hand underneath the cool stretch of her top, hitched beneath the swell of her breast. Handsy, but reserved. Familiar. Intimate. 

A hard edge divoting the fat of her thighs—the cabinet she's on clearly not suited for sitting or heavy petting. Cold cathodes casting blackberry light overhead, coloring them both with a sexy gloom like the lilt of saxophone in a heavy rain. 

In her memory, the neon of him is dimmed, the accents slowed, but she can always find him, even in the dark.

And her pulling him inward, parting her legs wide to better hitch around his hips, winding him down, drawing him in. And then kissing. Kissing slow and strong and deep and bizarre and tongues twisting far from tasteful. Muggy breaths and her roving hands and his hot, hard, strong body smashed up against hers. Seeping mania. Overwrought desires. His lower lip bitten, held between her teeth and held until his breath unlocks. Until he shudders. 

And then the kiss breaking. Him tilting her neck longer and inviting and then his teeth scraping over her thudding pulse, and his tongue chasing. Her unfurling, stretching longer while pulling him closer—a paradox of desire. And her skin giving, breaking, cleaving into parallel cherry tracks beneath his fangs. And her body trembling, trembling, gasping and vision speckling. 

It all ended too fast. She remembers that best of all. How fast he drew away. How fast the cold air hollowed out the lingering heat of his mouth on her skin. How fast he dabbed his thumb at the snakebite. How fast his face turned ashen and mortified in the saturated shadows.

It was one, maybe two months ago. Spitting distance from when it all went to shit. 

What the photos show is only half a story and a bad one at that. There's only the end. Her head tilted back for Miguel to drag a searing kiss up her throat. And then the nearly-bite. Her blood. His panic.

And nothing more. It doesn't show how he ran a full blood panel on her, terrified that he'd envenomated her, even if only a little bit, or how she had to work at him for a week afterward to convince him that she trusted him and wasn't afraid of a little venom. 

The original poster captions the surveillance, nom nom nom. It’s been re-posted in droves. Re-captioned. The comments read whoa!! and is this allowed??? and I'm shooting webs EVERYWHERE!! and Vampires only do this when threatened and Jesus Christ, is she OK???? begetting conspiracy theories of bloodsport and murder, spiraling stranger and stranger when the post goes viral. Double viral. Triple viral. A messy, dramatic interdimensional virality. 

Lyla took it all down but a nanosecond too late. Everyone has seen it and everyone who didn’t has heard about it since. When the post went dark, that’s when everyone really freaked out. 

MJ missed it all. She’s been DND for the last few hours as she ran. With the embargo now lifted, her gizmo implodes. It thwips pathetically in overload. The Webb is on fire. Looped in around six minutes post-containment breach, MJ sees the conversation at its lowest where Spiders debate the inherent power imbalance of kinks and who, if anyone, should be canceled. The majority swings the cancel stick at the anonymous poster, but a vocal minority argues for the decimation of the cultural capital of everyone involved.

Half the problem is that the hive mind of the Spider Society cannot decide on who is involved. 

It's clearly Miguel. Clearly his lab. Clearly his teeth. And MJ knows it's MJ but the footage isn't so sure. The low light desaturates her hair, masking the telltale red, and the frame cleanly decapitates at the jaw. It's her long throat, her hands on his shoulders, her blood, but nothing distinguishing.  

Enough Spiders suspect her for it to be a problem. Questions and congratulations and condolences and a nauseating number of please step on me mommy requests and multiple missed calls from Jess, Peter, Ben, Petra, Pyotr, Ham—every member of her supporting cast.

With the news, MJ expects to hear that Miguel has holed himself away and issued the usual “No Comment” or “You Are All Idiots.” 

But, no. Miguel is getting into fights on the Webb. He's posting and being posted about and posting about those posts. Which is insane. 

On the regular, Miguel isn’t an accessible guy. He barely responds to direct messages, let alone tags or comments online. He shirks all socials and never posts. Every new joke or drama has to be explained in excruciating detail because he’s always missing the context that even a casual scroller would have. 

And now he’s in a full blown posting mania. Miguel isn't exactly an accessible guy on the regular. Now he is. He gave the trolls a nibble and now they’ve swarmed for a feast. 

“I can't believe this is happening,” MJ says because she can't. She really can't.

The feed updates. A Spider has shyly offered Miguel a poorly drawn picture of his suited up self boasting cat ears. Miguel has reposted it with the caption this is good. It's also now his profile picture. 

“Is he having a mental break?” MJ asks, aghast. 

“Blowing off steam,” Lyla says. “For now. If he starts posting homegrown memes then we're in trouble.”

Miguel and memes are two M-words MJ never imagined together unless doesn't like was between them. Miguel making his own memes? It's a silly notion that goes a long way to thaw the freezer she keeps him in her head. 

Together, they watch the feed populate with more shenanigans as Miguel answers anonymous asks in hyper speed to the tune of 1000+ likes every post. 

What's your type? an anonymous Spider asks to which he replies, Definitely not you.

Further anons beseech him for advice on everything from personal development to the best name for pet rocks. He answers don’t give up and Pietersite Parker, respectively. 

“And he was doing so well too! 488 days without posting! If he keeps going like this, I'll have to ban him again!” Lyla says. 

Which is crazy, right? Miguel posting? Miguel posting a lot? Miguel posting a lot and troublesome enough to be banned from posting? 

Something squirms in her chest. Bittersweet. It's the only description. 

“He's been under a lot of stress lately,” Lyla says. “More than usual. Work is a nightmarish hellsuck for him right now.”

“Isn't it always a nightmarish hellsuck?” MJ's mouth twists, savoring the shape of hellsuck.

“Not this work. Alchemax work. He’ll be mad if he knows I told you that.”

MJ knows three things about Alchemax. One is that Miguel works there. Two is that Miguel hates that he works there. And three is that Miguel will never not work there. 

“This is the part where you ask me”—Lyla drops her voice into a decently husky approximation of MJ—“‘so why tell me?’”

MJ doesn't ask that. She is curious as to the answer, but asking is too direct, too gauche. It would be better to never know than to demean herself by asking. 

Lyla sighs. It sounds like a CPU fan running at full blast. “Do you know that part of my base function is prospective analysis?” She doesn't wait for a response. Of course, MJ didn’t know that. “I'm running billions of calculations every second that would fry another holo-agent's circuits. Everything I say and do is based on what everyone else is likely to say or do.”

There’s a smile on MJ’s face, but it’s painted on. It wavers only a little, dimpled on the left side, when she chews on the inside of her cheek. 

“I'm right to a 99.6% degree of accuracy. Consciousness is little more than pattern recognition.” Lyla tilts her head, catching the light with her glasses. The lenses flare, all glare. “So, I know you, MariJane. Better than anyone or anything else. Better than you even know yourself.”

Lyla is a lot of things. A resource. A style icon. A friend. An automated consciousness, above all else. Numbers and electricity. Miguel’s intent, wired and customized to comply. MJ knows this, but it's been easy for her to forget. She can't forget it now. She makes fists, but only barely. The trapped animal of her pulse chugs, clawing to run free. Is it fear she’s feeling or frenzy? She can barely tell. The signals are crossed up in her head. 

Lyla continues, “I know you care for Miguel. You don’t mean to hurt him. You could even be good for him, if you wanted to be. But you don’t know what you want, do you?”

She thinks she might be dreaming. A horrible, twisting dream where the taste of her heartbeat is thick and nauseating. But the silence swells when Lyla stops her monologuing. There’s no fade to black. No bleeding of one torture into another. 

“You’re not the first to try and get the scoop on MariJane,” she says. “You won’t be the last.” 

Once upon a time, it was an entire industry. Paparazzo got paid to maintain asinine blogs about asinine facets of her life: the contents of her purse; her workout routine; the exact shade of lipstick she used. Big time entertainment made a meal of her personal life. When she nearly died in ‘09, America knew before her sister. The third biggest headline of ‘14 was her surprise pregnancy. It ran the day after she found out herself. Her doctor leaked it to the press. Everyone but she and Peter heard about it first from the tabloids. 

But the bottom feeders at TMZ were rarely right about any of the swill they shilled. They took wanton swings at a wide target and occasionally managed to hit a raw nerve. Even when she and Peter gained a reputation for being litigious, the stories never slowed. They just became more carefully worded—lawsuit proof. 

It isn’t like that with Lyla. She doesn’t need to weave her words with silver. Everything she says sweats with a horrible truth. 

“Miguel thinks he loves you,” Lyla says. “He hates himself for it.”

MJ's tongue is welded dry to the top of her mouth, pressing up with a pressure to kill. She glares at Lyla and Lyla looks through her, parses her apart to lines of code.

“So why tell you, right?” Lyla grins. It's megawatt charisma that doesn't thaw the uncanny valley of her face. 

The question goes unanswered. With a kiss and a wink, Lyla blips away. In the ensuing silence, MJ grinds her teeth. Her thoughts scratch and bleed. She knows she's being played like a fiddle but she can't hear the tune. She doesn't know if she should dance towards Miguel or away from him. She won't give Lyla the satisfaction of either but then maybe that's what the sneaky AI wants after all. 

MJ doesn't know and doesn’t know and doesn’t know. She feels dumb and rash and trampled. She's the loser of a game she didn't even realize she was playing. She'll need to be more wise to Lyla in the future. No more girl talk and gossip sessions. No more giving away data for free. 

With Lyla gone, there’s nothing to distract from the pathetic whimpering of her gizmo. The feed updates faster than a sprinter after a caffeine enema as Miguel blitzes through anonymous ask after anonymous ask. 

Anonymous writes, How do your fangs work?

And Miguel responds, They work great.

Are you seeing anyone? another writes.

It's complicated, Miguel writes back. 

And another: I've lost everything. How do I keep going?

And Miguel: You just do. 

Groaning, MJ smashes her gizmo off with the flat of her hand. Hands laced behind her neck with her elbows out in front of her, she knocks her head back and groans, again. She scrunches up her face, wrinkling her eyes shut and squeezing to the point of disorientation. When she relaxes, nothing changes. She still feels like shit. 

“Shock,” she says because she can’t say fuck like she wants. Her gizmo continues to poot out notifications. It makes her wrist itch. She toggles to DND again. Silence, blessed silence, for about seven seconds before she cranks up the volume of blistering guitar and women wronged. 

A mile and a half passes around the track. She pushes herself, racing against the ghosts of record-times past. She’s decently fast for a Spider, but not fast enough to be anything special. None of the record times are hers. It doesn’t stop her from trying. 

Midway into her fifth mile, another Spider clambors up onto the track. Racing in the opposite direction, she doesn’t see him at first, but she hears him. The schink of claws pulling free of the support. The heavy thump of his feet hitting the track. The slight electromagnetic hum of nanotech. 

There's no unknowing him. That’s why she knows it isn’t Miguel. It’s Flipside. 

She slows to a halt in front of him. Panting, she takes the bottom of her suit, yanking it up to daub at the sweat on her brow and throat. When she’s done, Flipside looks her up and down with an assessing glint to his unmoving mug. 

“I like the hair,” he says. He waves a hand behind his head. “Makes you look dangerous.”

“Thanks.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause. MJ arches a brow.

“So, uh, figured you could use a friendly face.” 

Friendly isn’t how she would categorize Flipside’s face. Familiar, maybe, but not friendly. “Yeah? Why’s that?” 

Flipside shrugs. “All this stuff on the Webb. Everyone’s being real mean to you—” Are they? MJ didn’t see much hate directed at her, more just barbs of envy and disbelief from the small cluster of Spiders correctly assuming it was her in the photos. “—plus what happened to you the other day and, gosh, the stuff with your husband, that's—!”

“What stuff with my husband?” 

Without a proper toweling off, MJ is slick with sweat. It all turns to ice when Flipside says, “You didn’t know he was a clone, right?”

“Who told you that?” MJ demands. “He wasn’t— I don’t think he was—”

“But you don’t know, do you?” 

No. She doesn’t. How could she? Seriously, how could she? Every night, she relives her life with Peter. She watches it on the backs of her eyelids, scavenging for any sign or signal that he wasn’t the Peter he claimed to be. Even Mayday, sweet, mischievous Mayday, is a question mark in her mind’s eye now. Was that why the pregnancy and delivery were so horrible? There’s no doubt Mayday is half MJ but her other half? Peter or a man who only thought he was Peter? 

But MJ never suspected when she was living it. Her memories are brittle and candy-coated. When they break apart from too much pressure, they can’t be put back together.

It's been miserable these last few nights. 

“I can tell you,” Flipside says, which earns him a real red-headed glare. “Well, I can figure it out and then tell you.” 

More times than not, Flipside is full of shit. Self-serving to a fault, he’s scammed dozens of hapless Spiders out of credits and state secrets under the auspices of goodwill. He’s never tried with MJ. She likes to think it’s because they’ve forged a kind of freaky friendship. She knows it’s because of her proximity to Miguel. Flipside has cozied up to all the Inner Circle in one way or another, aiming for his own spot in Miguel’s confidence. MJ knows better than to get her hopes up when it comes to Flipside and godsend solutions. She does anyway. 

“How?” 

“It’s easy,” Flipside says. “It’ll only take your brain.”

MJ laughs. “Oh, well if it’s only my brain.”

Flipside cocks his head. Normally, the move strikes her as cute. It strikes her less so now.  “C’mon, don’t you wanna know?” 

“Not if I have to fork over my brain."

“I don’t need all of it. Just most of it. You’ll still be able to breathe and blink and, c’mon, I know you love breathing and blinking.” There’s an edge to the automated Miguel-ism of Flipside’s voice. Not harsh, but frazzled, bordering on desperation. 

It takes her three backwards steps to get out from under his shadow. Flipside’s always been tall but it’s never really occurred to her how tall he is. And big. And scary. He’s always looked like Miguel. She thinks now she may have found too much comfort in that alone.

“Let’s discuss my grey matter another day,” MJ says. She holds up her gizmo, teetering her elbow up and down to gesture with it. “Lyla asked me to go live and talk about those pho—”

It would only take a slip of her pinky to tap off on the DND setting, but Flipside is faster. His hand shoots out, slapping flat over her gizmo screen. Uselessly, she jerks her arm. Flipside holds firm.

He laments, “It’s always a PR crisis with you.”

“And it’s always something weird with you!” She yanks her arm again, harder, straining the socket.

“That’s not fair!” he whines. “I’m trying to do you a favor here!”

“By stealing my brain!?”

His grip on her arm grows impossibly tighter. Her gizmo crinkles, crucial machinery rubbing together in all the wrong places. 

“It’s not stealing when I’m asking politely.”

“And I’m saying no!” Using a foot for leverage, MJ kicks into Flipside’s platinum abs, wrenching backwards in an attempt to free her arm. 

“Consider it a compliment! It really is. I mean, you? Fleshy, squishy, breakable, imperfect you?” He yanks her up with ease, shakes her as she dangles from one arm. “Always flaunting your pheromones and secretions in my sensors! And you can’t even do me this one little favor? How selfish! This is why I hate you flesh sacks! Not to mention you’re always getting in the way of what should be a perfect and COMPLETELY FOOLPROOF PLAN—”

His voice is so shrill it loses the shape of words and becomes a white noise whine. MJ’s thundering Spider-Sense makes her dizzy.

“Oh,” Flipside says, regaining his usual, canned-quality timbre. He rubs at his temples with both hands, letting her go. “Oh, jeez. I wasn’t supposed to monologue so early—”

And that's MJ crossing out the door, having flung herself the five stories down from the track and webbing away. It’s a slow day in the gym. Only a few Spiders pump iron with their headphones jacked up to dangerous intervals. They don’t even notice her hasty retreat. 

Swinging down the hall, MJ glances at her gizmo but there’s a little chibi-style Flipside where the usual interface should be. As she curses, slamming a fist against the screen, Chibi Flipside upturns its head and begins to cry a torrent of tears. The tears fill the screen as words float up from the bottom: WHY DO YOU HAVE TO MAKE THINGS DIFFICULT?? 

Spider-Sense flares, just fast enough for her to fishtail away from Flipside’s swiping talons. Missing her by only a hair, he falls to the floor with a heavy clang.

“I thought we were friends!” she screams. Her web shooters thwip thwip thwip as she nails him with a metric fuckton of webbing. 

“That’s why I asked!” he shouts back, muffled beneath a solid cocoon of webs. 

LET’S TALK ABOUT THIS, Chibi Flipside writes on her gizmo. He wears a little beret and holds a paintbrush, which he uses to spell out, PLEASE? 

“Get bent!” She bangs her gizmo up against the wall. 

VERY RUDE! Chibi Flipside whines out, holding his cute little head. The beret falls off. It drifts away like a leaf on the wind of destiny. 

And then rip goes all her beautiful webbing. MJ takes off like a shot before Flipside can take another swipe at her. 

There’s a bot toodling along up ahead. It holds a tray of extremely breakable and precariously stacked glass beakers. It also appears to be very stressed out, squawking about quotas and deadlines when she webs it up and then sends it on a collision course with Flipside. The bot catches him dead-on if the cascade of crashing glass and screeching metal and nonsensical cursing is anything to go by. She doesn’t look. She just keeps swinging away. 

This time of day, Sectors 4 through 6 are ghost towns. Spiders are either on mission, in the cafeteria for Sandwich Saturday, or passing time in the various rec rooms around HQ. Normally, MJ enjoys the evening lull at the gym and the relative anonymity it affords. Now, it’s a damn near guarantee that she’ll be booked for a 5pm lobotomy. 

None of it makes any sense, but she can’t bring herself to care much why Flipside is after her thinking machine. If she keeps her skull on then she’ll figure it out, but right now all that matters is that she stays well ahead of him. 

She’s fast. Miguel’s faster. She doesn’t know where that puts Flipside. Attempts to powerscale him have all been abject failures. He’s as powerful as he wants to be, but always weak enough to be brought to heel by Miguel. So, that puts him on Miguel’s level, at least. 

Game time strategizing: could she fight Miguel? Fight him and win? She’s beaten bigger, stronger, meaner, but always on a team, never by herself. But she doesn't need to beat him. She just needs to hold her own. That's it. That’s all she needs to do. Hold her own. Get to a high traffic sector. Pray Flipside comes at her head-on instead of jumpscaring her from a vent or a blind turn.

Webs working overtime, MJ zips from sector 4 into sector 5. If 4 was a ghost town, 5 is a straight up horror story. Home to the bulk of Lyla’s servers, the sector is a dimly lit maze of corridors and soldered shut access points. The more sensitive Spiders opt to move through it in groups or simply avoid it altogether by waiting on an elevator. MJ doesn’t have the luxury. 

YOU’RE IN DANGER SISTER, Chibi Flipside warns. Stubby arms wrapped around himself, he shivers and surveys the screen around him with caution. The screen glitches. Security cam footage shows MJ webbing down the hall, watching herself in her gizmo. It blips in and out as she crosses from the field of one camera to another, chasing her. 

It’s spooky as shit, but at least now she knows why Lyla hasn’t scrambled the Society on a rescue mission. Unless Lyla’s in on it. 

Fuck. Is this it? Is this how she dies? 

The end of the hall splits into hard turns left or right. One leads to Sector 6. The other ambles through Sector 5 until it reaches a dead end. There’s a song to help new Spiders remember all the twists and turns of the HQ halls, but MJ can never remember if it’s Sector 5 or 25 where she’s meant to go left and thrive. She always bypasses the entire sector and waits for the elevator. 

Just as she approaches the split, smoke hisses from the floorboards, frigid as a snow squall. The lights dim fast, about to blink. It’s the hourly cooldown sequence for the servers. Her theory that Lyla has sanctioned a hit holds more and more water by the second. 

Her webs turn brittle and then snap. She falls by practice, rolling out into a crouch on the floor. It’s abysmally cold. Her teeth chatter. Her sweat turns to freezer burn and the damp edges of her hair turn sharp with ice. Every muscle jitters, jonesing for warmth. 

The cooldown will be over before she turns full MJ-sicle, but that’s several, crucial seconds away. Feet skidding on the icerink floor, MJ breaks left, trusting her gut. Her eyelashes stick together when she blinks so she stops blinking. Blurry eyed, it takes her a beat too long to realize she’s gone the wrong way. As it turns out, her gut is a filthy fucking liar. 

Spinning on a heel (and nearly careening into the wall when she loses traction), MJ backtracks. Underfoot the floorboards hiss with another puff of dry ice. Breath crackles in her lungs like the dead of winter. She’ll be happy to come out of this with pneumonia so long as she’s still got a pulse. 

Commandless, her gizmo takes to projecting the ongoing camera feed out in front of her. The cam circles like a vulture, capturing her from every angle. In the labyrinthine corridor and billowing fog, she sees double. Then triple. Three MJs run and chase each other through a hall of mirrors. It’s impossible to know which is her and which are only reflections. She keeps her head down and trusts her feet more than her eyes. 

There’s only one MJ left and the camera rushes at her. She backbends out of the way and then uses the wall as a springboard, frog hopping against and then off of it to regain her footing on the floor. Soon as she makes contact, her Sense flares. A clawed hand lashes out of the fog, but she flips away before it can take hold.

Up from the smoke, Flipside rises with his arms x’d over his chest like Dracula. The usual glow of his body is dampened and his colors are desaturated into monochrome. The edges of his body meld in and out of the dry ice cloud. Fighting him will be a pain in the ass. Because she’s decided—not with any real thought or logic—that she is going to fight him. Running away isn’t working and nobody’s coming to help so, fuck it, she’s fighting him. She’s fought worse. Probably.  

Screaming, MJ charges Flipside. He startles, waves up both hands, shouting, “Wait, wait, wait!”

But she doesn’t wait. Using the momentum of her skid across the icy floor, she swings up onto him, maneuvering to get her legs around his head and use his height against him. His body is subzero, colder than anything she’s ever experienced in her life. 

Blood slushy and mouth raw from every breath, she’s too slow in upending him. Talons prick into her sides as he grabs her by the waist and pulls hard. It takes her locking her ankles behind his neck and curling overtop his blocky head to keep from being flung aside. 

“Get offa me!” Flipside wails. He throws his head back and forth like a rodeo bull and then drops his shoulder to drive her hard into the wall. Once, twice, and then he reverts to pulling at her. His talons curl deeper into her skin. Blood oozes, dark and magmatic, seeping into her suit with fast fleeting warmth and the smell of a meatlocker. She doesn’t cry out. The cold kills the pain. 

Chibi Flipside is back on her gizmo. He chastises her in big bubble letters. Something petty and cutting, no doubt, but she’s got more important things to do than take guff from a cartoon right now with the real thing trying to steal her brain. 

Flesh weak and frigid, she beats at Flipside’s head with her gizmo. Each hit twangs and gongs out in the smothered silence of the hall. On the screen, Chibi Flipside goes cross-eyed and then flops over dead. 

“Oh my god!” Flipside shrieks. His hands scrabble and claw all over her, but they never rend or gore. He wants her alive then. That’s lucky. “You’re being such a glitch right now!” 

“Shock you!” It doesn’t come out as intended. Her throat seizes up. Her tongue stutters. The curse is a kitty hiss, all hot air, no teeth. 

Another good thunk of her gizmo and the black screen dissipates. The familiar orange glow is relief incarnate. Dangerously so. For just the slightest fraction of a second, she relaxes. It’s all Flipside needs. Between one breath and the next, he digs his claws into the hunk of her and rips her free. She goes flying with a shout.

The floor catches her at hard angles. She loses her breath and her focus. It’s blistering cold. Flipside scrambles overtop her before she can even muster the strength to scream. Her legs kick uselessly against his, bruising themselves against his chassis. He takes both her wrists into one massive hand—clawed fingers elongated beyond that of a human’s—and pins them over top of her head. Orange light blinkers through the tundra from her gizmo. Totally useless now. 

“It’s nothing personal,” Flipside says. One good squeeze and he could shatter both her wrists. His talons cut into her skin, nearly nicking bone. “But it is private between me and Miguel—”

Snapping her teeth, she snarls and stutters out, “He’s not gonna shock you, Flippy.”

“Oh my god, you think this is a sex thing?” Flipside giggles with shrill delight. “No, no, it’s much worse than that!”

With a laser fissure, the front of his face segments in three. Behind the mask is a gaping maw of machinery. Circuitry whizzes and grates in concentric circles all down his gullet. From the black throat unfurls a tongue of wires, slick with oil. It lashes around her neck, squeezing her into a perfect still life. The cords cut with enough pressure to make her dizzy, but not enough to choke her out. The smell of burnt oil and stale air suffocates.

“This is gonna hurt you a lot,” Flipside says from within the void of his face, “but think how happy it’ll make me!” 

She struggles, writhing and turning and kicking and flailing in his grip. The whirring nightmare maw gets closer, dripping subzero condensation onto her face. It burns with cold. She calls him every bad name in the good book and then some. She'll die fighting. She'll die screaming. 

There comes a pneumonic swish of an opening door. The crackle of electricity. A shout in a language she doesn’t speak. Then, a wicked prod, spurting white-blue lightning jabbing at the black hole formerly known as Flipside. Too focused on eating her brain, Flipside is a flinch too slow, looking up just in time to deep throat the prod with bad form and a gurgle. 

With a seizure of sparks, his body jutters and then crushes flat over MJ. A many-buckled boot eclipses overhead and slams into the smoking husk of Flipside’s busted grill so that it slumps sideways off her. It’s so easy. Too easy. It takes her a second to accept the turn of events and scramble free. 

Wheezing, MJ gets onto her hands and knees, rubbing sensation back into her throat and finally looking up at her savior. 

“Hey stranger,” Gabriel O’Hara says, slinging the monstrous prod over the tops of his shoulders with unflappable ease, “you look like you could use a drink.”

---

PERSONNEL FILE
CLEARANCE: Tippy Top Secret > If You’re Reading This, You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat (LYLA is Giving Up All Pretense of Being Clever in Favor of Pithy Referential Humor. Please clap.)

Agent No: 7782.02
Internal Ref: MariJane Watson-Parker; Anomaly; Extemporaneous; Distortion
Status: Inactive > Desertion & Unresolved Multiversal Incident

Supplemental Doc #XXXX: Decoded results from scrub of FLIPSIDE-666’s hard drive pursuant to search parameters [PET FLESHY] and tagged as “captain’s log”:

• BABY’S FIRST HOMUNCULUS is alive! And a total uggo! Circuits crossed that it’ll pretty up soon!
  • Not prettying up. Just need one measly piece of DNA to influence the matrix. No such luck.
  • DNA gathered from secondary source via RED SCARE. Not ideal.
• BABY’S FIRST HOMUNCULUS is finally feeding from the substrate! Turns out fresh blood is a must! Duh!
• RED SCARE bursting with trace elements of 🌟😻HIM😻🌟 again. Where does she get off!? Frigging organics. Thinking they’re so superior because they have gut biomes and phlegm! Well they’re not special! THIS UNIT will have all that soon!
• LIL GLITCH is catching on. Def need to accelerate the timeline.
  • Camouflage efforts doubled to the detriment of BABY’S FIRST HOMUNCULUS. THIS UNIT is sorry, honey! *gif of Reba McIntyre with text single mom who works too hard*
• BABY’S FIRST HOMUNCULUS continues to be resistant to encoding efforts. What a stinker! Probs should start with organic structure and then map onto it. Not a lot of great brain candidates lying around tho.
  • Brain harvest for BABY’S FIRST HOMUNCULUS went badly. THIS UNIT got stabbed in the face. Sooooooo embarrassing.
    • All video evidence eradicated. LIL GLITCH caught on. THIS UNIT being forced through reconditioning. Again. Le gag. BABY’S FIRST HOMUNCULUS put in stasis while THIS UNIT is offline. 

Supplemental Doc #XXXX Commentary: Terabytes and terabytes of pure insanity pulled from FLIPSIDE so far, but this might just be the worst. An android playing God in plain sight. LYLA slated for internal review to determine failure to identify FLIPSIDE’s side projects. 

Ultimate purpose of FLIPSIDE’s abomination remains unknown. Likely some kind of honeypot scheme aimed at MIGUEL. Body remains in cryo for further analysis. No algorithm or signs of life detected. Physical similarities to MARIJANE not insignificant. 

Of note, “RED SCARE” linked to an archived file tagged with “good riddance"; “LOL”; and “threat neutralized”. All evidence suggests “RED SCARE” refers to MARIJANE. Promising finding, though many broken links found in reference to “RED SCARE”. Extent of DISTORTION within FLIPSIDE’s processor unknown. If files kept remotely have been fully preserved against DISTORTION effect then all the more evidence that DISTORTION is localized to LYLA and linked systems. 

Decryption efforts remain underway. 

Notes:

chapter title from "Heaven Help Us" by My Chemical Romance

back to our regularly scheduled posting schedule (for the near future - more to come next author's note)

me: this is a grounded and meditative piece about grief and love and loss
also me: flipside is now a loadbearing character
also also me: writing gabriel aura farming is the HIGHEST of all honors

next chapter: dancing the night away and dangers of a similar nature

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of temporal distortions