A/N: This AU has occupied nearly all of my creative energy for about six months. It's completely written, so updates should be fairly frequent. This chapter has some non-explicit sexual content, like most of the fic, but there will be some explicit smut later on too. Also, expect plenty of cursing. Other than the obvious canon divergence, I've done my best to relay the complicated world of Spider-Man in accordance with the comics. The title comes from the song of the same name by John Mayer, and this chapter's title is from "One Headlight" by the Wallflowers. Please, please give me a review if you're so inclined...you work on something this long, you start to get very self-conscious about it.
Without further ado, the fic!
Chapter 1: The Long Broken Arm of Human Law
Once upon a time, Mary Jane Watson met a boy named Peter Parker and said, "Face it, Tiger, you hit the jackpot!"
They flirted, that ended, life went on. Their friend died, life went on, and they fell in love.
That feels like a long time ago.
That's it. It. She's fucking done. God, what the hell has she been thinking for the last three years? Yeah, Peter is gorgeous with those eyes and the piece of hair always falling onto his forehead, and yeah he can be really funny, and yeah, she likes the nights he takes her out and they have fun, and yeah, he's a great kisser, and he's sweet, and he's—well, he's Peter. Her Peter.
But the sweetness and the eyes are nothing next to the way he acts like she's just there when he's not busy doing God knows what and the way he frequently breaks dates without any real explanation and how closed off he can be.
Yeah, she loves him—more than life itself, an incredibly unhelpful voice in her head adds—but she's worth more than this. She's worth more than a distracted kiss and no gift this morning and a missed dinner reservation on their goddamn anniversary and waiting three hours and drinking wine while the waitress sends her pitying looks.
Three years, and he still misses their anniversary.
She throws everything in her suitcases haphazardly. She knows she's going to leave stuff behind, but whatever. She wants to get out as soon as possible, and if it means leaving behind hairbrushes and underwear, so be it.
She zips up her bags and starts marching towards the door. She thinks about leaving a note, but hell, if Peter can't figure out why she left, she doesn't even need to justify it. And that's if he notices her clothes are gone within the next day. She might have time to get her phone shut off and take a plane out of here before he can track her down. Cut Peter Parker out of her life totally, and start over.
The thought dims her anger and turns into cold fear churning in her stomach as she imagines life without her Tiger. Then she tells herself to shut the fuck up and get out of the apartment.
She hears the door handle turn and she curses her moment of hesitation.
"Mary Jane?" his voice is apologetic and she thinks, look at that, he must've remembered.
"I know you're gonna be mad, but…" he enters the kitchen with a bouquet of her favorite lilies. He stops suddenly when he sees the suitcases.
"OhMyGod," he croaks out. She crosses her arms over her chest.
"I'm leaving, Peter." She is both proud of and cringing inwardly at her perfectly firm, angry voice. "I'm done with this bullshit. I'm better than this."
He stares at her, his eyes impossibly wide.
"Ba—"
"Don't you baby me so I won't be mad. I'm done, Peter. There's nothing you can say." She grabs the handle of a suitcase, and Peter drops the flowers and steps close to her.
"Mary Jane," he rasps. "God, I fucked up. I fucked up so good this time."
"That's my point, Peter! This isn't the first time and it's not gonna be the last, either."
"What if it was?" he asks, his eyes shining with fear.
"But it's not going to be. I'm not stupid enough to do this again."
"Mary Jane, I swear to God, I will change. I'll be everything you deserve. I'll –anything you want, I will give you. Please, MJ, please, just stay with me. Just give me one more chance."
She wants to tell him to screw himself, but one look at his stupid eyes do her in—because he's about to cry, and he looks so sincere, and he means it. She knows he means it. He has to mean it.
"I'm mad at you," she says.
He looks up, cautious hope appearing on his face.
"I'm really mad. I don't think I've ever been this pissed at you, actually." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "You better be serious, Peter. One more fuckup and I'm out of here. I'm not doing this anymore. I can't do this anymore."
Peter nods and rises from the floor, hesitantly extending his hands towards her.
"I'm gonna go to Aunt Anna's for a few days to cool off. I'm serious—you better be being honest with me."
"I am," he swears, and he tenderly strokes her cheek. She half-wants to lean into the touch and half-wants to slap it away, so she compromises by staying stiff.
"I'll make it up to you if it kills me," Peter says. His voice is strained, but determined.
"You'd better," she says, and she pulls his hand off her face before taking only one case with her to Anna's. She gets there, hugs her aunt and asks to be alone, and cries hysterically the moment she ends up in her old room, right across from Peter's old room in May's house.
Why did she give ever someone so much power to hurt her?
Three days later, she goes home. (Because as much as she hates it, that ratty apartment is home because it's Peter.) She blinks when she enters, because what the hell?
"Mary Jane?" Peter calls.
"Did you paint?" she demands.
He pokes his head out from the kitchen and grins. "Yeah. I know you always hated how dingy those walls were, so I thought you'd like that shade of blue. Do you?" She nods. He's only wearing a pair of old jeans, slung low on his hips, and paint is smeared on his shoulder and abdomen, and dammit, but the sight is spreading a familiar hunger through her. She wonders if the bastard is trying to seduce her on purpose.
"You wanna see the kitchen?" he asks hopefully. She nods and follows him slowly. He's halfway through painting it yellow. A lump rises in her throat, much to her annoyance. Her mom's kitchen was yellow. She always wanted one like that, and Peter knows that.
"Sorry it's not finished yet," he says, "I thought you'd be gone longer."
She turns to him, intending to fire back a snappy retort, but she looks into his warm, beautiful eyes and she can't help leaning forward and kissing him.
His lips are soft and timid against hers, but she can feel when his confidence rises and he begins to press more insistently back and his tongue swipes against her lower lip in a silent question. She lets him in, God knows why—but you do know why, that annoying voice pipes up—and then he's pulling out every trick she likes, and she moans a little. She feels his hand slip into her hair, soothingly running his fingers through it, and then he pulls away.
"That was…okay, right?" he says anxiously.
"I kissed you, you goof," she rolls her eyes. He leans back in and starts kissing her roughly, and her head is starting to pleasantly swim.
"Well, I did that time," he points out, smirking. "Still okay?"
"Yeah," she says softly. "Do it again."
They make love on the kitchen floor, even though Peter offers to carry her into the bedroom or at least the couch. She tells him no, for God's sake keep going, and he resumes his attentions to her neck. While Peter has never been selfish during sex, this time is he is nothing but focused on her. She's utterly breathless, blissfully sated, by the time they finally collapse against the linoleum.
"Jesus Christ, Peter," she huffs out a laugh. "You didn't have to be so…thorough."
"Yes I did," he insists. "I wish you'd let me take you into our room, though. You'll be sore later."
"I'll make you give me a massage," she says breezily, and feels a little touched when he nods seriously.
"Anything you want, I said," he reminds her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Why don't you go rest awhile, huh? I wanna finish up here today. The bedroom is green, by the way. Reminds me of you."
She kisses him and starts to rise before he scoops her up in his arms and literally carries her to bed and tucks her in.
"Carrying me princess-style is not necessary."
"Milady, I live to serve."
"Hey, what's that?" she pokes at his side where he has a mass of greenish bruises, spreading down onto his back and hip. She didn't even notice them earlier. Too horny, she thinks, amused. He winces.
"Jesus, sorry," she apologizes.
"I was late to dinner because I got caught up in taking photos of Spidey and the Goblin," he admits. "I got hit into a brick wall. I'm lucky I didn't break any bones."
She growls, "You idiot! This is exactly what I meant—you missed our anniversary for pictures? To get hurt?"
"I'll never do it again," he says, positioning her under the covers. She crosses her arms. "Oh, yeah? I'm having trouble buying that, sorry. "
"I quit the Bugle," he says. She blinks. "Oh."
"It was too crazy a job," he says. "And it was horrible pay, anyway. I've got an interview somewhere else next week."
"Still, I'm sorry," she says softly, biting her lip. "I didn't want you to have to quit your job. You loved taking pictures."
"I can still take pictures, just not of crime battles," he says lightly. She opens her mouth to apologize again, but he shakes his head, smiling a little.
"I'd rather have you here than a job, MJ."
She drags him back into bed with her, ignoring the mumbled, "But I need to finish painting!" vibrating over her neck.
Things change—for the better.
Peter starts getting home exactly when he promises. Sometimes, he gets home early to surprise her with a flowers or a homemade meal (which she does her best to eat enthusiastically, because Peter is not a great cook). They spend the evenings cuddled up on the couch, watching her favorite movies while Peter kisses her temple, her neck, her mouth if he can angle it right. Peter has never tried harder to please her in bed, either, and she's enjoying the results.
As much as she likes being doted on, after about a month, she tells him to knock it off. His eyebrows scrunch together and he frowns like she just canceled Christmas.
"But I'm still making it up to you," he protests.
"Tiger, no," she says firmly. "That's unhealthy. You've been wonderful, and it's great and all, but you can't always be constantly focusing on me being happy. You being happy makes me happy."
"Well, ditto," Peter argues.
He's so put out she has to laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Peter, listen. Just be your wonderful self and…keep your promises, okay? That's all I need to be happy."
"I will," he says softly.
"You don't need to make anything up to me anymore. I won't leave you," she swears. "I can't. I can't ever. I—I'd die without you."
He looks at her, his eyes bright and intense, an expression on his face like she's voiced some fundamental truth. "Exactly," he says.
She doesn't really realize until she's standing waiting in the subway one day next to a Bugle screaming, "Crime Rate Skyrockets! Where Is Spider-Man?" that Spider-Man has quit web-slinging. She flips through the story, grimacing at Jolly Jonah's colorful epithets for Spidey. Apparently no one's seen him in a month or so, and Jonah's theory is he's been incarcerated or realized that people hate him. Huh. Funny Peter hasn't mentioned Spidey's disappearance. They're both fans. Peter hates Jonah using his pictures to slander Spider-Man, but he's always needed the money. The only good news the Bugle reports is that the Green Goblin has also disappeared. Maybe they finished each other off, JJJ suggests hopefully.
She mentions it that night over dinner, and Peter accidentally chokes on his water. "Sorry," he coughs. "Yeah…he's just gone."
"Did he say anything to you?"
Peter shakes his head. "Not in so many words. Last time I saw him he just said sorry and webbed away before I could ask what for."
"No idea why he stopped?"
Peter hesitates. "He's seemed kind of…burnt out. I mean, I can't imagine how hard it is for him to always be saving people and then have rabid dogs like JJJ after him all the time. I think maybe it got to be too much for him to be Spider-Man and be whoever else he really is, too."
"That's awful," Mary Jane says. "Poor guy. We both owe him our lives. I hope he's doing okay."
"I hope so too," Peter says quietly, and he picks up his fork and starts again on his lasagna.
They fall into a beautiful routine. Peter pulls up his grades almost miraculously and graduates with honors. His new job has him banking hours at a research lab with steady pay. Her Peter, who always used to be late to everything, gets an award for punctuality that she laughs at for ten minutes before framing and hanging it up in the kitchen to tease him. The pay is good. Next thing she knows, a beaming Peter shows her the lease for a cozy apartment in a nice neighborhood. They move in a month later, and she's never been so happy. Peter seems happy, too. Less distracted, less tired, less worried. He decides to teach AP biology; she starts focusing on Broadway. He comes to all her shows at least twice with flowers and a goofy grin.
It takes a while to notice a few new tics, but MJ is too afraid to ask where the hell they came from. Things have been so good for so long, and she's not ready for the bliss to end.