MJ can't quite explain why she goes back every week.
She hates it, really– the rhythmic beeping of the different monitors, the trays of instruments that are always sterile and pristine and ready to slice at a moment's notice, the smell of rubbing alcohol that clings to her skin every time she leaves. MJ hates hospitals, has always hated hospitals. Why she spends her Sunday at one is as much a mystery to her as it is to anyone else.
As Flash Thompson insists, it's because she's a psychopath. She knows the words that he whispers under his breath in class, the ones he spread eagerly when he found out. "I bet she likes the blood," she had heard him whisper with a smirk, "like some sort of perv." Quiet laughter had bubbled up from the corner of the Chemistry classroom when Flash had made the insinuation, but MJ had decided not to dignify it with a reply. They would not even notice it anyway… Well. There one was person who had been noticing her.
But she didn't want Peter Parker's pitying stare.
As MJ enters the children's hospital for the fifty-second Sunday in a row, Peter Parker is nowhere near the front of her mind. To be fair, however, MJ cannot seem to get a coherent through her head except for the sort that would be inappropriate to repeat in the presence of children at the moment, because for some godforsaken reason the hospital lobby is crowded with people.
They're everywhere.
MJ hasn't seen most of these people before, and they're not the sort that have been in the hospital like this before. These are the type of people who come with high hopes and good intentions, but they are the ones who leave confused and hurting after seeing the daily lives of the children here. Even if the patients themselves don't seem upset, their daily lives are enough to wipe the smile off the face of a journalist doing a puff piece. These are the types of people that MJ sees as she edges her way past them, all jabbering away with a strange intensity. As MJ follows the crowd with her eyes, she realizes that it is coming from the terminal word.
MJ can't help it. Her breath becomes shallow as her heart speeds up, and she pauses for a moment to drag a hand through her messy curls. Those curls were tied up into a ponytail, but now they fall loose around her shoulder as she grips the hair tie in her hands. MJ's knuckles are white as her mind races.
What's happened?
Those children, the ones in that ward, are the ones that MJ knows the best. That is the ward she knows better than any other, and the children who live there know her by name. They are the ones she spends time with, the ones she brings toys for, the ones she reads to. And even if she isn't supposed to, she does have a favorite…
Duncan, the little boy who sits in bed 125.
What if something's happened to the children there, and these people are here to report on it? MJ can count at least twelve lanyards from varying news organizations, and many of these people are clutching notepads. Before MJ knows what she is doing, she has turned in the opposite direction of the wing and then begun to run. MJ knows the way through these hallways well enough that she should be able to get to the terminal ward without using the main hall. In fact, the shortcut she takes causes her to arrive there in a space of three minutes at a jog, each minute more panicked than the last as she imagines a panicked boy with dark hair and rounded cheeks, surrounded by cameras.
These are the images playing through MJ's mind as she pulls up in the ward, panting slightly from the trip. There is a stabbing side stitch in her side that MJ is trying to ignore (not like she needs to breathe, right?), and her cheeks are warm. MJ is sure she looks like some sort of monster come to haunt the ward, with messy hair and the appearance of someone pursued.
Normally, MJ is excellent at keeping calm and professional around the kids. If she gets scared, so do they, and it's as simple as that. But today, there will be no waiting. Her heart hammers as she races towards room 125, not pausing to process the fact that the hallways are mysteriously empty now that she's reached the ward, and there is a barrier separating the press from the ward a few meters down the opposite hallway.
Instead, MJ throws open the door and immediately calls, "Dunn, are you okay? They blocked off the place, I was worried-"
Immediately, MJ freezes as her eyes come to rest on the bed. Duncan is there, and something in her chests releases the tension she's been holding there. The young boy is perched in the bed, with his close-cropped black hair a mess and his dark, rounded eyes fixed on hers. But he is not the reason that MJ cannot move.
That has more to do with the red-suited arachnid impersonator on the side of his bed, perched there with a book in his hands.
For a moment, all that MJ's stupid brain registers is that Spider-Man is reading the eight-year-old Where the Sidewalk Ends, the collection of poems that she always reads with him. The mask is pulled down, but MJ can see similar surprise on the strange, animated eyes, the same white ones that somehow managed to appear so alarmed when they had gone to D.C. For a moment, no one speaks. It is only a confused child, a stunned spider, and a mystified MJ in the doorway.
Then Duncan snaps out of it, and a toothy grin spreads across the child's face. "Don't you remember?" the child prompts, attempting to stifle giggles. "Mom told you last week that he was coming today."
"Sh-she did?" MJ stammered, running a hand through her curls. Her mind raced towards the last time she had come, and sure enough, there was a slightly hazy memory of being told that there was a scheduled visit this week. Her cheeks flushed, and MJ glanced purposely at the window, staring out of it. "Right. She did. I guess I'll see you next week, then, kiddo. Bye." The words come out quickly, dumped out into the air the same way that MJ discards her backpack in one cluttered heap when she arrives home.
It is only after she has turned to go that the bedridden boy calls, "No, wait! If you're here, can you stay? He's reading it wrong."
There is a thoroughly offended exclamation from the bed, a strangled sort of gasp that she could swear for a moment sounds like the affronted noise a young man might make. "What? You said I was doing great," comes the voice from behind the mask. For a moment, MJ swears she recognizes the sound, but then it drops almost a full octave, and she is turning around in confusion.
"You made Mr. Grumpledump sound like my grandma, and she likes smoking," Duncan informs the miffed vigilante. "But it's okay, MJ can fix it."
MJ barely registers her name as she peers down her nose at the superhero, however, and when he turns to her she can swear she sees his Adam's apple bob in a gulp. "Did you always talk like that?" she prompts, taking a step further into the room.
The superhero doesn't move for a moment, only hesitates. Then it comes, a quick, defensive, "Yes." It's even deeper than before.
"No, you didn't."
"Yeah, I did."
"I know what I heard. Why are you talking like Bruce Wayne had a child with Morgan Freeman?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, this is how I've talked my whole life– well, I mean, not when I was like, a kid, but-"
"MJ," Duncan interrupts in a petulant groan, taking the book from the gloved hands of his visitor and extending it to MJ. "Can you read?"
MJ's gaze is torn away from Spider-Man, and in an instant her demeanor changes. This is Duncan, and he's asking her to read. Spider-Man mysteries aside, MJ is wrapped around this child's finger. And said child is giving her massive sweetheart eyes, which there is no way that she can say no to.
"Alright, fine," MJ sighs, but there is a grin on her lips that she knows Duncan won't miss. He knows she loves reading to him, and he knows that he has a special place inside of MJ, somewhere.
Duncan brightens, patting the blanket beside him. The Spider-Man is on the other side, watching them silently with an expression of quiet curiosity. For a moment, MJ wishes he would just leave the two of them… But she's the uninvited guest right now, not him, and he's here for Duncan, too.
MJ plops down on the bed, absentmindedly ruffling Duncans hair as the pages through the book with her other hand. "Alright, kiddo," she sighs softly, coming upon the first page.
"Can you do the voices?" Duncan implores, the puppy eyes not quite turned off.
MJ mumbles under her breath, shaking her head, but when a muttered 'yes' escapes her lips, the boy cheers and leans against his pillow with a massive grin.
"Alright, then. 'The Truth About Turtles.' Turtles really have long legs, but they don't stretch 'em out until it's very late at night…" MJ reads in a playful, slightly nasal voice that resembles a teacher or instructor. By the time they're to the end of the poem, Duncan is laughing so hard that he's in tears, and his demands of "Another one!" are fervent.
"Come on, kiddo," MJ hums, tucking in the blanket around the boy's frail body. "I don't think we want to torture the Spider-Guy any further."
"Hmm, really?" comes the voice from the mask. This time it sounds a bit more normal as it continues, with MJ having snapped to look at him with wide eyes. "Because I definitely think we should do another." There is what MJ thinks must be a smirk on his face, and she shoots him a look that clearly wishes him death as she turns to the next page. Still, MJ swears there is a shine in those mechanical eyes, and it brings a bit of warmth to the tips of her ears.
Another poem is read, and then another. MJ isn't sure how long they go, but she notices right away when Duncan's head starts to nod off. From there on, she continues reading but in a more soothing voice, stroking the boy's soft hair. It is only when his breathing deepens and his eyes are rolled shut that she shuts the book, setting it in the drawer of his bed stand.
It is only then that MJ realizes she didn't really plan for what she would do when Duncan fell asleep. Now, she's stuck in a room with a masked arachnid who she has only ever met once, and who definitely is old enough to realize that the voice she used to speak for the king in "The Unfunny Jester" was just her Chekov impression.
"Um… Right," MJ mutters as she stands, straightening her bomber jacket ad making an attempt to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. It pops back out. "So I guess I'll just…"
She makes a vague gesture towards the door as she begins to turn, but then she hears his voice again. "Wait, no," the Spider-Man says quickly. "Um, can I ask you something? You don't have to answer, if you don't want to."
MJ bites her lip, pausing for a second as she fixes her eyes on a point over his shoulder. "Yeah?" she finally presses, and the man takes a breath.
"Why this kid?"
There is a moment of silence that stretches between them, and the hero seems to take this as a cue to go on. "I mean, there are so many kids here, but this one… He wouldn't shut up about you, you know? And you act like he's family, or something, and I've never seen anything like it-"
"My brother died in this room."
MJ isn't sure why she tells him, but as soon as the words escape her lips, they hang heavy in the air. The superhero seems to have been stunned into silence, and the white eyes blink forcibly several times in shock. "I…" His voice is wispy, hesitant, mortified all at once. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have-"
"No, you should," MJ interrupted, finally moving to stare into those strange eyes. "I hate it here. I hate it."
He is quiet, but then an empathetic reply comes. "I mean, it makes sense. But… Why do you come, then?"
MJ glances back at the bed, at the child sleeping there. "Because my brother died scared and confused and in the middle of all these panicking people," she finally found herself saying. What was MJ doing? She had never told this to anyone before, much less the freaking patron superhero of Queens. But she continued anyway. "If one kid doesn't have to die afraid, then I think maybe that's worth it, you know? Maybe, in some weird way, it'll all come full circle. At least that's what it was when it started. But now…"
MJ's eyes find the child in the bed, and a little sigh leaves her lips. "Now I love him, you know? I want my time with him, before he goes. I want him to know he's loved, and I want to know he isn't afraid when it happens. And the funny thing is that I don't think he is. He only ever asks me to look after his mom."
The Spider-Man turns his head to look at the child, and MJ swears his face softens as well. "It's kind of amazing," he admits, and MJ turns to listen. "How selfless kids can be, even when they're facing their own death. I could never be that brave."
MJ allows a slightly thoughtful grin on her face, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know… Aren't you being brave every time you put on that suit?"
The eyes on the mask widen as they turn back to her, and for a minute MJ's breath catches in her throat. He is close than she anticipated, having drifted in her direction as they spoke. And now, he is close enough that she can see that the suit it… Erm… Very fitted, and she is having a hard time thinking. Why did she say that?
"When are you coming back next?"
"What?" It takes a moment for MJ to pull herself from her thoughts, but when she does, she stammers to reply. "Oh. Um, sorry, I just- never mind. I come here every Sunday, but it doesn't matter."
It is his turn to arch an eyebrow, and a little grin slides onto his mouth as the hero replies, "Right. See you then, as long as I don't have to fight a turtle with skyscraper legs."
MJ can't help but grin in reference to the poem, but before she can make any sharp retort, he is gone. MJ watches as he opens the window in one fluid movement and disappears into the night, leaving her alone with Duncan.
MJ glances at the child fondly for a moment before pressing the button to bring the nurse into the room. Then, before anyone can see her, MJ turns and makes her way down one of the smaller hallways, running the strange encounter over in her mind and wondering, vaguely, why she wouldn't feel terribly disappointed if the hero showed up again.