Birds of a Feather
MJ doesn't get back to the dorm until eleven o'clock the next morning. She opens the door, feels an indescribable rush of relief to find her room empty, and then promptly flings herself fully-clothed on the mattress and falls asleep.
It is dreamless and unproductive. She wakes up with the same exhausting swarm of thoughts she cannot reconcile – her unabsorbed guilt and her undeniable desire and the solemn, pulsing knowledge deep in the marrow of her bones that last night she did something that changed everything.
She wakes up and the dorm is mostly empty – it's still the middle of the day. Hypnotically she rouses herself, finds her robe, pulls her hair out of its elastic.
She feels like an entirely different person. As she showers she looks down at her naked self and almost doesn't recognize her own stomach, her own legs and feet and hands – she rubs her neck, pushing the mop of wet hair back with her fingers, and it all feels so foreign, so unfamiliar.
For a long while she just stands there, letting the water pound on her back until it starts to grow cold. What have I done?
The thing is, she doesn't really regret it. And she could have. Easily. There were some crucial, sensitive, defining moments after it happened, that everything might have unraveled, that Harry might have looked at her shiftily, that she might have said all the wrong things. But they didn't.
She doesn't know how long she is in the shower for, but nobody comes into the bathroom to jar her out of her thoughts. Eventually she shuts the water off and scrubs herself dry, her skin pink from the heat. She tucks her hair up into the towel and slides her arms into her robe, wrapping it around herself, holding it tight.
The change in her is unmistakable when she looks at herself in the mirror. There is something about her cheeks, as if they are somehow more grown-up, not thinner or fatter, but nonetheless changed. Her eyes are a different kind of bright. Her lips are still plump and raw from the night before.
She likes herself like this.
It's been awhile since MJ has felt that way, longer than she can remember. She has always known she was pretty. Pretty made everything go down a little easier. But this – this is different. She feels worthy. She feels strong.
And it's because of Harry, of all people, of all circumstances. She would never have imagined the mutual comfort that they found in each other, and the togetherness they would share; after the first time that night he took her back to his apartment, with its expansive ceilings and its sharp-edged furniture and its equipment humming and glowing in the darkness.
The second time they made love was slower, more deliberate, but every bit as demanding. She wasn't crying that time. By then she had forgotten about everything except for him.
She pulls her hair out of the towel and runs her fingers through the wet strands, parting it down the side, letting in hang loose at her shoulders. She has always known Harry is … handsome. She knew there was a certain mischief about him, a certain draw, that all kinds of girls – from international supermodels to famous actresses and even, if the tabloids were correct, the princess of a small sovereign nation – flock to him.
But she never imagined she'd be one of them.
It wasn't like that, though. She is certain of it. Because for all of Harry's charm and charisma, it was something else entirely that attracted her to him, attracted them to each other. A shared history. A unique brokenness, a mutual abandonment, and very old and reliable childhood trust.
They stayed up the whole night talking. Trying to cram the last few years of their lives into the hours before the sun came up. The real stuff, this time. The good, the bad, and the ugly.
And between the two of them, there was a whole lot of ugly.
"You didn't come home last night."
MJ sucks in a breath through her nose, still clutching to her robe, her skin damp from the shower.
"Peter," she says, glancing on either side of them. He appeared out of nowhere.
His eyes are, as usual, sleepless. He is standing too close to her and doesn't seem to be even slightly aware of it.
"Where—where were you?"
She scowls, stricken with guilt, with the sinking and sudden memory of the way Peter reacted at the sound of Harry's name.
She keeps her eyes steady on him, refusing to back down at the feral look in his. "You haven't spoken to me all week," she reminds him.
He starts to shake his head but she cuts him off and says, "No, Peter, you've been avoiding me since Monday, and whatever's going on, you have to – "
"You were out all night—"
"—tell me," she bursts, "tell me what's going on."
Peter's chin juts out, his face a pale mask of misery. He is starting to withdraw. But she has him here, riled and angry, and she knows if she just pushes him enough that he might yield.
"With you and Harry," she says. "Tell me what's going on."
For a long time he is quiet. MJ is almost frightened by his silence, by the stone, unchanging expression on his face.
"What on earth," he says chillingly, "would make you ask me about Harry?"
She has never been scared of Peter before, but in this instant she might be. The way he asks it rattles something in her core. The weight of everything is sinking back on her shoulders again, piece by debilitating piece.
"Because of Monday. Because of what happened when I said his name," she says. He doesn't react, so she presses a little further, cautiously, determinedly. "Because of the way you're talking about him right now."
"Have you seen him?"
It almost comes tumbling out of her. There is a guilty knot of words at the base of her throat, and she's afraid they're going to fall out of her like marbles and scatter on the floor.
"MJ." Peter grabs her by the shoulders.
There is nothing even remotely rough about it, but she will not tolerate it. She wrenches herself out of his grasp with practiced precision.
"Don't touch me," she seethes.
His hands hover where she used to stand, shaking, disconnected from his body. "Have you seen him?" Peter asks again.
She is so spiteful and curious that she almost says yes. She almost does, so she can hurt him back, so she can make him feel as powerless and small as he was about to make her feel. So then she will force his hand into explaining just what the hell it is that went on between him and Harry.
"No," she says.
She turns her back on him, wrenching her door open and slamming it before she can see if he is trying to follow. She stands there with her back pressed against the wood, her whole body quaking, her knees weakening, sliding down the doorway into a heap.
Peter has wrecked everything.
Why can't she have this? Why can't she have this one simple, guiltless, beautiful thing? Why is every small shred of anything good only temporary?
Her breaths come in uneven and shallow as the world comes crashing around her again. She has no job. She has no source of income. This semester, if she even makes it to the end, will undoubtedly be her last.
She was starting fresh. She was going to be the new MJ, somebody smart, somebody with a plan, somebody confident and graceful and prepared, and here she is sitting on the cold floor with her head between her hands crying all over again.
"Fuck," she mutters to herself, the word warbled and watery. She squeezes her eyes shut and feels the stream of thick tears slide down her cheeks. "Fuck."
She clutches at her shoulders, feeling the heat of Peter's fingers on her skin, shuddering at the memory of it. He didn't know. He doesn't know. The shit with her father began long after she and Peter disappeared from each other's lives. The yelling, the fighting, the bruising, the hate –
There's a knock on the door.
"MJ."
She holds her breath, sits perfectly still, listening to hear heart whir and hammer sloppily in her chest.
"MJ, let me in."
She closes her eyes, leans her head against the door.
"Please?"
She is still in her robe, cinched at the waist, when she finally takes a breath and wraps her hand around the doorknob. She uses it to ease herself up and then swipes the tears out of her eyes and sets her mouth straight.
When she opens the door he is standing there, slouching apologetically. She can tell he has calmed considerably, that he is about to tell her he is sorry, that he might even explain himself, but it all spills out of her before he can try.
"I'm a burlesque dancer," she says. His eyes lift in surprise, his posture momentarily frozen. "Or, at least I was. I got fired last night. That's where I've been, by the way, not out partying like you think I've been, thanks for that." She pushes out her chin, puts her hands on her hips and squares herself. "I dance because I'm good at it and I like it and I need it to pay for school."
"MJ …"
"No, no, I'm not through." She takes a step closer to him, feeling a sudden surge of strength, swelling inside of her, reckless and piqued. "I know what you think of me, Peter. What you've thought of me. And you're right." She claps a hand to her chest. "I slept around in high school. I drank. I partied. I got arrested hanging out on the docks, I got my belly button pierced in some guy's basement, and I have woken up more than once with no idea of where I was or how I got there."
Peter's mouth is unhinged. The bridge between them has been broken for so long now – she knows she has to finish burning it before they can ever put it back together again. Every word that comes out of her, every confession she makes, is one small, selfish relief, one less thing she has to hold to her chest.
"And you?" she says, her voice too loud in her ears. "You're gonna have to learn to be okay with that. Because that's who I was. It's not who I am anymore, but it's who I was, not that it matters, because I'm still a good person. I'm still MJ. I'm still the MJ who shared hot dogs and chased fireflies and stole your comic books, and I'm still the MJ who cares about you, so stop this. Stop the judgment, stop the pulling away, just – stop making me jump through hoops. I'm here. Talk to me, Peter."
She is breathless, red-faced, and finally empty when she gets it all out of her, like she is sucking poison out of her blood. It is the first relief she has felt in months, and it is followed too quickly by the horror of what she has done: either this will be the first step in fixing things with Peter, or she has severed any chance of friendship with him at all.
It takes him too long to speak. The quiet is excruciating. She almost bows her head down and mumbles some excuse, almost shuffles behind the doorframe and closes it and spares him from the awkward follow-up to her rant, but she is paralyzed.
"Okay," he finally says.
She waits for him to say more, and when he doesn't, she laughs. She can't help it. "That's it?"
He nods. "And I'm sorry," he says. "If you ever felt … MJ. I've never thought badly of you. I've worried," he says. His eyes are kinder now. Gentler. "There's a difference."
She feels bad now, for ever having doubted him.
"Thank you for telling me the truth," he says.
She tucks her chin into her chest, feeling the residual embarrassment coming on. Over the next few days she will no doubt play this little speech like a broken record over and over, regretting it and un-regretting it until she exhausts herself.
But she isn't through here. Not yet.
"Are you going to tell me the truth?" she asks, quietly, patiently.
Peter tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear. The gesture is surprisingly forward and intentional that she doesn't even react. She already knows that his answer is going to be no.
"I trust you," he starts.
"So tell me."
The words are painful and thick on his tongue. "I can't," he says.
She looks up at him and she believes him. She doesn't want to. She is thinking of last night, of the pressure of Harry's lips on hers, of the warmth of his bare skin, of their limbs tangled in his sheets, and she doesn't want to believe Peter.
"Okay," she says.
It feels like somewhere there is a door slamming. It is suddenly hard to look at him, because she is afraid that if she looks too long he will know.
"And I know this sounds crazy. I know that. But MJ, if he … he might try to get in touch with you. And if he does – just – tell me, okay? Please just tell me. Before you do anything."
MJ should tell him right now. This is her opening. After this if she is discovered, she won't have any excuses, won't have a chance for redemption.
She shouldn't have to decide between them. As a kid she couldn't have imagined a scenario where she would.
"Alright," she says to her bare feet.
After Peter leaves she sits on her bed and presses her fingers to her swollen lips, grazes her fingers along her bare thighs, feeling the ghosts of last night's aches on her skin.
If neither of them will tell her the truth, she will find out for herself.
((()))
She spends Thanksgiving, and the last few dollars in her bank account, in a youth hostel.
The shitty thing about Empire State dorms is that they close over the holidays. She has nowhere to go. Peter asks her about it, or at least tries to feel her out, and she lies about taking a bus up north to her aunt's house. Harry calls. She ignores him, the same way she has for these past few weeks.
She took her old job again. Her old job with her terrible boss who stands too close and makes lewd comments and doesn't give a crap about his staff. It is barely, barely enough to cover the cost of the dorms. She eats anything she can get cheaply, and unfortunately it is mostly ramen. Everything else is coming out in loans.
There's a television in the common room of the youth hostel, and MJ spends Thanksgiving Day sitting on the couch, watching football with a bunch of European kids who are traveling and have no concept for Thanksgiving in the first place.
That night she falls asleep on her empty stomach and tries to scrounge up something to be thankful for. She's alive. Her father is out of her life. She is still in school.
Peter is speaking to her again. He talks to her about his aunt, about his classes, about his photography. She had no idea how good he was at it.
The morning after Thanksgiving she wakes up in a room with seven other teens and twentysomethings to the sound of someone screaming in Italian. One of the tourists. MJ almost falls off the bunk of her bed as everyone starts clambering up at once – she grabs her bag, fully packed at the foot of her bed, already ready to run.
She can't understand a thing the kid is saying. Only one word connects in her consciousness, enough to fully rouse her from her sleep: Spider-Man.
And that's when she hears the crash.
"Shit."
It can only be an earthquake. Or an apocalypse. She tumbles off the top bunk and hits the floor, and then feels her bag thud on top of her. The impact knocks the wind out of her – someone steps on her on their way out the door and she hardly even notices, trying to regain her breath.
Eventually she clambers back up to her feet. She can't stay in the building. All the furniture is flimsy and falling with every shake of the ground. Unsteadily she reaches the stairwell and barely manages to scale the three floors to the bottom unscathed.
When she hits the street she thinks it might have been better to stay inside. It is a full on war zone. The entire block is ripped apart, cars are flipped over and burning, gunshots are spraying the cement and on either side of the sidewalk are people standing, staring, watching – what?
Her eyes follow their eyes and she sees it: a man in a gigantic metal suit, his footfalls so heavy that she can feel the impact of them crunching the street.
People are running, screaming, watching, which makes them stupid. They are smacking into each other as they go. MJ is only out for a few seconds when the first person barrels into her. She throws out her hands and barely stops herself from eating cement when she hits the ground.
Her knees and palms stinging and bleeding, she scrambles back up and casts her eyes back at the horrible, menacing creature. There is a man inside of it. She only knows because it is yelling something, accented and garbled but nonetheless clear: he is the cause of all of this havoc, and he doesn't care who gets in his way.
MJ has always had a knack for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
She runs. She is not going to be one of the stupid people who gapes at the goings-on and then gets hit by debris and bites the dust, and she is not going to be one of those even stupider people who sticks around warning the stupid people to run too. They know what they're in for and if they're going to wait like sitting ducks for their imminent deaths then there is nothing she can do to stop them.
Spider-Man, they all keep saying. As she runs she hears his name, whispered, shouted, moaned, like a call, like a prayer.
He won't come. He hasn't been around in months. Months that the Black Cat has been robbing banks and beating the shit out of random criminals and breaking into museums. Months that petty crime has started to run rampant again around the streets of their city. Spider-Man has been gone since the day Gwen died – and she sincerely doubts he will change his mind today.
In fact, not for the first time, she wonders if Spider-Man is even alive anymore. Nobody had any definitive proof. They was a handful of witnesses claiming that they saw him leave the scene at the plant after he called in Gwen's death to the police, but other than that …
She is remembering now, for the first time in weeks, Harry's promise to stop Spider-Man. It hasn't occurred to her. And why would it? It's not as if Spider-Man has been around for her to worry about.
And it certainly doesn't look like he will be now.
MJ finds pretty quickly that running is futile. The man in the suit is making his rounds up and down the block with astonishing speed – as soon as she finds a cross street she ducks through it, deeper into Midtown, but she hears the telltale crunch of cement behind her and she knows – it's coming. She can't outrun it.
And the trouble is, this street isn't nearly as crowded as the last one. She just made herself more of a target than she ever would have been back on the main street with all of the idiots standing and watching and waiting to die.
One quick sweep of her eyes is all it takes to confirm her fears: there are maybe twenty people on this lonely block, all of them running, all of them clearly visible. Her odds aren't good, and she hates herself for thinking like that. For thinking that she might be relieved if whoever the hell this is went after somebody else and spared her.
"Watch out!"
It's a teenage boy up ahead of her, his gaze locked on something behind her – above her – with palpable horror in his eyes.
She wheels around just in time to see the taxi flip up out of the street and barrel toward her.
She is going to die. MJ watches it move in slow motion and knows there is nothing she can do to avoid it. It's strange, but nothing profound happens to her: her life doesn't flash before her eyes, she doesn't feel the weight of her regrets or the yearning for what she has yet to do. It isn't acceptance, it's just that she cannot process it. She cannot fathom it.
In the split second before the car crashes into her, she wonders how Gwen felt. If it was all this sudden. If she had any time to see it coming, if she thought there was even a shred of a chance she might be saved.
And then something unexplainable happens. Something unexplainable and downright idiotic. Without even consciously deciding to, she throws her arms out in front of her, using the full weight of her body to propel herself forward, to lock her elbows in.
The car smacks into her outstretched arms and she stumbles backward but stays standing upright … with the taxi clutched in her hands.
She drops it as soon as it happens and it lands with a clamor at her feet.
"No fucking way," she says, reeling backward, suddenly unsteady and dizzy with disbelief. It is black at the edges of her vision. She feels herself falling into darkness before she actually starts to physically fall, and when she does, she hears a voice, young and unmistakable, at the far reaches of her memory –
We have to fix her, Dad. Please. Do something. Anything.
It doesn't hurt when she hits the pavement. She is so far gone that she doesn't feel anything at all.
(((())))
I got ANOTHER internship. This time for social media in Seattle in like a month. It turns out that instead of being a general disappointment to society, I'm going to be a general disappointment to society who lives off very short paid internships in random cities for the rest of her life!
Things that I have done this week to toe the edge of childhood and adulthood: This week I wrote fanfiction ... in an airport bar. In plain view. I also tried my very first mimosa, and thus got daytime tipsy for the very first time, and then proceeded to go watch How to Train Your Dragon 2 with a theater full of seven year olds (which I sincerely, highly, aggressively recommend. not the part where I was tipsy, but the part where I saw a really great movie full of feels that I've been WAITING FOREVER TO SEE).
What I'm basically trying to say is I have the heart of a child and the liver of a 22-year-old.