"You know what's the best thing and the worst thing about going home after school?" Mary Jane asked after her fourth day at Midtown. School was over early today and the thee of them- her, Peter and Michelle were on their way to catch their trains home. It was a cold and windy day. The day before, the clouds had rolled in and they were refusing to move. It had stormed yesterday, and today there was a slight chance of snow. Peter's hand was cold and shaking. Michelle could tell because she was holding it, and he was wearing just a thin-layered sweater, while she and the red-head were hidden under thick parkas.

"What could be bad about going home?" Peter asked, breathing out steam into the cold air.

Everything, Michelle thought.

Mary Jane playfully punched him in the arm. "Well let's say the best one first? It's sleep. Hah. Plain and warm sleep, especially in the cold. With the heater on, and two layers of blankets over you? Wow. That's the one thing I'm always looking forward to. Something I always dream about all the time." She chuckled, leaving Peter gaping at her. Michelle was amazed beyond words, and she made sure to look the other way while the other girl finished talking.

"And the worst thing?" Peter asked.

"It happens between you entering your doorstep and reaching your bed. It's the longest journey. It's always a long journey to bed. After you reach home, you have to undress, then shower. Then have your lunch, only after which you can go take your nap. Whoah! Not that I hate showering. If I don't bath I'll die. Which reminds me." She rubbed Peter's arms. "Boy you're hot in there aren't you tiger? I'd freeze dressed like you."

"No, it's um, actually, uh, I lost my bag yesterday in the alley," he lied. He could, because till then the red-haired MJ didn't know about his secret identity. "It must have been stolen. My coat was in it, and now I have to get myself a new one."

"What'd you go into the alley for?" she asked, looking at him through hooded eyes.

Peter shrugged. Michelle could tell by his hand that he was running out of excuses. "Shortcut."

"How peculiar," Mary Jane commented.

Michelle, someone who avoided talking too much, someone who was trying her best not to piss people off with her dry humor and unnecessary remarks, suddenly knew for sure that the red-head and she weren't going to be very good friends. Despite everything she had tried, but it seemed it wasn't possible.

"But then, isn't everything peculiar?" she asked. She thought about the post-snap world they were living in, all the Avengers disassembled, people missing and things having changed drastically. It was peculiar. She also meant the red-head. A weed among the roses, who, in the rest of the way chatted and chatted and Michelle felt a slight twinge of a headache. It was all tiger, tiger, tiger, tiger, tiger. And it was only Peter.

No indeed, they weren't going to be friends any time soon.

"So here we are," Peter said to Michelle when they reached the subway, letting go of her hand, and she wondered, whose hand next would he hold? The red-head looked all keen on it. Her fair share…

As Michelle parted way, the light faded and darkness crouched upon her. She took one last glance at the two of them, Peter and Mary Jane, still under the sun's beam. Peter had his hands tied behind him, and Mary Jane, the same height as he, was saying something, squeezing the strap of her bag. Michelle waited for him to look at her, just one last glance before they went their ways, but it was too late. Their train had arrived, and they got in.

But deep down Michelle knew he would have looked back.


It's one of those grandfather clocks against a lonely yellowing wall. Its pendulum is out of order, it seems, because it strikes neither back nor forth. The glass on the dial is broken, but the hands keep ticking. There is a mirror opposite it, and it's weird, because whenever Michelle turns to look at her tired reflection, she doesn't have to read backward to see the time behind her.

She's waiting, but she can't recall for what. There is a door at the corner to the left of the mirror and she keeps looking at it. Waiting for it to open, yes, but she doesn't remember who she is expecting. All the while, she can see through the vents that outside, the day has faded and the night has risen, and she stands completely still. Deadly silence is her only companion.

Her eyes land back on the mirror.

It's totally dark and very difficult to see, but she can notice grey hair on her head. A second later, instead of where she stands, there is an old lady in her cloths, imitating her every movement. She can still hear the clock ticking all the while and she waits, all panicky now, but for who she can't remember. I may be cold, rude, indifferent. But why is this happening to me?

The door knob rattles, and her surrounding transforms back into the room her mother lies unconscious, connected to a dozen tubes and monitors.

"Yes?" she calls out, and suddenly realizes that it was stupid of her to say so, because this is the Intensive Care Unit and the doctors and staff can come and go any time they wish.

The door opens wide. Cold air rushes in, and the doctor is mindful to close it behind him at once. He is a middle-aged man, in his mid-forties maybe as Michelle observes. He's wearing dark, framed spectacles and his fair hair is cut short and neatly combed. He smiles at her. Michele knows the meaning behind that smile all too well. It's for her reassurance that her mother's condition is worse than it seems, and that it's not sure how long it's going to take for recovery, or if she'll recover at all.

"How are you holding up?" he asks, walking over to her mother's bed and examining the monitors.

"I'm fine." Michelle's voice is monotonous. She is in no way alright. She's been in a hospital the last eight hours and she hates hospitals. She looks at where her mother is lying, lost in endless dreams, with all the monitors showing her life in screens, beeping and humming. The room is cold, both literally and metaphorically. Michelle never liked the way hospitals smelled- something between antiseptic and some strong cleaning agent which only reminds her of the dark operating theaters where the doctor cuts open his patients on a table, and she wonders what stops them to even boil down the tiled floors if they are so concerned about hygiene.

The room is dimly lit by the fluorescent tube above her mother's head and another right on the wall opposite the closed window. There is a slab with a basin and a bowl rests beside it. Below, there is a trash bin stuffed with a black poly-bag which is empty. The curtains are drawn. Michelle doesn't like their colour. It's a dark shade of blue, very calming. So calming, in fact, that she literally wants to run out of here.

She knows she can't, because the only parent she's ever known is sleeping endlessly in here, her head having torn open by shards of glass, metal and the gravel, which is now uncountably stitched, wrapped in medical stuff Michelle suddenly forgets what it's called. It's just stuff. Cold, merciless, medical stuff. Wrappings.

"How's he?" she asks the doctor.

The doctor's smile fades and his face grows dark. "You mean the man who was with her in the car?" Michelle nodded. "I'm afraid I have bad news, Miss Jones. Mr. Adams couldn't make it."


By the time Michelle got home, the first flakes of snow had landed on the ground. She was not feeling very well in the mind. The worst thing about going home was home itself. She hated the indifference and loneliness that lurked in there. The door was left open, and Michelle doubted it was for her. Usually she carried her key to school.

The Jones', which comprised only of the mother and the daughter, lived a pretty plain life, or at least, that's what seemed to Michelle. There were little photographs they'd clicked, especially with her. The rest were all with cousins Michelle had long ago lost contact with.

"We've never heard of him," Michelle heard her mother's voice from the other side of her door, which was almost always locked the entire time she was in there. Michelle hardly ever saw her. She'd leave for school before her mother left home and come back before too. Her mother was never there to pick her up from school trips- not after a disaster they had survived in Washington, not after the Europe tour. Never. Michelle was a girl of her own upbringing.

She tiptoed forward and put her ear on the door. "How long ago was it that he'd left?" It was a man's voice, which intrigued her even more. She kept on listening.

"About six months after the girl was born," her mother replied. Her voice was a little too upbeat than it should have for what she was saying. "One night he left for his shift and he never came back. At first I thought it was his work, but then I waited for weeks and weeks, and when he didn't come anymore, well you know what, Adams. I stopped waiting. What could be worse?"

"I know. I know." the man said. "When will your girl be home?"

"Oh No. Don't worry about her, Will. She doesn't care what I do, nor do I, what she does. She's kind of a free bird. No leash."


It's evening and the clock strikes seven. Michelle is tired of waiting. Waiting that he'd come. There is no sign of Peter Parker.

Throughout the day she was surprised she had so many guests. First it was, unbelievably Flash in the morning who had shown up, and yet surprisingly again, he tried to cheer her up. Then Betty and Jason came along (weird, because Michelle never remembered having a chat with Jason ever), and five minutes later, it was Ned on the door. Mr. Harrington came with Mr. Dell, both putting up very sympathetic faces. Flash attempted a joke, and Michelle laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was weird that no one laughed at such a weird joke ("I'm sorry, it's just that it's weird no one laughed. Yeah, it was a poor one, Flash, but weird all the same. Sorry!").

She is tired. She hasn't slept the entire day. Peter is not here, but what feels good is that she has people there for her. She drowses on the sofa, and just then the door opens and Peter walks in.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he says, and he looks terrible. Michelle wants to tell him that it's alright. That he has come after all. She's about to, when she wakes up to the noise of the doorknob rattling, followed by a knock.

Michelle pushes herself up, hoping it's Peter, and as she approaches the door, she remembers her dream from earlier today. That there will be no one outside, and when she closes the door, and looks at herself in a mirror, she'll see an old lady instead of herself.

But it's Peter's aunt May, and a warm relief floods through her. May pulls her into a hug, and she's holding her too tight. "How're you doing?" she asks.

"Okay," Michelle says, pulling back. It's pretty awkward. The flicker of hope still hasn't died down. "There's someone outside?"

May nods her head. "Yeah," she says smiling, but the smile only looks sympathetic.

Michelle carefully walks back towards the door, quietly, but why she doesn't know. Why isn't Peter coming in? Is he sorry for being so late, for not calling her even once? It doesn't matter. She'll tell him it's alright. This time she really will, because this time she's not dreaming.

Whoever it is outside walks in, and stops at the door. The whole world seems to have gone colourless at the instant. Suddenly Michelle wonders, is she still dreaming?

For standing on the doorway isn't Peter Parker.

It's Mary Jane Watson.


A/N: Thank you Gmac for your review. I was thinking of bringing in Harry, but I'm not so sure now. I'll have to decide. This story isn't as tightly plotted as "The Spider-Verse", my other ongoing story, so there is a slight possibility I might modify it. Let's see. As for the villain, well if there really I any (I'm not saying if there is or isn't), you'll have to wait and find out. Also, thank you to all my readers, and to everyone who have supported this story by favoriting and following it!