AUTHOR aidan adair (aidan@soon.com)
SUMMARY some people don't like waiting.
A/N this is the first half of the second chapter. you may want to check and make sure you've read all of the first, or you may be a bit lost here. the other half'll be posted tomorrow, pending edits. (hooray for long weekends!)
2 humor me
"a new love -
though i know
there's no such thing as true love -
even so,
although i never knew love,
still i feel that one dream is my due"
She was weightless. The souls that passed her were anchored to the ground, but she could walk above their heads.
When she was a little girl, she would just stop thinking. The second her father started screaming at her, she turned on the cruise control. It made it easier to deny everything he accused her of if she didn't stop to think of the consequences. And now it was far easier to ignore the last hour. Maybe that caring adoration was his idea of friendship, the knight-in-rusting-armor his approach to her life. Mary Jane realized that he loved her, but she knew the dimming twinkle in Peter's eye would soon entirely give out. Maybe she just needed to leave town.
With a start, she realized that she was in front of Harry and Peter's building. She gave a little shake and buzzed up to their apartment. Harry didn't even wait for a message; he just unlocked the door.
He had the door propped open. She walked in unceremoniously and dropped her duffel bag on the floor; with a small sigh as she plopped into one of their cushioned armchairs.
"That's nice," she murmured, kicking off her heels. "That's really nice."
"Long day?" Harry asked sympathetically, dropping into the couch opposite her. "God, I don't even have to ask. You must be exhausted."
She closed her eyes. "You have no idea. This might sound really pathetic, but I feel like running away. There's just too much to deal with right now."
He leaned forward and patted her hand. "It's understandable, but I don't think it'd work. I did that in high school, you know. I'd get sick of all the politics and backbiting and just stop doing my schoolwork. My father'd switch me out of the school, and it'd start again. Peter was the one who really pulled me out of it." Harry cut himself short, surprised at his outburst. "Sorry."
Mary Jane straightened slightly, smoothing her skirt with her hands. "No, it's okay. How did Peter pull you out of it?"
"Well, he was my best friend." Harry's dark eyes softened. "Any other best friend I had before that was either completely riding off his father or into things that I didn't really want to do. Peter was just genuinely nice. He always cared."
She smiled, albeit sadly. "I know."
Harry stared into her eyes for a moment. Lovely. "Oh, hey, Peter made me save you some soup – you're pretty lucky he insisted, or I would've polished it off. He made this awesome beef barley." He jumped off the couch and began bustling about the kitchen.
MJ stretched and followed. "Peter cooks?" she said, surprised. "I imagined you two eating take-out all the time."
"Well, actually, we did for a while," Harry said ruefully. "Then Aunt May found out, and all hell broke loose. Apparently she'd been teaching Peter how to cook ever since he was little so that that wouldn't happen. Peter suddenly acquired culinary skills, and now we eat like kings." He popped the bowl into the microwave and pulled out a chair for her to sit down.
"Thanks. I feel like I'm just plopping from one place to another," she said with a laugh.
"Hey, you can plop here anytime." Harry's eyebrows knitted briefly. "I set up Peter's room for you, if that's okay? He has science stuff all over the place, but it doesn't smell too funky. I mean, I cracked the window."
Oh, great. I'm in his room. "I'd assume Peter's on the couch, then?" MJ asked delicately.
"Actually, he keeps an air mattress under his bed. He'll probably just drag it out to the living room. I'd imagine." Harry crossed his arms. "I mean, he'd better not sleep with you."
She burst out laughing at his sudden frightened look. "Don't worry, Harry. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."
He caught her gaze again, purposefully. "Maybe I just don't want him taking care of you."
MJ ducked her head. She suddenly felt self-conscious and crossed her arms. "I'm really sorry, Harry, about our breakup. If it makes you feel better, he doesn't want me. Nothing's going to happen. I feel like a goddamn teenager with a crush."
Harry bent over, lifting her chin with his hand: an unconscious echo of Peter's earlier caress. Mary Jane stifled a sob. "Look," Harry said, tenderly, "he's just deluded right now. I'm not sure he knows what he wants. I do."
He slowly got down on his knees, looking up into her startled face. "Peter loves you as a friend. He's absolutely determined to fight for you, to help you win your battles. But I love you for what you are. You're a strong woman, but you can't do everything by yourself." At her flash of indignation, he quickly continued. "Mary Jane, I can't do everything by myself either! But I think we both could, with each other." Harry slowly pulled a tiny blue box out of his pocket.
"Harry, I don't deserve this," she said honestly. "Imagine what your father's colleagues would say!" Imagine what Peter would say. Maybe it would snap him out of his indecision. Strangely, the thought made her feel rebellious. Maybe that would be the wakeup call he needed. Hold on: what the hell am I thinking? He'd never hurt me purposely. Why would I do something like that to him?
Harry watched the conflicting emotions fly across her face. It was too hard to watch. He cupped her cheek with his hand, caressing her with his thumb. "I don't care what my dad's colleagues say. They're not important to me; they're not family. Peter's my family. You – well, I wish you were, too." He stumbled over his next words. "No one – no one could love you as much as I do. No one."
Mary Jane stared at him blankly. He tried to make his gaze convey all his yearning, all the frustration of waiting and messing up and watching his best friend capture her heart. I guess I'm making my move, now. Peter never had to. He felt a sudden stab of jealousy for Peter, who could take care of everything so effortlessly, of schoolwork and careers and girls.
Harry saw her expression before she parted her lips and didn't give her time to speak. "Look," he said, "just take this." He pressed the tiny velvet box into her hand, closing her fingers over it. "Think about it. Your soup's cold," he said lamely, getting up and walking to the microwave.
Mary Jane turned the box over in her hands delicately, not daring to open it. Harry shut his eyes tightly and turned his head, hands fumbling for the doorframe.
"I'll just go to bed. Turn off the lights when you do."
He shut the door.
When Mary Jane finally willed herself to open the box, she was duly delighted. She knew Harry pulled out all the stops when it came to impressing her, but this felt a little different - a little more warm.
The ring was platinum; it was covered in diamonds, curly-cuing around one another to form a brilliant pattern around a lone sapphire mounted in the middle. The inscription around the inside of the band read MJ: Forever Loved. She idly ran a finger over the engraving, feeling the cool metal on her skin. A quick movement and she pulled it up her finger, where it rested perfectly.
That rat! He must've stole one of my rings to get the sizing this right. She felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and tried to suppress the amused expression. Think about it, MJ. This is temporary insanity. You don't love him, and you know it. Mary Jane paused her train of thought, trying to shine a light into her mind. Did she love him?
When she thought of Harry's tousled hair, his striking resemblance to James Dean (if one caught the broken look in his eyes), the gentle way he treated her after his father's death, the only thing that washed over Mary Jane was a fond regard.
I could marry him, she thought sadly, and I would be happy if I had never met Peter.
Mary Jane reached for the clasp of her necklace, slipping the ring onto the tiny silver chain. With nimble hands, she ran the chain under her shirt, catching a breath at the sudden chill against her collarbone. She resolutely left the kitchen, hitting the light switch as she left.
If one ignored the cliché, it was exactly the ring she would have wanted, if she wanted a ring from him.
You'd think a superhero could hail a cab.
Peter dodged the sludge that flew his direction as a taxi sailed by. The sky had darkened six hours ago; the black of night and inefficient streetlights made it impossible to see a cab before it nearly ran him over. He sighed and turned, recounting the boxes piled by his feet. The last thing I need is someone to steal MJ's things. But the streets were empty. Peter was very glad that he hadn't been alerted to any crimes going on; he had no idea what he'd do, if forced to choose between Mary Jane's entire livelihood or someone else's welfare.
He felt as if he knew her a bit better, that his new knowledge came from several hours digging through her apartment; nearly half the time was in her bedroom, folding her clothes and unplugging her appliances and wondering at the different bottles of cosmetics that littered her vanity. Moisturizer? What?
But it was when he had packed her sheets and comforter and was searching for odds and ends under her bed when he came up with the box. Peter had blown the dust off the wooden top, unveiling the words To Mary Jane on her Eighth Birthday. He'd smiled at the calligraphy and creaked the top off the hinges without really thinking.
Inside was memorabilia that she had saved throughout the years: tear-stained notes from her friends, silly faces and bunny ears in photobooths, and what Peter guessed were ticket stubs from every play she'd seen. He'd stopped counting when he hit forty. Was that what she did every weekend during high school? She was even more dedicated than he thought.
But as he delved deeper, Peter had grown more intrigued. He came upon a locket that bore a picture of a young Mary Jane in ringlets; opposite was a beautiful woman with shining red hair. Her mother. He gently placed it back into the box. Her bouquets from prom were there, pressed and still faintly smelling like roses; a lily that he distinctly remembered from Mr. Osborn's funeral wreath hid in a corner, as well as a glistening diamond necklace that still looked brand-new. Harry, you never give up, he'd thought sadly, fingering the jewels. He'd replaced it.
There were no keepsakes from him nestled in her box. As it should be. She doesn't need to be attached to someone who could leave her at any time. She doesn't need a rose from the one who could get her killed. But a tiny thought remained. Will she remember Peter Parker when he's gone?
The screeching sound of tires disrupted his thoughts. A U-Haul had picked up her furniture about half an hour prior; Peter tipped him generously enough that the man promised to wait until Peter arrived with MJ's boxes. As if on command, a cab finally swerved over to his side of the seat. Peter pulled out a five-dollar bill and motioned for the cabbie to help him load everything into the backseat.
Dawn was breaking when he arrived. The colors of the sunset licked his feet as he made trip and trip again up to the apartment, piling boxes upon each other in the corner of Harry's room. His tousled housemate was wrapped up in his sheets, murmuring in his sleep about what sounded like sunscreen. Peter chuckled under his breath, carefully trying to avoid making any loud noises.
MJ wasn't on the couch. He gave a mental shrug at that; maybe she was one of those people who liked to rise early to go jogging in Central Park. He took the stairs to his loft two at a time as he peeled off his shirt and winced at the sudden pain in his left shoulder. I should exercise that, he thought ruefully. I think some wounds never heal –
He stopped thinking the moment he reached the top of the stairs.
She was sprawled on his bed, the sheets tangled about her waist; the toes of her white socks flopped off the bed. The morning sun caught the copper and gold in her hair. The metallic sheen caught his startled eyes and held it, as his gaze traveled down her peaceful face – it's peaceful only in sleep? Oh, Mary Jane – and down to her attire.
That's my flannel shirt, a tiny part of him thought. She should keep it. It looks nice on her.
The rest of his attention was so fully captured by her sleeping form that when she moved, he was startled enough to leap out the window and cling under the sill.
Mary Jane stirred, suddenly, blue eyes fluttering open; a sudden flash of moment fully woke her up. But there was no one there.
I hope Harry isn't watching me sleep, she half-thought, rolling over and closing her eyes again.
please read and review! you've all been very kind so far.