Author's Note: He he he… I'm so devoted to my fanfiction that I'm posting this NOW. I'm going to walk the stage for my High School Graduation in 45 minutes. I just came home from the Graduation Mass! Hope you enjoy this chapter, and think of me getting my diploma while you read!

When his spider-sense a-okayed it, he tumbled acrobatically into the bedroom MJ and he shared. He sneezed before he even pushed aside the curtains and dropped to one knee on the carpet.

"Whoa," he breathed. The world was a weaving of off-white strands. It swathed the room as closely as a blanket, and by the thin layer of dust on the floor it had been there a while. The material was familiar. He suddenly recognized it as his home-made webbing. Even he, as its creator, had never seen so much of it in one room before. He'd made nets and hang-gliders, roped up countless thieves, used it as a means of travel every single day, and even he had never realized it could be like... this...

It was all encompassing, filling almost the entire room. His spare capsules must have exploded somehow. Hopefully MJ had not been in here when it had happened. Most of it was the fine spray he used for netting, luckily. She would be able to breathe even if she was caught under this mess.

The top foot and a half of the room was mostly clear for some reason, except for a messily stuck strand here and there. With ease born of long practice, he vaulted to the ceiling and spider-crawled towards the door. He would go downstairs and see if MJ was there. If not, he'd have to grab a sharp knife and come back up to find her.

A splash of crimson caught his eye. He nearly lost his grip on the ceiling as he recognized the back of Mary Jane's beautiful head, near buried in the substance that surrounded her. He started towards her, to call out and determine if she was all right, when she did something remarkable.

She laughed.

He froze in his tracks, one of his feet slipping to gravity. She was laughing. As he watched, she raised her right hand, which was equipped with a strange-looking glove, and a tendril of the same fluid-solid that surrounded her affixed itself to the ceiling. Twice, thwap thwap, and then a thin krrschh as she lightened the spray to a fine mist. It was filler for between the strong lengths of webbing. With a confident hand, she adjusted the web before it set to form a hollow.

She was making a swing.

He frowned. If she sat in it now, the bottom would either stretch beyond use or fall out, depending on the temperament of the webbing. The fine mesh just wasn't thick enough to support a grown person's weight.

He crept up above her and watched her come to the same conclusion, testing the strength and balance with her hand and a very dusty pillow. Her lips pursed in concentration as she strengthened the seat with shots of web-fluid, Spider-Man knew he could watch her all night. He could, but he got something even better sometimes, him being her husband and all. With a quick, almost lazy movement, he attached his web to the ceiling and played it out, so he lowered headfirst towards the web-strewn carpet. There was no room for standing anyway, other than where his wife seated herself on the dusty carpet. He cocked his head at her back.

"I thought we were clear that one freak per family is plenty enough," he said dryly. She laughed and turned to see him. Smiling, she raised her arm with the affixed shooter and pointed it at her husband. Under the mask, his eyebrows went up, and he tried to scuttle back up his webbing.

Too late. His world became a fuzz of webbing and the front of his mask felt stiff and heavy. He heard her crack up as he tumbled back up the strand to crouch on the ceiling by pure instinct. He could still breathe, thanks to the small gap his nose left in the material. Peeling the hardening mask from his face, Peter flung it across the room like a Frisbee.

"Like spider, like wife," Mary Jane pointed out, still trying to muffle giggles.

"Ha ha."

She tilted her head back so she could consider the man crouched on the ceiling. He looked right back at her.

"I wager I'm a quicker draw on the shooter," Peter grinned, "Shoot me now and we're both lying on the floor for an hour."

"I could think of worse things, Tiger," MJ purred. Peter blushed despite himself.

"So, uh, what prompted this?" he gestured about the room with a gloved hand.

"Near-feline curiosity and wifely worries." The red-head twinkled with mischief. "Once I got the thing working, it was fun."

Peter dropped his eyes to the web-shooter she wore. Oh... she boasted one of the very first models he'd made, all wires and doodads and thingamits. After he got some use out of the first model, he found that the slightest punch would usually break something, leaving him with an inoperative shooter and usually one or more angry supervillians on his tail. This one had been an effort to make the shooter more compact and less centralized. In those respects it had worked, but a few days in the field showed him it was better without the strings. They didn't like to be concealed under clothing, they were constantly tangling, and fighting with then trying to make a 'phone booth' alter-ego switch just didn't compute. They were sort of his webshooter's missing link--he used the techniques he developed working on this shooter to create all of the others, including the ones he wore now. The quick double-tap on the stud in his palm replaced the need for the wires that snaked around Mary Jane's hands.

"We'll discuss fun when all this webbing dissolves," said Peter, who was grinning despite himself. She was lovely in her enthusiasm. "The vacuum is going to choke and die."

"Live in the moment, Tiger." MJ blew him a kiss. "Come share my swing."

He again played out his webbing so at least they were eye-level. She smiled in clear invitation. With that smile on her lips, he felt like the large cat she called him. Peter kissed her soundly. It had been a while since they had kissed at opposite angles, but it was a skill not easily forgotten. Like riding a bike, only much, much more pleasurable--bikes tended to throw him off faster than a bronco could, usually with concussive results.

As she smiled into his chin, he remarked, "Your swing needs better support."

"Really? I hadn't noticed!" MJ bit his nose lightly in punishment. "Perhaps you should help me?"

"Certainly, my lady." Peter smiled. "See, rather than attaching strings to each other, you make the whole thing at once. Observe."

Letting go of the webbing with his hands and only clinging with his feet, he pointed both shooters at the ceiling and spun his swing. Varying the grade as he worked, he attached it to the ceiling with his ordinary webbing and used medium weave for the seat, crossing over and finishing the seat with a reinforcing glob on the bottom.

"Voila!" he demonstrated the swing to his bemused-looking wife. "Like cream pie in the face of a mime. Easy to do and appreciate."

"Show-off," she complained, "Doing it upside down. You trying to show me up?"

"Don't be angry. You're better at different things."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Being gorgeous, intelligent, loving and considerate."

"Is that all?"

Peter considered, cocking his head. "Oh, oh, I know! You're also real good at worrying too much!"

"That is your fault, mister," she pointed an accusatory finger at him.

"I know what else you're good at," Peter continued.

"Really? What?"

"I could show you."

"Go for it."

"You're on."

(Calidor's Note: Yup, that's lucky. Yup...)

(Author's Note: ~wide grin~)