Mayday's Hero

Part II of V

Disclaimer: I fully admit that this is 1) a rather silly story and that 2) none of these characters are mine. They all belong to Marvel. I'm just playing a bit.

A/N: This fairly short chapter is (obviously) from Peter's POV. There's a smidgen of fluff at the end too: it was the only opportunity in the story for some, and I couldn't resist.

In case anyone wonders, I should explain that my version of Mayday is not exactly like the Mayday in the Spider-Girl comic (what little I've read of it). Not only is she much younger (7, just about to turn 8), she's also my own take on the character (different hair color, etc).

Peter Parker stared unseeingly out the wide kitchen windows, finishing his glass of wine. MJ was putting Mayday to bed, and he had just finished cleaning up the kitchen and loading the dishwasher. He felt like he was in some kind of fugue state, his tired brain and overtaxed nerves making it impossible to think clearly. He couldn't have told why, exactly, but he had been profoundly rattled by Mayday's memories of that day in the park. Clearly it had traumatized her enough that she remembered it in very great detail. Was it too much to ask that his family be spared some of the horrors that he'd seen? Apparently it was. He sighed and set his empty glass on the clean, bare counter. The dishwasher whooshed softly behind him as he drifted off into an unwelcome reverie.

It was no wonder that little Mayday remembered that park incident so vividly. It had been one of the worst days of his life, too. He recalled being holed up in the lab, working desperately on that confounded gene therapy, exhausted and missing his family. He hadn't seen MJ and Mayday for nearly three days – and then suddenly, out of the blue, the certainty that they were in terrible danger came drilling into his skull. It was like the mother of all migraines. He didn't even remember getting out of the lab and into his suit and mask; his next memory found him pushing speeds he'd never reached before, heading blindly towards home.

On the way there, his spider-sense alerted him to a scene from his worst nightmares, taking place in the small park that was just a block from where they'd lived at the time. From high over the street, he saw MJ running awkwardly in those damn high-heeled boots of hers, clutching Mayday in her arms, and the Lizard almost on top of them, with its razor-sharp claws and needle-like teeth just inches away from MJ's neck. The only reason it hadn't caught them before now was that it appeared to be injured; it was holding one of its eyes and hissing, blindly swatting at them with its free hand. But it was still as lethally fast and as deranged as ever, rapidly gaining on them while the other people in the park screamed uselessly and scattered helter-skelter. One second, even half a second later, and it would have been too late. As it was, he swung down frantically from the highest point he could reach, just managed to snag MJ by the belt of her leather coat, and prayed that she could keep hold of Mayday while he looped crazily off toward their apartment building, barely able to control his arcs.

Funny that Mayday had liked that wild ride. He would have thought that she'd have been terrified. Funny too that she remembered him as cheerful; he'd been so nearly distraught that he would never have known what he'd even said to them, had MJ not told him about it later. All he remembered was dropping them off near home, and diving off the side of the building, raging at himself the whole time. Stupid to think he could somehow save it, stupid to think he should even try. The thing was no longer human – best kill it, put it out of its misery before it slaughtered innocents or did any more damage. And with that determination, and his veins flooded with any icy fury like the one he'd felt in that last battle with Norman Osborn, he'd headed back to the park, arriving just in time to see the Lizard disappear through a ripped open grating into the sewers beneath the city.

He remembered following it into the dark hole, creeping stealthily along the slimy ceiling, then leaping down and striking it violently to the ground from behind while quipping inanely about giant crocodiles living in NYC's sewers. He'd asked the Lizard if that was how it'd gotten there, by some kid flushing it down a toilet, while he pummeled it furiously. Always before he'd pulled his punches; he'd been hampered by the foolish desire not to wound the creature – but not this time. This time his very rage seemed to give him strength and speed, allowing him to avoid easily the crushing blows of that powerful lashing tail, and inducing him to pound into that almost impervious hide with single-minded fury.

Probably it was only his pure, unadulterated anger that had allowed him to subdue the Lizard in the end. The Lizard was blindingly fast – but rage made him faster, fuelled his strength as he caught and held it in an inexorable grasp. He vaguely recalled taunting it with jokes about evolution – or should I say devolution? he'd wisecracked – while slamming it repeatedly into the ceiling and the walls. Finally, the weakened Lizard had hissed that he talked too much, he always talked too much, in its horrible rasping voice, only to have its words and then its breath choked off by Spider-Man's iron fist clamping implacably around its thick scaly neck. He'd squeezed and squeezed. And when it was all over and the Lizard lay prone and unmoving at his feet, he'd been sure that it was dead – and hadn't even regretted killing it, not for a moment.

Of course, luckily for him, it apparently took more than even Spider-Man's strength to kill such a creature. When he'd discovered that it was miraculously still alive, he'd carried it back to his lab, their lab, and administered the experimental gene therapy he'd been working on to it. Praying inwardly that the treatment would work, he delivered the mild toxin right into the creature's cells in a viral form, with a series of timed injections. Then, mask off but still in costume, he waited with his head in his hands, oblivious to how much time had passed – until, all at once, something stirred. He raised his head and found himself watching the Lizard's grotesque visage shrivel, shrink and recede into the pleasant, familiar face of Dr. Curtis Connors, Peter Parker's friend and mentor, thesis supervisor and colleague. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right Doc?" he'd muttered, helping his friend to sit up.

Even then the ordeal hadn't been over, because he'd wanted, he'd needed to know why that thing had gone after his family, angrily demanding an explanation from a still groggy Connors. He'd assumed that the Lizard had somehow discovered his secret identity, and been flabbergasted to discover that the attack on MJ and Mayday had merely been a stupid accident, an instance of colossally bad timing, a really screwy coincidence. And thus Dr. Connors had also inadvertently discovered his prize student's dual identity. Now, nearly five years later, Peter still couldn't make sense of everything that had happened on that day ...

"Hey," said MJ, walking into the darkened kitchen and breaking into his gloomy thoughts. "What're you brooding about all alone here in the dark?" She came over and leaned against the counter, facing him with quiet smile.

"Oh nothing, really," Peter shrugged. "She asleep?" When MJ nodded, he went on, "Just remembering that day in the park."

"I worry from time to time that we're in denial about the weird stuff that occasionally happens," MJ said thoughtfully. "We hardly ever talk about it." She fixed her eyes on him, smiling even more warmly. "I think it's good that May brought up that park incident, don't you?"

"It was certainly a surreal conversation," said Peter, frowning a little. Then, seeing that MJ was obviously in a mood to talk, he admitted quietly, "it bothers me that she has memories of something so scary. It's not fair that a kid should have to deal with something like that."

"Yeah, well, life's not fair," MJ said with a trace of impatience in her tone. "You're not still blaming yourself for that, are you? Newsflash: it wasn't your fault – none of it was."

Peter laughed ruefully, and passed a hand over his tired eyes. "You have to admit I'm a magnet for trouble, MJ – a trait I seem to have passed onto my family."

MJ looked away from him and shook her head, as if to herself. Then she shifted her stance and appeared to initiate a new thread of conversation. "I know that we decided that Mayday's too young to know about you yet," she began, "but don't you think it's great that she admires Spider-Man so much?"

"I guess so," said Peter slowly, wondering where MJ was going with this idea.

"Too bad her friends are giving her a hard time about him," MJ remarked casually. She looked at him expressively.

"Oh no," Peter said, shrinking from her steady green eyes. "No, you can't mean ..." She arched an eyebrow at him, and held her ground.

"Look, even if I were to consider putting the suit and mask on for something so frivolous, I wouldn't risk it, ok?" he said in a low, impatient voice.

"Oh, so you can put the suit on to fight somebody or to stop a disaster, but you can't do it make a little girl's day?" inquired MJ in a voice barely above a whisper, her eyes snapping green sparks at him. "Why is making somebody who loves you happy frivolous?"

Peter turned back to the window as he struggled to find the right words. "That didn't come out right – it's not what I meant. I meant I wouldn't ... because it would be dangerous." He finished in a tight voice, "It's dangerous for her, for anyone, to be seen with me."

"Peter," said MJ earnestly, taking a step nearer to him. "You and Mayday are lucky. You don't know how lucky you both are." She slid her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his shoulder. "Mayday has a hero, and he's a real hero. She looks up to him, but that's okay because he's worth looking up to ... " She paused for a moment, as if uncertain of what to say next. He turned in her arms, and felt himself sinking deep into her luminous green eyes. "How many daughters ever idolize their fathers as heros?" MJ asked softly. Peter thought of Philip Watson, and then he slid his arms around her waist too, resting his forehead against hers and inhaling the subtle fragrance that clung to her splendid red-gold hair.

Mary Jane went on. "And you are lucky because your daughter has one simple heart's desire, right here and right now. You have a once in a lifetime chance – a chance to grant your only daughter's dearest wish. How many fathers will ever have the same opportunity?" She brought a hand forward from behind his back and cradled his cheek, leaning up to plant a tender, gentle kiss on his lips. The poignant sweetness of it stole his breath for a moment, and then she pulled back, looking questioningly up into his eyes.

"It's just ... I don't feel like a hero, MJ," he said in a subdued voice. "Most of the time I just make it up as I go along. I don't know if Mayday should be looking up to me."

MJ persisted. "You're trying to do the right thing ... so what if you make mistakes, if you don't have it all together? No one does. And yet you keep trying anyway. That's enough heroism for a little girl." He looked back at her, and thought, not for the first time, how fortunate he was to have been blessed with a partner who was as wise as she was beautiful. She released him, tilting her head to one side and regarding him with an expression of mingled affection and exasperation. "You know," she added, "sometimes I think you're afraid to let yourself be happy."

MJ turned to leave the room, and he watched her walk away from him with her usual sinuous grace, thinking abstractedly about what she'd just said in the tiny corner of his brain that wasn't absorbed in the hypnotic sway of her hips. The light streaming in from the hallway gave her a glorious coppery halo. In the doorway she paused, slanting emerald eyes back over her shoulder with a look that somehow managed to be both fey and bold at the same time. "I'm going to take a nice, long, relaxing bath," she said invitingly. "Feel like washing my back?"

End of Part II

A/N: The hair-smelling moment was inspired by a similar moment in jjonahjameson's wonderful story The Boy Next Door, Ch. 2. (If you haven't already, run, don't walk, to read it). What can I say? I only imitate the best.

Reviews are always appreciated. I know this story is lightweight, but it's still my baby, and I'd love to know what readers think about it.