~Author's Note~

Hi everyone! So I absolutely loved this game and I just had to write something about it. The story by itself was amazing and I like how they split the focus between each of the characters and each plot-line. But anyway, this fic is basically a little snippet of what I think happened directly after Aunt May died, and how MJ helps Peter recover.

This was my first fic after a while of not writing so I think my writing style was a little out of wack in this, but I'm still happy with how everything turned out. I also think I'm going to re-edit this in the morning so if there's any major editing errors that I missed please let me know, along with what you thought about the story! Enjoy! :)

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does she know the real you?

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"Almost there," MJ murmurs softly as they move slowly down the abandoned hallway, but it's unclear if she's just saying the words to herself or to the masked hero leaning all of his body weight against her right shoulder. Peter responds with a half-hearted mumble, but MJ misses what he says due to how quiet his voice is.

After May had passed, MJ had re-entered the room when she had heard Peter's heart-wrenching sobs.

He was trying to keep quiet for the sake of keeping his identity from being discovered, but he couldn't help that once he heard that damn machine stop beeping. He couldn't help it because that single moment was when his heart had felt like it had been ripped from deep inside his chest and broken into a million tiny pieces.

He was on his knees by her bedside; his head was resting over her arm, one of his hands was grasping her motionless one and his other hand was clinging to the metal railing like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the marble floor.

As MJ moves closer she spots his mask resting in a heap on the floor next to him and her already broken heart (May was nothing if not a second-mother to her) aches with what she has to do next. She approaches Peter slowly and once she's close enough she kneels down and places a hand on his uninjured shoulder. His sobbing quiets, but not by much.

The antiserum is still sitting on the table beside them.

"Pete I'm . . . I'm so sorry. She was . . . "

Her voice catches and she really wishes it hadn't. "She was the best person in this entire city—"

"I couldn't save her." Peter's voice is nearly inaudible and it stops her, it freezes something deep in her veins because she knows he's one to carry guilt for the people he didn't save and if May's added to that list . . . he'll never recover. This wasn't his fault, it wasn't anybody's fault but Osborn's—

"I could've saved her, MJ, all I needed to do was give her the antiserum—"

His chest is rising and falling erratically and his voice is gaining a tone of hysteria and MJ knows she needs to bring him back down. She turns herself so that she's no longer facing May and takes his face into her hands, her touch gentle, her fingers cold. "Peter, listen to me. You did everything you could. Even if you had given her the antiserum, it—it wouldn't have been enough."

Peter shakes his head, tears clouding his eyes. "I didn't do enough," he whispers, voice hoarse, "if I had just moved faster she'd still—"

He can't even finish the sentence.

"You moved as fast as you could Pete, and you saved the city with that speed. You saved everyone in the city and you got the cure." MJ blinks away her own tears that are threatening to escape, "May shouldn't had gone that way. But I know she was proud of you Peter, and that she loved you. I know that she loved you so, so much." MJ lets go of his face so that she can pull him in for a hug and his arms wrap tightly around her lower torso, holding her like a lifeline.

Even in his exhausted state his spider-senses were still able to pick up the sound of Dr. Michael's footsteps approaching, and with shaky arms and an even shakier voice he asks MJ for his mask. She grabs the mask and even now she can feel the dirt and grime still clinging to the material under her fingers.

"Let me," she whispers, meeting his eyes.

He nods, and even that movement is unsteady, and without another word she reaches up and carefully slides the mask over his head. She'll never forget the look that was in his eyes as he suited up to be Spider-Man for the night one last time.

After talking with Dr. Michaels about the antiserum, MJ was able to convince Peter to come back to her place so that he could get some much needed rest. Peter dismisses the idea of a cab almost instantly and swears he's okay to swing them over, and she knows any argument about the subject would just be futile.

Peter stays true to his word as he's able to swing them within a block of her apartment (MJ takes note of his ragged breathing and the fact that his shoulder's still bleeding wearily, because neither are good signs) and with the streets being mostly deserted the two were able to hobble the rest of the way. Now within feet of the apartment door, MJ just hoped none of her neighbors were around.

"Here Pete, lean here for a second," Peter doesn't answer as MJ carefully leans him next to the door so she can unlock it and once the both of them are finally in her apartment and the door is locked behind them MJ feels like she can finally breathe again.

She helps Peter to the couch and he slumps into it and after a few seconds he bites back a groan as he reaches for the back of his mask and yanks it off and then kicks off his shoes. She crouches down in front of him, a hand on his knee.

"Pete," she whispers, reaching for his hands.

They're limp in her grasp and he doesn't protest as she begins to pull off his gloves. She gives him a quick once-over as she tries to figure out how the hell she's getting the rest of his suit off. The cut on his forehead is still bleeding but the scrape on his cheek is already healing so that's good at least—one less injury to actively worry about. She is worried about how they're going to get the top half of his suit off considering the gaping hole in his shoulder is mess of skin and fabric. She moves her hand from his knee to his Spider symbol, tracing the white outline.

Vaguely she's reminded of all the other times she's had to stitch up him, piece by piece. Mutely she wonders if that will ever end, if there will ever be a time when he doesn't put himself in danger for the sake of protecting others. It hurts her that she already knows the answer.

"Cut it." Startled, MJ looks up.

Peter's staring at her, grief swimming in his eyes. "What?"

"The suit," he replies quietly, "cut it off."

MJ shakes her head, "No." He stays silent as MJ's hand slides down his chest, towards his lower abdomen. "No Pete, we'll . . .we'll figure it out. I'm not ruining your Spidey suit." A smile ghosts over his lips.

"Spidey suit, huh? I thought you hated calling it that." MJ doesn't answer and it's almost like a chill has fallen over the room. Peter reaches for her hand. "MJ," She shakes her head, avoids meeting his eyes.

"Let's get this suit off, okay?"

His grip on her hand tightens, "MJ," he exhales, "talk to me. Please."

Carefully, as to not hurt him, MJ pulls her hand from his hold. Then she directs her focus to the top-half of his suit. "This is probably going to hurt," she starts to ramble off her apologies but Peter stops her with a encouraging squeeze to her wrist.

"S'okay," he mumbles, already sitting up and raising his arms so that she can pull the material over his head.

MJ grabs the hem and tugs it upwards, meeting some resistance towards the middle of his chest because of the fit, and then when the suit is plugged from the hole in his shoulder a strangled type of noise leaves his throat. MJ's already murmuring apologies and reassurances as the suit slips over Peter's head and he falls back into the couch, breathing heavily.

Fresh blood is spilling down his bare chest, one droplet at a time, dark red mingling with the deep purples and bruised yellows already cascading across his skin. MJ doesn't waste another minute, instead hurrying off to the bathroom in search for the same First-Aid kit she's used on him so many different times for so many different injuries. She grabs everything she needs, including some painkillers from the kitchen, before heading back to where Peter's slouched on the couch.

There's a line of sweat coating his forehead and he looks pale, and as much as MJ wants to take him to the hospital so that he can get proper care, she knows he doesn't like it—she knows he'd much rather be patched up by somebody he trusts, even if MJ is far from any type of doctor.

Sometimes, or more accurately, a lot of the time, she wishes she was a doctor so that she knew she was giving him the best help possible. But, as she prepares to clean out his wound, her limited medical knowledge would have to do.

She would have to do.

"Extra cheese, just how you like it."

Peter nods his thanks as MJ hands him the bowl of homemade mac and cheese, her own bowl warm in her hands. Her stomach rolls at the smell, as it had been doing for the past half hour she'd spent making it, but she powers through and keeps her attention split between Peter and the television across the room.

His hand trembles each time he lifts the spoon to his lips and he chews slowly, his jaw tightening in a grimace (not of dislike but instead in pain) after every mouthful. He might heal faster, but even that still doesn't take away the pain of the first night. Taking his time allows him to clear half his bowl and MJ places both their dishes on the coffee table before settling back into the couch.

Her bowl's still full, not even one bite gone, and Peter glances over at her, worry knitting his eyebrows together. Her knees are pulled up, tucked behind her chin, and her eyes are distant; her mind is lost somewhere else.

After she had brought him clean pairs of boxers and sweatpants that she had never gotten around to returning to him (their break-up was messy for all the wrong reasons, so much so that both still had clothes and varying things belonging to the other hanging around) and as he had gotten changed she had done the same. He was still topless, a scratchy shirt would've done nothing but irritate the bruises the gauze and bandages now decorating his chest weren't able to cover, and a pair of grey sweatpants hung low over his waist.

She was wearing a loose navy blue top and some grey sweats herself, her hair now up in a messy bun. But the look in her eyes is still there, that same look she had from when he was drifting in and out of consciousness in the ambulance after the rally. The same look she had after the fire. The same look she always had after he would somehow manage to stumble his way to her apartment after a fight had gone way too wrong.

Wordlessly, Peter reaches for the remote and turns the volume down so that it's just white noise in the background. Then he reaches for MJ's hand. She jumps at the contact, turning her head towards him in the process. "Hey," he whispers, voice soft as his thumb runs over her knuckles. "It's just me."

For some reason those words strike a chord with her and Peter squeezes her hand tighter as she blinks back tears. "Pete," she says, shaking her head, "this time it was bad. I thought you weren't coming back after the prison break. The doctors said you broke over fourteen different bones, Pete. Fourteen."

Peter goes to interrupt but MJ powers through, "I saw you on that table, completely still, everyone swarming around you as Dr. Michaels tried to figure out what was wrong without removing the suit," her breath hitches, "and that's just the thing Pete. The suit, and everything it stands for, has become more important than your own well-being. Dr. Michaels didn't remove your suit at F.E.A.S.T because keeping your true identity safe was more important than helping the person under the suit—than helping you."

Peter can't find the right words. They catch in his throat; they sit in his stomach like a rock.

"MJ you don't need to think about things like that—"

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. It wasn't the right thing to say and sometimes Peter wishes he could stuff his foot into his mouth and leave it there forever. MJ pulls her hand from his grip almost immediately. Her eyes hold a look of astonishment.

"Of course I need to think about things like that Peter!" She says, her tone full of sudden despair, "I could never not think, I mean how—I worry about you so much when you're in that suit." She finally says, voice low and defeated. "I know you can take care of yourself but those times when everything goes wrong I'm there for the aftermath and seeing you in pain hurts me so much because I still—"

MJ cuts herself off before the wrong thing slips out.

Peter either doesn't notice or chooses not to comment on what was most likely to come next. "I'm sorry," he says, "I'm really sorry that was the wrong thing to say."

You don't have to worry about me, wants to come out but he wisely holds that string of words back because even he knows she'll never not worry about him. He swallows past the lump in his throat. "MJ, you're never going to lose me. I'm always . . . I'm always going to come back."

MJ's eyes meet his and gently he grabs her hand again, lacing their fingers together. Slowly she moves closer to him and burrows into his side, resting her head on his uninjured shoulder instead of his chest because of the damage there. Peter exhales, and for some reason her being this close—everything seems to ache less with her so close to him.

He almost smiles.

"What happens when you don't?" MJ asks as their hands readjust so that they're both resting overtop his stomach. Peter knows he can't foresee the future, or when exactly his time's supposed to be up, but he hopes it won't happen for a long while. He'd be okay spending decades by MJ's side, as long as she would have him.

So in the end he decides on a promise. It's not a lie, but it's not the truth either—because he knows science, and math, and neither of those things can help him figure out the future faster than it happens already. Though as the words leave his mouth, they feel more like a lie than a truth.

"That will never happen." The quip that he thinks of after makes him chuckle, "I'm like a boomerang, I always come back." Then, sincerely, "Especially to you." He can't see it but the words make MJ smile, and even manage to ease the worry in her heart.

Sometimes Peter does wonder if the suit will be the end to him.

Sometimes, he worries. Most of the time, he doesn't.

Because at the end of the day, he's a hero, and heroes never quit.

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So, how are things with MJ?
Oh it's uh . . . well you know she's uh . . . it's complicated.
Honesty. That's what got me and Ben through the rough patches.
. . . You guys had rough patches?
Oh, sure, especially when we were your age. So, are you honest with her? Does she know the real you?