Flying was freedom.
Up, up, up, and over the New York City skyline was freedom.
Speed and the perfect angle could shoot Pete higher than any bird was allowed to venture, and sometimes, right as the sun set or rose, he could see the curve of his world, tilting perfectly with his descent and lining up a view he had always felt privileged to witness. It felt as if the entire Earth rolled with him. Like Pete and the planet danced and tumbled together. Like something, maybe celestial, understood the exhilaration that was being in that space, in free-falling, in trusting oneself. Sometimes that trust was easy to forget. There were many times, especially in the beginning of his career, where ill-aimed webs missed their mark and abandoned him. He would fall. Sounds of the city merged with howling winds and engulfed him in fear and noise. On particularly terrible days, his own breathing was lost in all of everything else, and it felt as if Pete had betrayed his self, betrayed his mind and abandoned his body to be flung at the Earth, flicked away off the peak of a building as if trash to be discarded. Those days he remembered and reminded, but when he flew? When he really hit the angle right and soared? That's all that mattered. It was all he saw. It was all of everything.
With another flick he saved himself. With another thwip he landed, rolled and stood at the edge, peering down at his world, his home: New York City. All of it. He never thought of it as a kingdom. Even as the light glowed and the sunshine swallowed it all. Even as the crowds cheered and called his name. It was always his home. His safe place. New York City. Lights could be seen from every angle. They lit up the sky and the streets and faces of the people living their lives. Lights flashed and popped and shone and blurred as Pete swung by, whizzing beyond visual comprehension, and always, always, glowing, like sun rays on an upside-down world. Sometimes flashes came into view and distorted all of everything else. A good hit to the head by a fist or claw. A smash into the cold and unforgiving floor. A mis-piloted drone. Those lights were too much. They sucked all of the color away and replaced it with blinding white or distant black and, if they lingered too long, could make him forget about the spectrum that existed beyond the fears, and the doubt. To give into the black - to lose courage - would turn everything gray, and cold. There would be no more dancing. No more flying.
No more freedom.
But right now? On top of the world?
There was nothing better than this.
Beside Pete sat MJ. As he sat and peered out, she sat next to him, looking at that same world with quiet contentment, a small smile on her face as the sun glowed along her cheeks. Glowing. She was always glowing. Even on days tinged with gray, or with a vignette of black, MJ found a way to glow through it. Maybe it was in her eyes, or her smile, he could never tell. It was probably both, but he could never tell, and he didn't have energy to do anything else but wonder at her. She didn't fly the same way Peter could. Her feet preferred staying on solid ground, and she had been adamant about his own toes touching earth. Flying around all the time means opportunities to fall. She can't stand it when he falls. He can't either. Her eyes sparkle but with tears, and her singing voice cries as if she can reach him where she stands. From way down there.
That's why Pete preferred sitting beside MJ; sun glowing and swallowing all of everything. Flying was exhilarating. It pumped blood through his body, engorging his muscles, breathing life into his self and propelling him toward any challenge to face head on. Heart beating. Blood pumping. Ears ringing. But beside MJ? It was still. It was the moment right before Pete let go and fell; it was the belief that he could drop and be alright, that he'd be safe, that anywhere he flew, he could find his horizon and navigate home. MJ was home. She was the soft grass in the fields and the hush of waves in the harbor. Her warm embrace swallowed him whole like his sunshine, and reminded him just how heavenly a simple love could be. Beside MJ, Peter didn't care to dance with celestial beings, or whirl around with the stars in his peripheral. Beside MJ, he didn't need to bounce or bound or heave or pull. Beside MJ, Peter could be still, like the buildings that supported his free-fall, or the floor that would catch him, mistake or calculation. If he could just be beside her, that was his whole world. It was his sun. It was all of everything. She was everything.
If only he could tell her. Sufficient words practically abandon him when he tries, lost in a language barrier. His hands start flying around, desperate to grab onto an idea as if he could thwip and grip and swing it toward the two of them, a tangible thing to wield and show off, but there was never anything. He could grab flowers or jewelry or cameras or clothes. It wouldn't be enough. He could stop her descent from buildings by mistake or foe - literally help her cheat death, but it wouldn't be enough. He felt it could never be enough. How do you capture sunshine? How do you ask the sun's rays to marvel at its own reflections cascading along shorelines, or fracturing into a spectrum against sky high windows? What was the most effective way of communicating the intangible, of navigating the unknown? He didn't have the answers. They eluded him like marks in the beginning of his career, letting him fall and act: to save or die. That's what the stakes felt like. That's why it was so frightening when he spoke his truths to MJ. Sometimes she was receptive. On rare times she was elusive. Most times they could dance together in words for hours, exchanging turns and dips and flying through conversations with the same speed Pete did through Times Square, but he could never quite catch up to her. He liked the chase because it made the still moments sweeter - made it peaceful like sitting beside her on top of an old building in Queens.
"You're staring again," MJ teased, gently waking him from his thoughts, "What's on your mind, Tiger?"
"Just - ," Head empty, "Just thinking of…"
"Of what?"
"God, you're beautiful," Peter confessed.
"What a random thing to say," She quirked a brow. Then she laughed. It was light and soft, warm like the setting sun that glowed on her cheeks.
"Uh," He coughed up a laugh. "Sorry. I know. But - but it's true. Something about the sun."
"Theeeeee sun," She repeated it back. Of course it sounded silly that way.
"Yeah," He laughed again, "The sun."
"That big giant ball of gas millions of miles away?" She teased.
"Yeah," Head empty again. She really was glowing.
She must have sensed something because she straightened up and gave him a look that queued him of her analysis. Her eyes squinted as she aimed and then -
"Are you going to propose to me?" MJ asked it quickly, like she was afraid of her missed mark, but the complete confusion on Pete's face probably solidified it in her mind.
"NOW!?" His eyes widened.
"Why not?"
"We're on top of a building!"
"One of my colleagues proposed to their spouse while running from poachers in the middle of the continent," MJ countered, "What's wrong with the top of a building?"
"Hardly a romantic setting," Pete deflected, "For one. For two - "
"You just said I was beautiful because of the sun," There went her brow again, "Name a more romantic setting."
"I just meant somewhere like Dubai, or - "
"Dubai?"
"France, or Switzerland, or - "
"Those aren't real choices," Her brow was still up.
"I don't know," Pete was exasperated, but fond, "You think the top of an old building in Queens is romantic?"
MJ dropped her shoulders and smiled gently, amusement on her face but there was something else. A sorrow.
"I don't mean that I don't want to marry you," Peter stuttered.
"Pete," MJ touched his hand, "Peter, I don't want you to think that this place isn't good enough." Electricity shot through his fingers as she continued, "You fight so hard for this city. Why wouldn't anywhere in it be perfect for a proposal?"
She took his full hand in her's this time to give it a small squeeze. Everything in Pete's arm tensed and then relaxed. He wished he wasn't wearing his suit so he could feel how soft her hands were, and if they were warm or cold, but his suit removed the physical part of the intimacy. She touched rubber and squeezed rubber. He felt rubber being squeezed, but there was distance between them. They sat side by side together, holding hands, and that was true regardless of circumstances. Through his mask, she searched for his face; her eyes darted back and forth, trying to find some human behind the tech and suit and mask. Pete wished he could remove it. He wanted to feel her warm hands in his cold ones, to smell her sweet perfume cut through the haze of smog and city air, feel her soft hair between his fingers. Instead sensors told him where the sensations came from. They filtered any feeling and processed it to the point of digits and algorithms regurgitated back at him, translated human experience and then misinterpreted it. No wonder there were miscommunications and issues in their romance. He simply couldn't understand her. No. He made sure that he couldn't. Not completely.
"I wish I wanted to marry you," Peter admitted, squeezing her hand to get more sensation through his suit, "I don't mean that in a bad way, MJ. You're…. You're like my entire world."
"But?"
"But it's dangerous," Peter confessed, "I don't want to hurt you. What if I never come back? What if they - "
"It's just as dangerous on the ground as it is in the air," She said it the same way Aunt May did: as a reminder, "When you aren't around, I take care of myself. You know that."
"I know," Peter said it quietly, "I know you can. I trust that you can. It's not you I'm worried about."
"Then you don't trust me," MJ queried.
"If Electro ever decided - "
"We've been there before," She countered.
"Rhino could - "
"A few times with that one."
"Goblin, or - or Sandman!" He was scrambling.
"See?" She said, pulling away from him, "You don't trust me."
"I don't trust myself!" Peter wanted to reach for her, but he could see the quiet resignation on her face, "What if I fail? If I'm not smarter, or faster, or - "
"You could just say no," MJ turned to look at the sun set, painted orange and red across her face, "We don't have to get married, but you can't let me fall either. It's almost the same thing."
"Marriage and superhero work?" He was confused again, and she could probably tell.
"Which do you think is harder?" She looked at him, directly at him. MJ looked at Peter through the mask straight into his core and posed the question. It pierced through everything: sharper than any blade or claw or fang. All the way on the other side of his suit, she hit him where it was most vulnerable, and let the question sit in that soft space.
"I - "
"If it's superhero work," MJ continued, "Then don't ask me anything. If it's us?"
"If it's us?" Peter repeated, gently inching towards her hands again.
"Then it's the same as asking," She looked down at his hand crawling towards her, "If it's us, then I know you'll always catch me. To me that's the same."
"Yeah?" Peter grabbed her hand like he needed to save her, like they were free-falling from the tallest building, the highest angle, like he had flung them to the exact right point and let them both go, "And if I ask you anyway?"
She smiled, entertained at the idea, "Well then. I'd say yes."
"I could punch bad guys all day," Peter said with a shrug, as it truly was easy.
"Yeah?" MJ's free hand went to his face, igniting the sensors and sending flares of emotions into Peter's stomach and throat. She lifted the bottom of his mask.
"I love you, Mary-Jane," Peter confessed, suddenly aware and embarrassed at how chapped his lips were.
"I love you too, Spider-Man," She said it with a smile before kissing him.
Thank you for reading. Which Spider-Man and MJ did you imagine?
