mk robinson wants to be a star. (hitjackpot) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-08-23 01:42:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | door: marvel comics, mary jane watson, spider-man |
WHO Peter and MJ (with guest appearances by the Watsons~)
WHAT Getting her the heck out of that house.
WHEN Recently!
WHERE The Watson house.
WARNING Language, implications of domestic abuse.
Peter had asked MJ for a favor just to keep Aunt May out of his hair while he pulled a Spider-Stakeout, but after three disturbing conversations with his classmates in a row, each more disturbing than the last, Peter was ready to tell the gang to have a good time with their war so he could deal with the one and only thing in his reach: MJ. He couldn’t help a stupid mistake that Flash (of all people, darnit) got to watch, and he couldn’t do anything to keep Gwen safe other than to stay away from her. But Peter still remembered the tangle of memories that had flashed through him only weeks before, and even though Billy had been there, the other guy didn’t understand the depth of how awful it was that MJ had to go home to people who hurt her instead of loved her. Peter remembered somebody fighting someone else in the memories, and he thought it was someone who liked girls, a guy, but it was all mixed into the vision of his younger self smiling and talking about Aunt May’s cookies. All Peter wanted was to get MJ safe, and it was a pretty simple operation. Three steps--from her door to his. True to his word, when MJ only argued with him on the journal, Peter dropped his pen and kicked his spidey suit under the bed. Not even bothering to take off his shoes or put up his hood, Peter slid open his bedroom window and glanced out into the cool evening. The purple of the sunset was fading away into the cool civic blue of night, and no one was around to see. Satisfied, Peter pulled his head back in, and a second later his feet swung out of the window, arched up, and landed on the siding above the double-pane. Following the pull of movement, a curled Peter used the anchor of his heels and came out after, completing what was essentially a somersault out of his window. Again glancing around for watchers, he set ten fingers down on the wood and crawled along perpendicular to the ground about two feet until he was across from MJ’s window. The houses were so close her wall was literally within reach, and he hopped over with little effort, approaching her bedroom window from above. MJ had promised to meet Flash to talk about this venom business, and so she was shuffling around her bedroom getting ready to sneak out to meet him. Not like her parents would notice either way. The telltale shouts echoed from downstairs, filtered slightly by the closed door and the obvious slur in her father’s words. The window was ajar, not from expectations of Peter coming, but to let the cooler evening air filter into her room. The room itself was fairly normal, the usual pastel girly colors for a paintjob with her bed tucked in one corner of the room and a desk across from it. Shelves above the desk held various books and keepsakes, memorabilia from concerts and shows and the like, and anything else she deemed fit to display. Pictures of herself with her friends -- goofy shots of her and Flash, cute framed pictures of a little boy and girl grinning at the camera with their various sets of missing teeth, even a picture of herself and her sister. Posters of the band of the month and her favorite movies lined the walls in purposefully jagged lining. All in all, it was a normal teenage girl’s bedroom. At this point, Mary Jane was just about ready to burn the damn journal and forget all about everyone. Forget about bribing Maddie Kate to come through the door for a little bit. First there was Gwen and that memory of the Tate boy, then it was Flash and his venom nonsense. Now Peter decided to play hero and save her from her father? Ugh. It was fine, she tried to reassure him. A few months, and she would be far beyond those four walls, enrolled in college and working towards her degree. So what if she had to put up with a couple more bruises? Or a few more drunken tirades? It was only a few more months. It was only a few more months. She had gone eighteen years without anyone intervening, after all. Though she knew Peter and his inherent stubbornness, she didn’t really expect -- okay, mostly kinda wished -- that he wouldn’t actually come to her window to drag her out of her house against her will. That was totally kidnapping, right? There were laws against that, and wasn’t being a superhero about following the law. Whatever. She continued to get ready, slipping on her skinny jeans and throwing on a plaid button up, without a thought about Peter. Well, much. Ugh, he could be so insanely infuriating sometimes, and she decided she needed to talk to someone about how boys could be children at some point in the near future. She spun around in her work chair as she began to pull her hair back and just happened to glance at the window just as a certain boy-next-door was lowering into her view. “Peter Parker!” she snapped, launching herself off the chair with a loud clatter. The noise wouldn’t be heard downstairs though, the shouting too loud for either adult to notice. Doing her hair was forgotten, and the red locks flowed like an explosion as she bolted forward towards her window. “Are you frigging kidding me!” Peter didn’t have that happy look on his face that he had worn upside-down in his room the night he had told her about his abilities and his suit. He didn’t look this serious that often; usually he had a blank look on his face, an internal look, a concentration entirely inward and not on the people and places around him. It was as if intellect took his total attention and even when he looked around, it was usually through the lens of a camera. Most people had some idea of what was on their face, some notion that their expressions might broadcast what they were feeling, but not Peter. What was on his face was what was there, and that was the way it was. (And it was why Spider-man wore a mask.) Obviously concerned, angry frustration lining his eyes and gravity pulling his head in all directions, Peter let his legs dangle and kept one hand on the top of MJ’s windowsill, hanging there as she came quickly across the room. “No. Open up.” He stared through the glass at her, all earnest impatience, as if it was absolutely natural to be hanging off the side of a building by the tips of five fingers. Reading Peter Parker’s expressions came with great ease, especially to someone who knew him as long as Mary Jane had. She could tell when he was upset or when he was angry or when he was happy. And right now, well, he was pretty pent up, to say the least. It was rare to see Peter so irritated, and it was that that made MJ pause at her windowsill, fingers curled around the window to open it up. She flashed him a fierce gaze, something angry and full of how dare you before she pushed the window open the rest of the way. Better to keep the lunatic in her room than risk someone spotting him dangling just outside of her window. “You’re not making me go with you, Parker,” MJ said as she stepped back to give him room to come in. No, she would drag her feet every step of the way. The anger on Peter’s face wavered, and it was taken over almost entirely by the concern. It was obvious that anger was not directed at her. He gave a little wave of his hand in the air as if to push her farther to the side, and then he literally flexed one arm to pick his entire body up away from the window before swinging through. He came through the two-by-two window with the ease of a ball through a hoop, and landed in a slight crouch in the center of her room. He straightened almost immediately, and was again normal, neighbor Peter. “Why would you want to stay here?” he demanded, looking at the door and not her. MJ scooted to the side when Peter asked her to and pressed herself against the desk, not quite sure what was about to come next. It was one thing seeing Spider-Man swing around on TV and quite another thing to see him jump through your window like it was nothing at all. She jumped when he landed and stared for a moment, anger that he was there abating for a moment with pure awe. Okay, it was still totally weird that Peter was actually Spidey. She didn’t know how long it would take for her to really wrap it around her head. But whatever, not the point. Her fingers drummed against the wooden surface of the desk and watched him stare at the door. The shouts still billowed up the hall, and a rouge crash echoed every now and then. “This is my home, Pete.” As much a home as it could be. She shrugged. “I’m outta here in a couple months. College starting and all. I don’t see the point of stressing it.” Peter rotated on the spot so that his back was to the door and his attention was again on her. His senses picked things up even when they were behind him, and if anything came through that door, he would know before it took one step in the room. His eyes on hers were anguished and accusing. “If you get hurt here, it’s not a place you should be. I can talk to Aunt May. You don’t even need to say anything. You don’t need this.” The last word seemed to take in the entirety of the house, the noise, the things beyond the door. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The look in his eyes made Mary Jane bite down on her lip hard. Of all people, she hated when Peter looked at her like that. Upset and angry and maybe even disappointed. She shook her head roughly. “Don’t look at me like that, Peter. Seriously. We can’t all have the perfect parental figures, y’know.” She sighed, then looked up at him apologetically. This wasn’t the time to get nasty. She turned to face him, hip still leaning against the desk, but arms now crossed defensively over her chest. “You really didn’t suspect it before? No one knows, it’s not like, a disrespect to our friendship or whatever. Okay, well Flash knows, too, but only because he got one of those crappy memories.” Running a hand through her hair, she looked away from Peter, unable to take that look anymore. “It’s fine, I deal with it myself. I can handle it.” Peter moved forward across the room to get closer to her, his movements agitated and yet somehow not threatening at all. He kept grabbing bunches of his hair at the back of his head and letting it go, to the effect of hair in all directions and a wilder and wilder look. “Flash knows? Okay, you know what, forget that. Of course Flash knows. Forget it. It doesn’t matter. What does matter, is you shouldn’t be here. It’s not a good place, MJ. It’s not safe. I can’t believe--” The brown eyes went wide and he looked at her and got close enough to make a grab for her hand. “How long has it been like this?” She turned back to him for a moment to throw him a glare. “Like I said, Flash knows because of that memory thingy that happened. Don’t make it like that. I didn’t tell him, I didn’t want to tell anyone, Pete.” MJ watched him approach her with a frown on her face. He didn’t get to be angry with her, not about that. She didn’t fight the swipe for her hand and actually squeezed his hand a little before relaxing. Well, as much as she could under that look. Her green eyes met his brown for a moment, but darted away just as quickly with another lip bite. “As long as I can remember.” She looked up again, but didn’t give him any eye contact, instead eyeing his messy hair as she worried her lip. “He’s always been like that.” He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry, but not at her. His eyes were wide with disbelief at the situation, and he was scared for her. His fear made him a little loud and frantic, but never threatening, not to MJ. Peter could be threatening, he had discovered, but when he was, it never seemed to be something he planned. It just happened. Anger just happened, and Peter knew that was because it was right under there beneath his skin, boiling, waiting. Most of it was anger at himself, and it went off like a tea kettle sometimes. The mask helped him hide that. Peter would not let go of her hand. His grip didn’t hurt, and it slid down from her wrist through her fingers, pulling at her to come closer so she couldn’t avoid him. He watched her face, transparently appalled. “I was next door. The whole time? Every time they shout at you?” He didn’t really need an answer. “You need to get out of here, MJ. You don’t understand how awful, how bad it is here.” Obviously she was too used to it to see that she should go as soon as possible. “Not every time,” MJ said, taking a couple of small steps forward as he tugged her hand, but trying to keep some space between them. She didn’t want to seem weak in front of him, and she never wanted to make Peter deal with her problems. He lost his parents, and then he lost his uncle, and he was always just too good to deal with all of this. “Gayle stuck out until she was eighteen. I can do a few more months. I’m applying to early programs and everything.” Glassy green met his big browns, and Mary Jane bit down hard on her cheek. Maybe she should have told him when they were kids, but what help would it have been? And what help would it be now? “How’s it gonna help, Pete? What if--he might flip, we don’t know.” “Who cares if he does? You can leave if you want. You can stay with Aunt May, and me. It’s safer there. What you should really worry about is if he flips while you’re still here.” Peter’s expression of agony flickered into one of hard anger that had edges like sheets of ice. It was the anger he’d had since Uncle Ben died, and he could call it up just like that. Six months ago maybe he couldn’t beat on anybody that came to hurt the people that he loved, but Uncle Ben would have been there to help him. He would have been the first one over here to help MJ, too. Peter’s grip on MJ’s tightened a little more. “There’s not a prize for how long you last, MJ. You shouldn’t have to last.” “What happens when he finds out I’m right next door? What the hell do you think he’ll do?” MJ couldn’t even imagine how pissed her old man would get if she actually walked away from them and then just stayed right next door. A bunch of different, wild situations bubbled in her mind, and she continued to look at Peter with those wide glassy eyes. She couldn’t burden them with this. “You don’t have to be my savior, Peter Parker. I’m not those damsels you run into on the street.” She wanted to ask, too, what Gwen would think if she did move in next door. But she totally wasn’t. “Then we can tell him that’s where you’re staying. Or I will, if you want.” There was a certain look in Peter’s eyes, and just because he’d worn it when he decided he wanted the light-up sneakers when he was ten didn’t make all that much difference. “And he’s just going to have to deal with it.” Peter didn’t have another place to offer, and in his mind there was nowhere safer than Uncle Ben’s and Aunt May’s. “Or we can call the cops now.” He liked that idea, and his eyes glistened. “I’m nobody’s savior,” he said, in blatant counter to headlines all over the city. “I’m just not going to leave you here.” MJ was slowly realizing she was going to lose this argument. The look in Peter’s eyes spoke of how concerned he was about her and how determined he was to get her out of her house. It was all she could do not to shout at him or shove him away because having someone, especially Peter, knowing about what happened behind the Watson-house closed doors. “Peter,” she breathed, and one of the tears threatening to fall before slipped down her cheek. Using her free hand, she wiped it away roughly. She didn’t notice that the shouting from downstairs seemed louder, or actually closer to her door. She scoffed then, wiping away another errant tear. “You’re not gonna take no, are you?” The question was a waste of breath, really, because she knew full-well that he wouldn’t. And not because he was Spider-Man, but because he was Peter Parker. At the sight of the tear, Peter’s thrilled anger abated somewhat. He pulled her hand and wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a confident hug. He knew how far away the fight was, his hearing excellent and his senses on high, but his concentration was here. The hug had no restrictions but it was firm and strong, and he put his chin down over her shoulder and encouraged her to let him handle it, let him handle everything, to block out the world for her. “No. Not unless you convince me that you really want to be here, and I don’t think you do,” he whispered into her hair. She hesitated a moment in his embrace before wrapping her arms around his waist with a squeeze. Sighing quietly, she buried her face in his chest and dug her fingers into the fabric of his shirt as a couple more tears managed to sneak out. She shook her head in a last ditch effort attempt to make him see that everything was fine, that she didn’t need saving from some superhero best friend of hers, even if that was exactly what she needed. “I don’t want you to have to deal with it,” MJ mumbled into his chest, but the argument was dying in her. She knew that she needed to get out, and maybe staying with Peter and Mrs. Parker would be okay. She didn’t hear the shouts get louder, but she did hear the thumping on the door and the screams of her father for her to open the goddamn door. A frustrated noise rumbled in the back of her throat, and she tried to push out of Peter’s grip. “Dad, go away!” she shouted over Peter’s shoulder towards the door. “Just get outta here!” It wasn’t new, this exchange, and the doorknob jiggled for a moment as her father tried to open the door. He always managed to, it was just a matter of time until he could break it again. Peter’s senses, the ones that felt like alarm, if alarm was a fabric and fabric was invisible in the back of your mind, flickered in warning as the door started to splinter. He let go of MJ almost immediately as she pushed away, but he didn’t let her approach the door. Peter put an arm out that seemed no bigger nor thicker than it had been a year ago and yet did not yield to pressure. It was like pushing at a tree rooted deeply into the ground. He looked steadily at the door for a few seconds, his eyes ever so slightly narrowed, all softness gone from his young mouth and the flat planes of his face. He waited for it to break in, almost patient. Calm. The wood around the door splintered more and more under the pressure, the crunch along with the pounding indicating how close Mr. Watson was getting to breaking the door. In the background, Mary Jane’s mother could be heard crying and shouting herself, and MJ found herself stepping forward just before Peter put an arm up. “Pete,” she said softly, urgently, looking up at him with great desperation. “You’ve got to get out of here.” Peter being in the room would only make things worse, MJ was sure of it. She could just picture her father flying into a rage seeing Peter in her room. When the lock finally gave and the door slammed against the wall, Philip Watson didn’t exactly flip though, but rather stood there for a moment dumbfounded. Then his eyes lit up like the tableau presented before him confirmed everything he thought about his younger daughter. “You little whore,” he snapped, red hair just like MJ’s sticking in all different directions. Diana, face streaked with tears, made a snatch for his arm, but he was already on the move. He smelled of that scotch he was so fond of, and as he strode across the room, he was seething. It was a sight MJ had seen plenty of times, but it still seemed so much worse now that Peter was there to witness it all. “You ungrateful fucking bitch, bringing him into my house like you own the place.” Mary Jane tugged on Peter’s arm to move him out of the way, eyes still wide and pleading and fingers curling hard into his muscles, just as Philip rounded on Peter, only a foot or so away from the teenagers. “Are you sleeping with her? Are you fucking my daughter? I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s a little slut just like her mother and sister.” Peter grew up in New York. Just because Aunt May gasped and Uncle Ben frowned didn’t mean that such language and attitudes weren’t ripe off the street, and as Spidey he had seen and heard some really awful things. He had never liked MJ’s dad, but he’d also not run into him all that often, and when he heard the shouting he just assumed that Mrs. Watson and Mr. Watson really hated each other. It never seemed to sink in that they were people, or that people made mistakes, mistakes that hurt other people. It did now, though. People made mistakes. People hurt other people. And he made them stop. Peter didn’t reply to MJ’s desperation, nor did he let her pull him or move around him. He showed absolutely no fear when Philip Watson advanced on him, not showing any of that abashed teenager that had lived next door so long. “No, she’s not,” Peter said, in a bizarrely polite voice. Peter’s eyes flickered past Philip. “Hello, Mrs. Watson,” he said, somewhat more warmly, and yet still distant. “I think MJ is going to come stay at my house for a little while, just before school.” It was as if the towering, angry drunk wasn’t right in front of him, snarling. “I think maybe it would be easier for everyone, if that’s okay.” Like he was five and asking if she could come play. Mary Jane didn’t cower under her father’s gaze as much as she did when she was younger, but there was still that little flicker of fear that licked at her, shook through her and glued her to the spot during his tirades. Peter being there only made it worse for her. She wasn’t scared for herself, she was scared for him, even if her best friend moonlighted as a superhero at night. She watched Philip advance and Peter react to him with such disturbing calmness and politeness with wide eyes and a hard grip on Peter’s arm. She didn’t like him to see her frightened, especially him. Peter was always a source of happiness for her, a bright glimmer of hope and escape from the insanity of her house. To have that tainted by all this made MJ feel a little sick to her stomach. But Philip, he wasn’t going down without a fight. “You aren’t going to tell me what to do with my daughter,” he said, making a swipe for Mary Jane’s arm as he shoved Peter’s chest. “Go back to your aunt, Peter, before I make you regret it.” Philip had a brazen disregard for anyone’s feelings or safety, that much was certain. Peter wasn’t watching MJ; he was focusing on the threat, the drunk man, and all the while he was thinking about this monster that had lived next door, invisible. It had been possible to think that maybe there was some explanation, like maybe he’d just gone crazy when Peter wasn’t looking, but no, here he was, saying the things about MJ, threatening her. What happened when he wasn’t there? Did he really grab at her like that? To Peter it seemed incredibly slow, that movement, and the push seemed like a breeze shoving at him as he turned so it glanced off his chest and shoulder. Peter bent backwards rather than falling, his spine in an impossible arch, and keeping his feet, he snapped forward again, ducked under Philip’s arm, and came up inside his guard. He caught him right as he reached for MJ, right as his fingers almost closed, and he shoved him with an open hand in what should have been the same movement that Philip used. With Peter’s weight, it should not have had the effect it did. The shove was enough to knock a horse off it’s feet, much less a grown man. Peter advanced to put a little distance from MJ in case he tried to take a swipe at her again. “MJ is leaving,” he repeated. Philip wasn’t expecting the blow, and he wasn’t expecting it to be so strong from that scrawny-ass kid from next door, but it was. And so, he toppled dramatically to the floor with a loud thump and an even louder curse. Diana looked on in horror, hand clapped over her mouth, and Mary Jane felt herself rooted to the spot. It was different, hearing about Spider-Man taking thugs down, than actually witnessing him in action against her father. She stared at Peter in awe, in a different sort of awe than when he hung from the ceiling, as she searched for the words. “You son of a bitch,” Philip snarled through gritted teeth as he attempted to scramble to his feet. “I told you, I’d make you regre-” “Dad, I’m leaving.” The voice was quiet at first, hoarse from tears and fright, but still there, hanging in the space between the four of them. MJ’s mother looked at her with accusatory eyes, more anger than pleasure that her daughter was even thinking about getting out of the house. Philip, who was finally rocking back to his feet, seemed appalled and absolutely livid. “I’m leaving,” Mary Jane said with a little more strength, stepping just an inch more and hanging close to Peter. Her green eyes were still wide and bloodshot, but she felt a strange rush of adrenaline flow through her. Like if Peter was there, she could do it. If Peter was there, she could do anything. “He’s right. I’m leaving, Dad. I’m sorry.” Peter just stood there. The shove, it was almost nothing, and he did far worse and much more to thugs all the time. It was usually even easier, because he hopped out of reach and then hopped in again when the time was right. It was rare when anybody even managed to land a hit, and some drunk guy was no competition. He didn’t even need to reveal what he was; a good fast dodge, but not too fast (he thought). Up until the point that MJ spoke, he hadn’t realized how important it was that she make this decision herself. His only thought had been to get her out of there. He was surprised at the strength in her voice, though he shouldn’t have been. He glanced over his shoulder at her, watching her face, and then looked back at Philip. His hand, warm and dry, slipped into hers, and he drew her gently around, toward the door. They could go out the window, but it seemed foolhardy at this point. With the door broken and Mrs. Watson there, it was clear who had been the aggressor here, and if the cops were called, Peter had a ready--non-Spidey--explanation. MJ was a little shocked by the strength in her voice too, but then again, she had been dealing with this for years. She knew how to talk to her father when he was belligerent like this. Mostly, it was to placate him, but this time, no. This time she had to do this. It took Peter for her to see it. She could stay in the house for another year, of course. Suffer through senior year as she had the other eighteen years of her life, but that look in Peter eyes wouldn’t let her. He was the first person to really show concern (even though others didn’t really know in the first place), and that knocked a little bit of sense into her. She didn’t deserve this. “Leave then,” Philip snapped as she and Peter linked hands, her fingers entwining with his. “Don’t think you’re coming back into my house then, you ungrateful shit.” MJ stopped walking and gave her father a long look. Now, that stung. Her lip wibbled and she bit down on her cheek hard before reaching to grab a few important things (pictures, the journal from Passages, her phone) and nodding in her father’s direction. “Fine,” she said, voice cracking slightly but staying as steady as it could. She squeezed Peter’s fingers and tugged him past her parents and towards the door. Her father couldn’t keep her out forever, right? He was just saying that in anger. Either way, she wasn’t staying there for a while, and maybe that would make things better for everyone. |