Perry loves to (websling) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-10-18 18:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | mary jane watson, spider-man |
Who: Peter Parker and MJ Watson
When: Backdated to just after this, way before the group event.
What: Chats on porches between old friends.
Where: Marvel door, Peter's house.
Note: Unfinished because the group plot ate us.
Peter refused to think of Gwen’s absence as a loss. It wasn’t that he was being intentionally stupid or ignorant about it; he just knew that he couldn’t handle losing someone else. It made his throat burn and his eyes sting, and he felt like a little kid staring at a swinging door again. He didn’t have to wonder if this hoping and wishing and worrying was worse than actually dealing with a bloody corpse--it wasn’t. But it was still hell, and he had been doing his best to keep Aunt May from noticing. She always had a nose for when he was upset, and the upset this deep down she’d pickup like a bloodhound on the scent. The existence of Spider-man and the role that Peter had played in Uncle Ben’s death had driven a rift between them, even when she really didn’t understand the significance of either. Peter was sorry to see the hurt in her eyes when he was distant, but he couldn’t fix it, so watching it was worse.
At least as Spidey he could do something. As Spidey he could stop a mugging, interrupt a burglar, bust a chop shop. He could keep the peace in front of a late-night liquor store, break up a gang fight under a pink neon light. These were things Spidey could do, and he could be effective. On the other side of the door, Peter had to trust in Billy, but the guy’s notes were brief and not helpful at all. Peter had a very distant feeling that Billy was unhappy about something, maybe even angry, but he didn’t know what, and the two weren’t close enough to talk about it.
After a few scribbles in the journal to an obviously worried MJ, Peter had pushed a little further, maybe just to prove he could. The drug deal he’d interrupted turned into a hail of bullets, and the pings of sound had set his senses on an alert so high he was still feeling little aftershocks. Peter suspected that just meant he was so tired that being in the suit was dangerous. So he went home. He was thinking a shower, maybe just a brief nap, and he’d go out again. He wasn’t sure he could face school, and this was his third absence running. They’d probably call home soon. Aunt May would be angry.
Peter’s senses picked up the tobacco smoke from the end of the street downwind, and since he didn’t associate cigarettes with anyone but MJ’s father, he didn’t think anything of it until he landed lightly on the porch roof and dropped his head over the side. The smoke was so strong it was acquiring color in Peter’s mind, and the iridescent lenses reflected two MJ’s, each with her own cigarette. “That is so bad for you.”
New York nights were becoming increasingly cooler, and as Mary Jane waited for Peter to return to the Parker house, she huddled up in a sweater and leggings with bright legwarmers over them and slippers to match. She never particularly liked the cold and would rather have stayed warm in the house, but Peter was a pressing matter. Far more important than her comfort. So, she quietly sneaked out of her stead in the living room, tiptoeing to avoid rising Aunt May and her fury. But again, MJ would take Aunt May’s fury just to make sure Peter was okay.
Gwen might have been gone for good; MK reminded Mary Jane that time and time again. Pym still hadn’t reappeared after he left Adam’s mind, and what if that was the same for Gwen? MJ felt a distinct ache in her chest at the thought, not just for the boys (who had each become close and dependent on Gwen in their own ways), but for herself. She and Gwen were on okay terms last time they spoke. Maybe, if the screwed-up universe had allowed it, they would become friends. But, the screwed-up universe didn’t allow that. No, it left them all without a Gwen Stacy in their lives, and MJ didn’t quite realize the hole she left until it was there.
Still, she was worried most of all about Peter. Peter, who had lost so much recently. Peter, who took everything to heart. Peter, who blamed himself for everything. Peter, her best and oldest friend. She didn’t fully realize what he felt about Gwen, but she knew it was strong, at the very least, and that he was taking whatever happened hard. Going out all night. Fighting crime. Probably getting hurt. She didn’t know his feelings for Gwen, and she didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but she did know Peter Parker. Peter Parker would bury everything away if he could, but she wouldn’t let him. Nope, no she wouldn’t.
While she waited, she lit that cigarette, a dirty little habit she picked up from her parents. Usually, she hid it from people, or at least from Peter, but tonight she couldn’t focus on that. She needed the burn in her chest and the lightheadedness swirl through her brain to forget about Gwen for a moment. Briefly, after waiting for some time, she wondered if Peter would decide to go against his word and stay out longer. But, his head popped out from over the roof, and MJ rolled her eyes at his concern. “They say it runs in families.” Taking a long drag, she blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, away from the spider hanging upside down in front of her. She pushed herself off the chair she sat in, but kept her distance. “It’s weird to see you in that, y’know.” Another drag, and she couldn’t help watch herself in the reflection of the yellowed eyes of his mask. It was eerie. “All dressed up.”
Peter couldn’t even appreciate the courtesy as she turned her head away from him to exhale. The foreign-familiar scent of burning tar almost conquered everything else on the porch regardless, but certain scents still hung around: what Aunt May cooked for dinner, both greasy and fresh at the same time, something with bitter greens; the mold growing underneath the porch boards where the heat couldn’t always reach; the soft-sweet smell in the false fruit fragrance of MJ’s shampoo. He focused on the sounds instead, the sounds that made MJ unique. He was quiet as the lower register of her voice and the smoke-abused rasp of her tone took over the screech of brakes, the shouts of surprise, and the gunshots from earlier in the evening.
He didn’t drop from the top of the roof, instead setting his fingers over the edge of the rain gutter and continued over until he could tuck his chin onto his chest. Now fully upside-down but still in shadow to any passersby, he hung there with no effort, the glass covering his eyes fully opaque. It was possible to see the mask moved as he breathed and set his jaw, which he did in the intervening moments. “It’s supposed to be.”
MJ couldn’t help the quiet snicker that slipped out. “And what if I told you it’s actually not weird at all to see you dressed like that? Would that crush your world, tiger?” She wanted to look away from him hanging off the Parker house roof, but the sight was arresting. So incredibly different than when he hung from the ceiling of his bedroom only a month or so beforehand. She stepped a little closer, enough so that she had to turn her chin up to look at those iridescent eyes. The cigarette hung between her fingers while her free arm wrapped around her waist.
He didn’t move, just watched her come closer, apparently untroubled by the continuing pull of gravity that should have not only rushed blood to his brain but probably dropped him off the roof shoulders first. He spread five fingers wrapped in red neoprene off to one side, aligning his wrist to the porch support and holding his weight with less contact than should be humanly possible. “If it’s actually not weird then I’m super disappointed and I need a new suit,” he said, in Peter’s voice, though without the smile that should have accompanied the pointless rejoinder. After a second he asked, “Aunt May didn’t stay up, did she?”
“No, she didn’t,” Mary Jane responded with a shake of her head. Her red hair, vibrant even under the dim lights pooling from the street lamps, bounced to and fro with the movement. “I managed to convince her that you were at Harry’s studying late again. Don’t know how long that’s gonna work though. A chem experiment can only take so long.” She gave him a long look before glancing away for another drag. She wanted to tell him that he couldn’t stay out all night like this, that it wasn’t healthy. That kicking strangers’ asses would only do so much, and that it wouldn’t bring Gwen back, wherever she was. Instead, she said, “You are sooo going to need a better plan.”
As soon as she shifted her eyes, he moved. It was a silent stretch of limbs, a slow-motion unfolding of length that Peter never seemed to have in jeans and bulky sweatshirts. His other hand crept down the length of the patio support and he shifted around it left heel first, sliding along the railing until he pulled his fingers off the obliging wood and settled on the balls of his feet facing her. His new suit had held up really well since he invested in one that breathed as well as stayed opaque when he needed it to, and the bullets hadn’t come close enough to make a mark. He still had a faintly industrial smell about him and none of Peter’s usual warm boy skin and pencil shavings. “Yeah, well. I’ve been gone before. I’m sure she’s kind of used to it by now.” He waited a moment, then coughed theatrically. “Your second-hand smoke is slowly murdering everybody’s favorite crime fighter. Whose side are you on?”
She managed not to jump when she turned back to see him standing in front of her instead of hanging from the roof, but only just. He could move so quickly, that was becoming more and more apparent every day, and she suspected that was only the tip of the iceberg of what Peter Parker could do now. The cough earned an equally theatrical eyeroll and huff. “Oh, god, stop being so dramatic,” she said before taking one more puff and flicking the bud over the sidewalk and just off the curb of the street. Then, she watched him for a moment before asking, “Does it really bother you that much? Do you have like, heightened senses, too?” It never occurred to her to ask Peter what being Spider-Man entailed. Or, maybe, it did, but she had other things to concern herself with.
Another theatrical cough, this one at distinctly diminished volume. “Kuf, kuf,” Spidey gagged, bringing a gloved hand to his mouth and swaying a little to add some punch to the line. Anything to keep from dealing with the real topic at hand. He straightened up and turned his head to watch the little cherry red flame go out as soon as the butt hit the pavement. “Aunt May’s been complaining about that for years,” he said, mostly to himself. The expressionless mask rotated to face her once more, the oversize eyes inspecting. He tipped his head to the side in a motion that Peter used all the time sans mask, especially lately. He now sounded faintly uncomfortable. “Well... yeah. Actually.” He shifted on his feet and then reached up to catch himself with a palm and haul up against the roof of the porch. “You want to hang here a second, and I’ll change. In case we wake the neighbors.” Not that it was likely. He heard three snorers across the street, a loud movie next door, and the sports channel on in the Watson household. All nearby houses had their blinds down.
“No one could blame her, Petey. You do like to throw fits a lot. I seem to remember toooons of temper tantrums.” Her smile brightened up the darkness, tongue sticking out slightly between her teeth. Having known Peter for so long, MJ found it easy to slip into the usual banter, even while he was dressed in full-on spider garb. It was still strange, sure, and maybe she shouldn’t have been as comfortable as she was standing there talking to Spider-Man. It definitely was just another reality check that her best friend wasn’t just plain old Peter Parker anymore. (Not that she ever thought Pete was plain old anything.)
Her mouth opened with more questions, but Peter cut her off. She nodded. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead. If you don’t come back down, I’m breaking into your room.” She didn’t think they would wake up any neighbors, but it also would be quite the sight to see Spidey on the Parker porch. Stepping closer to him before he crawled up the roof into his bedroom, she shot him an expectant look. “Seriously, I will.” She leaned against one of the wooden pillars of support and waited, both arms wrapped around her tiny frame now.
He looked at her for a split-second longer, the screens over his eyes opaque and his chest barely rising and falling in the unblinking examination, and then he simply reached up an arm and pulled himself back up onto the roof. No telling how much strength it was meant to take for a man to pull his weight with one arm alone from above his head to below his feet, but watching Spider-man do it made one wonder why it wasn’t something everyone could do if they ever got around to bothering.
It was Peter who reappeared again, and the porch roof creaked under his slight weight before two pairs of once-white socks made an appearance at the edge of the roof. He didn’t use any of Spidey’s upside-down antics, he just slid off the edge feet first and then landed roughly on the railing again. He ended up sitting on it, feet drawn up and dangling simultaneously. He had on one of his old long-sleeved bedshirts and red-checkered pajama pants. His normally tufted hair was flattened by the mask and it was all absurdly twisted to one side as he smiled vaguely at her. He didn’t appear to have any damage, not a scratch on his pink face.
True to her word, MJ waited for Peter to return. She didn’t light up another cigarette, not this time, though she really did want to. Peter’s morality about it or not. She was more worried than before, if that were possible. Setting eyes on Peter should have made her racing mind calm down; instead, she could only think of what he was doing in the suit beforehand. It made her head dizzy and her heart race as images of Spider-Man going to all lengths to stop petty crimes because his girlfriend was (temporarily, she still hoped) wiped out of existence. Lost in her thoughts, she jumped when Peter landed again on the porch and eyed his weak smile with a tilt of her head. She didn’t see anything at first, no mark to mar his handsome face, but that didn’t stop her from narrowing her eyes.
She wanted to ask ‘Are you okay?’ She knew he wouldn’t answer truthfully, but she wanted to ask still. Maybe he would only take it to mean physically, but she hoped he would take the window to talk about Gwen. She never really liked talking, but Peter was one boy who should talk about stuff or whatever. She moved closer to him, leaning elbows on the wooden railing just next to one of his legs. “Do I have to break out the first aid kit?” Okay, it wasn’t exactly what she wanted to say, but it was close, and maybe that would push him to talk.
He felt comfortable there, talking to MJ on his porch, not so different from many years ago. The weak smile hung on to the edges of his mouth, but both of them knew he wasn’t happy. Peter was terrible at hiding it when he was unhappy, and these days he tended not to try around MJ. She knew him too well. “Nah. Just bruises, you know.” He rubbed self-consciously at his arm, and then his chest, and then his knee. There was a lot of awkward wriggling around on the balance of the porch railing as he did this, and a familiar guilty-Peter look touched his eyes. “Those go away pretty soon. Usually by morning,” he added, with false brightness. And, finally, the casual follow-up, predictable as fall after summer: “No sweat.” He tipped his head to meet her eyes closely. “So what’s with the smoking? You stressed about something?” Inadvertently he slid a glance at the neighboring house. “Is it too stressful for you, hanging out here?” he asked, lowering his voice to a stage whisper.
“You should probably ice them, y’know. When Flash got beat up during football--.” But she cut herself off because she was sure Flash was the last thing Peter wanted to think about just then. “You should ice them,” she repeated instead, shooting him a pointed look. She could read Peter Parker like a book, like one of those dramatic books about a boy growing into a man. She knew of his growing pains just as well as her own. Speaking of... “Oh, god, Pete.” She rolled her eyes, but kept close, even propping her head on her awaiting hand and leaning just an inch closer. “I’m actually going for an image thing. Bad-ass hottie, y’know?” Sighing, she pursed her lips and glanced away. Were his big brown eyes always so searching and knowing? “It’s no biggie, tiger. Promise.” Reaching over, she picked a piece of lint off his pants and looked back up with a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Like I said, I hear it runs in families. But, I mean,” she continued, her face taking a serious turn, “it’s insane around here lately. More insane than usual, I mean.”