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Peter runs.
For several glorious seconds, he thinks it’s enough.
But the train is faster.
One moment, May looks at him with hope-filled eyes.
The next she’s gone.
He blinks awake between one heartbeat and the next, every muscle tense. He can feel the sweat on his exposed back and knows that when he shifts, the sheets of the bed will be sticking to his stomach and chest.
He sits up anyway, taking deep breaths to calm his racing pulse.
No need for that, after all. It was just a dream.
Well, a dream fueled by memories of actual events, which makes it a hell of a lot scarier in Peter’s opinion, but a dream nonetheless.
Or rather – a nightmare.
He never used to get them, before the Snap. Peter had slept soundly through everything life could throw at him, but there he was, three days after the funeral, waking with tears in his eyes and the kind of sorrow in his bones that no amount of rest could chase away.
Time helped. May kept him busy with appearances at her charity events and photo-ops with those displaced by the Blip.
The nightmares eventually lessened. The pain faded until it was only a dull ache, flaring whenever he thought of Tony, or saw a picture, or heard his name. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it was bearable.
Of course it couldn’t last.
Considering everything that happened during his trip to Europe, he shouldn’t be surprised that his nights are haunted once again. It’s like Mysterio’s visions have re-opened a cut that had finally scabbed over after their victory against the Elementals.
Peter rolls out of bed. No use dwelling on the dream. No use giving it more space in his head than it has already claimed. He’ll be fine. He just needs time.
And yet he can’t keep himself from listening at May’s bedroom door.
He dozes off to the soothing sounds of her breathing.
*
“There. Maximize. Seventy-eight points. I take the lead,” MJ says with a smirk, already reaching for the pile of tiles.
Her smirk falls when Peter adds seven of his own around the ‘x’ she played, spelling out ‘quixotic’.
He grins at her. They both know it’s seventy-six points.
MJ glances down at her tiles, brow creasing like it does whenever she’s concentrating hard. Her nose wrinkles in the most adorable way – which obviously isn’t anything Peter would ever mention to her face. Especially not today when he’s supposed to spend the night. It was hard enough to convince MJ’s parents to go on their business trip so soon after their daughter almost died in Europe; Peter doubts he’d get a second chance any time soon if MJ kicked him out tonight.
Peter’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he only realizes MJ used her final tiles to form ‘Quentin’ when it’s too late.
“I win,” she says. “And next time, we need to adjust the value of bo to reflect how perfect it is.”
Deep breath, kid.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Peter manages. “And, um. Congrats.”
MJ looks up from clearing the board and pauses mid-motion. Shit, shit, why does she have to be so incredibly perceptive, why couldn’t Peter have fallen for someone more –
“What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.”
She couldn’t have known. Peter never mentioned Mysterio’s real name to her, or anyone who isn’t Ned. Quentin is too innocent a name for the type of man he was.
MJ is still frowning at him, however, so he adds, “Just not used to losing. May’s hopeless.”
It has the intended effect. MJ’s lips quirk and she returns to putting the game away while Peter tries to get his breathing under control again.
He fails, but only because MJ decides it’s time to watch the documentary that was the entire reason she invited him over, and proceeds to sit oh-so-close to him on the sofa.
It’s hard to focus on the documentary, something about alternatives to plastic and the plastic industry’s efforts to keep them from entering the market, yet fortunately, MJ seems to find him just as distracting as he finds her.
They spend the last half hour of the movie making out.
“We can finish it next time,” MJ says, and Peter’s heart leaps cause –
“Next time?”
“Unless you have a line of other girlfriends you need to see?”
It’s said in MJ’s usual, dry tone, yet Peter can sense the sincere insecurity beneath the sarcasm.
He shakes his head and gives her another kiss.
*
There’s too many.
He counts at least forty mirrors, each splintering MJ’s reflection into countless more. Every single one of them is struggling against Mysterio’s hold on her, trying to get an elbow free or kick a shin.
Peter’s gaze flicks between them as fast as his brain can process the sight. One has to be real, he just needs to find out –
Darkness consumes the space, eclipsing MJ’s defiant faces.
“Too slow,” Mysterio’s voice echoes through the void. “Always too slow. What would he say?”
And then there’s light, hundreds of blue dots rising from the ground. Miniature repulsors, even more than saved the ferry, and Peter’s blood turns to ice at the implications cause that means —
“Damn it, kid.”
Peter whirls around.
Tony, looking polished in his three-piece suit, grey streaking his temples, heaves a sigh, eyes fixed on Peter.
“You should have saved her.”
“But I –“
An unseen wall withdraws to Peter’s right and there she is, MJ, white top turned crimson and hair clotted with blood.
“That’s on you, Peter.”
“Mr. Stark –“
“I never should have given you the suit.”
Before Peter has a chance to react, his spidersuit vanishes, replaced by the clothes he fished out of a bin in Manhattan a long time ago.
Tony turns to walk away, but —
“No, Mr. Stark, please, give me another chance, don’t go, please!”
Tony stops and Peter breaks into a run – but the moment he would have crashed into Tony, the man evaporates.
“I’m gone, Peter,” his voice sounds. “I did my job.”
“Unlike you,” Mysterio says, suddenly in front of him, and pushes him off the ledge —
Peter wakes on a gasp.
It takes him several moments to remember why he’s not staring at the ceiling of his room and why he’s wearing a T-shirt in bed.
Next to him, MJ is still sleeping, as clothed as she was when they said goodnight.
Peter really hoped he’d make it through his stay without a nightmare.
His set of sheets is already tangled near his feet, so extracting himself is easy. He sneaks into the living room and gently unlocks the door to the balcony.
It’s only when he’s braced on the railing that he allows himself a deep breath. And another.
Just a dream. It’s not real. You still have the suit. Mysterio is dead, EDITH confirmed it. You got the glasses back.
Yeah, but only after screwing up in spectacular fashion.
Only after putting his loved ones’ lives in danger.
He doesn’t deserve EDITH, he never did. He doesn’t deserve the resources Tony left him. He doesn’t deserve the applause he receives when he swings through the streets of Manhattan.
His eyes sting. The sorrow is back, pulling him down like gravity.
The sound of footsteps startles him. If it weren’t for his superhuman reflexes, MJ would have seen his tears.
She pauses in the doorway, sleep shorts riding up her thighs. Peter forces himself to meet her eyes. Pulls his lips into the semblance of a smile. Only his voice won’t cooperate.
MJ joins him at the railing. Her steps are hesitant, as though she regrets following him. Peter can’t blame her.
He doesn’t know how long they just stand there in awkward silence, watching the sleeping neighborhood under the night sky, before MJ finally speaks up.
“Nocturnal penile tumescence occurs three to five times per night, you know. It’s completely natural.”
“Nocturnal...”
“NPT. You know...” MJ’s eyes drop to Peter’s groin before flicking back to his face and away again.
Oh. MJ thinks he left the bed because he...
“No, no, it wasn’t – not that I don’t, cause I do, just, uh...”
He bites his lip and thanks whoever installed the nearest street lamp so far away cause this way MJ can’t see him clearly enough to tell he’s blushing furiously.
“Then… what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“So why’re you out here?”
“I, uh – I just needed some fresh air.”
MJ says nothing.
“Because, um. My metabolism, it’s… you know.” He makes a very awkward motion that he immediately regrets, yet MJ doesn’t comment on it. “Why don’t we go back to bed?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, simply crosses the distance to the door where he pauses cause he doesn’t hear MJ following him.
Since she didn’t.
She’s leaning back against the railing instead, arms crossed in front of her chest, her expression unreadable. Peter swallows. Maybe this is the moment she realizes he’s not worth the effort. That no matter how much she likes him, he comes with way too many issues and too little talent at relationships to navigate them.
But that’s not what happens. Not even close.
“What’s wrong?” she asks again, stepping towards him.
“N-nothing.”
“Oh yeah, you’re totally fine.”
Peter nods, cause he doesn’t trust his voice.
“You know, it wouldn’t be so bad. If you weren’t, I mean. Fine.” Another step. She’s almost level with him at the door. “Don’t think you have to… to pretend, with me.”
The ‘I’m not’ is at the tip of Peter’s tongue but he swallows it down again. He doesn’t want to lie. MJ deserves so much better than that. He meets her eyes instead.
“You…” MJ pauses, then gives him a wry smile. “It’s okay to be a mess.”
The word punches the breath right out of Peter.
A mess.
Like Happy said Tony was.
There’s no chance he can hide the tears from her this time, no matter how furiously he blinks. MJ’s eyes widen when she notices, but she doesn’t comment, for which Peter is infinitely grateful.
Maybe that’s why he accepts the hug she offers.
The last time anyone held him while he cried was May, on the day of Tony’s funeral.
Unlike his aunt, MJ doesn’t talk. She just… holds on, arms wrapped around his body and hands resting on his shoulder blades. He can feel her fingers twitch, can sense the leftover tension in her body, but she doesn’t withdraw. Peter feels another surge of affection for her and buries his face in the nape of her neck.
He pulls back on an exhale and curbs the impulse to apologize.
“I… I had a bad dream,” he admits.
Part of him expected MJ to laugh. The bigger, saner part of him isn’t surprised when she doesn’t.
“Wanna talk about it?” she asks.
Peter has no answer.
“You don’t have to. I read it might help, though.”
“Was that the same place you read about the noctural… thingy?”
“Nocturnal, Parker.”
“Oh, right.”
Peter’s lips twitch, and when he looks at her, MJ’s are doing the same. They both sober a moment later. Peter takes a deep breath. He can’t imagine telling her everything, at least not tonight. But…
“In my dream,” he says at length, staring at his bare feet, “I… I screwed up and then Mr. Stark… He took away my suit. Said he never should have given it to me.”
When he looks up, MJ’s smiling. “He did, though. And he gave you EDITH. And an assistant.”
“Happy isn’t really –”
“The point is, Peter,” she says, stepping into his space and lifting her hands to his shoulders, “that it was a dream. It wasn’t real.”
“Felt pretty real.”
“They often do.”
Peter doesn’t know what to say to that, so he brings a hand up to cover MJ’s. After a moment, she laces their fingers together, right over his heart.
He hasn’t felt this light in a long time.
FIN.