#jckpct

"Okay...I really hate to do this but I don't think we've really got any other choices here: I'm gonna need to get a blood sample."

he’s nervous, bouncing on his heels as hands float upwards to card through his hair, smooth out his shirt, rake down his face. mj might not even be inside, but he figures it’s better to knock, to wait politely, than to stroll in and risk scaring the ever-loving-shit out of his grieving girlfriend.

besides, he can tell someone’s in there.

his spidey sense is practically jittery. this isn’t the same danger! signal he’s used to — that, he’s one hundred percent sure of.

the desire to open the door is painfully strong, but peter keeps it together, fingers digging into his palms as he tries to steady his breathing. he figures he’s been gone for at least a month, and mj can very well be halfway across the country by now, but this is the first place he thinks to check.

but before he can tell himself to wait a bit longer his hand is lifting toward the door and knocking, and there are footsteps, and the sound of a lock unlatching, and the door is opening, and — and-

“—h- hi.”

industry parties were something peter would never get used to, but as mj’s perpetual plus one, it was something he had quickly become very familiar with.

sure, the food at these parties was usually top dollar, high class shit — but nothing would ever top the shitty, greasy, distressingly cheap pizza you’d stumble upon at two in the morning after politely ( albeit a little drunkenly ) excusing yourself from said industry party.

they were currently seated on peter’s ratty, old couch as slices continued to change hands, friends reruns droning in the background and shoes discarded on the rug a few feet away.