TheMidnightThief

A golden blond stands right in front of the train, face twisted as his hands clutch a suitcase. His elegant gloved fingers tremble as he pries one off to reach for the entrance to the train. Heels of the brown boots rising as the blond pushes onto his tippy-toes to extend further.

“Johnny! Before you go, there’s something I want you to have.” A brunette rushes to the scene, panting as he catches Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny whips around, lips parted in surprise as he takes in what the brunette is offering him.

Johnny’s remaining hand leaves the suitcase, it clattering to the ground as his quivering fingers wrap around the offering gently, “Oh, it’s beautiful!” His impossibly blue eyes widen, like twin oceans as pricks of tears fill them. “But wait a minute, isn’t this…?” His eyes flick from the ring to the brunette, who stood just barely two inches taller. The tension in Johnny’s shoulders crumbles as he clutches the ring to his chest.

The brunette smiles, “Yeah, yes, it is.”

“But I thought the old lady dropped it into the ocean in the end.” Johnny smiled back, voice slightly choked.

The brunette took Johnny’s hand, unfurling it, and slid the ring over his gloved finger. The golden ring gleamed in the light, complimenting Johnny’s short curls. “Well, baby,” His hand then cupped Johnny’s cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone. Johnny’s eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the touch. “I went down and got it for ya.”

“Aw,” A breath, a soft one. Welling up with so much emotion it was impossible to tell where one began and where one ended. The ringed hand slid up the man's chest to rest at the base of his neck. “You shouldn’t have.” A single tear escapes as his full lips tremble around the words.

“This sucks.” Peter interrupted, MJ turned to glare at him from across the couch. If his hands weren’t greasy from the extra buttery popcorn they shared he would’ve considered shoving her, but Peter is pretty sure MJ would kill him if he got butter stains on her clothes. “What? Can a guy no longer have an opinion anymore? The writers wrote these two into a corner, if the blond actually chose to stay with the guy that would undo basically his entire character arc.”

“I’m remembering why I hate watching movies with you.” MJ mumbled, using her clean hand to rub her eyes, “It’s part of the tragedy Peter. They can’t be together. That’s like, the whole point.”

“Then what’s the point of it being a romance?” Peter scrunched his nose, the scene has since progressed, the two leads now kissing as rain fell from the sky drenching them both. It would be a sweet scene maybe if Peter cared enough to actually pay attention to the lead up past where he stopped. “Rain does not just start pouring like that.”

“It’s a metaphor for their emotional release, you philistine,” MJ shot back, not taking her eyes off the screen where the two actors were now clinging to each other as if their lives depended on it.

“It’s a metaphor for the script supervisor falling asleep on the job. It was a perfectly clear evening two seconds ago! And now it’s a monsoon? The meteorological whiplash alone would cause mass panic.” He gestured wildly with a piece of popcorn.

On screen, the kiss deepened, the camera circling them in a dramatic, sweeping shot. Johnny’s hand came up to tangle in his co-star’s hair, a perfect but practiced gesture of passion.

Peter fell silent, his critical commentary momentarily dying on his lips. He stared, his own bag of popcorn forgotten in his lap. There was something… unnerving about seeing it. Not the bad weather or the plot holes, but the raw, convincing performance of it all. Johnny Storm was a good actor, a really good one. He made you believe he was feeling every second of that heartbreak and passion.

MJ, sensing the quiet, finally tore her gaze from the television to look at him. A slow, knowing smirk spread across her face. “You know I worked with him on set once.”

Peter snapped his mouth shut, feeling his ears grow hot. “What?”

“Johnny Storm.” MJ shrugged like it was no big deal, she tossed her long red hair from her shoulders, hand combing through it. “You would know that if you bothered to watch any of my filmography.” 

Peter was not taking the bait on that one again, it's strange seeing someone you know so intimately perform a role that's just so contradictory to everything they are. It takes Peter out of the film instantly. “Yeah? And how was that?”

MJ’s smirk widened. She paused, letting the tension build as the movie’s orchestral score swelled behind them. “He’s a pro. Knew all his lines, hit his marks, was nice to the crew. A director’s dream.”

It was a bland, professional answer. The kind you’d give in a press junket. Peter waited for more, but it didn’t come. “And…?” He finally prompted, unable to help himself.

“And,” MJ said, her eyes glinting with mischief, “He spent his entire lunch break trying to teach the craft services guy how to do a perfect backflip off a wooden crate. Nearly gave the producer a heart attack. He’s not nearly as serious as he looks in this,” She gestured at the screen, where the credits were now rolling over a heart-wrenching final shot of the train leaving the station.

Peter looked back at the screen, at the frozen image of Johnny’s tragic, beautiful face. The rain dripped down his cheekbones like tears, droplets catching on his eyelashes. He tried to superimpose the image MJ had just given him—a golden-haired man laughing, attempting stupid stunts for no reason—over the heartbroken lover. The two versions of Johnny Storm refused to merge.

“How did he treat you?” Peter pressed, noticing that MJ deliberately left herself out of her little monologue. “Wasn’t an asshole was he?”

“Peter…” She shot him a playful look as she always did when Peter got a bit protective. He couldn’t help himself and MJ’s known him long enough to know that trying to stop it was a futile effort. “He was fine. Great actually. We got along really well, the kissing scene wasn’t even that awkward. Or well, once he got over himself it wasn’t that awkward. We meet for coffee sometimes still.”

“Huh.” Peter considered this information, but decided he didn’t care all that much as long as the guy was respectful to MJ. He had no reason to have an opinion otherwise. The credits rolled for the movie, Peter found himself wishing he paid attention enough to see the ending, if the two ended up together or not. “Welp, time for my movie now.”

MJ groaned as Peter picked up the remote and surfed through MJ’s catalog of recorded movies. “It better not be Back to the Future again otherwise I’m tossing you out the window. I swear you watch it just to complain about it.”

“Oh don’t be silly.” Peter said as he clicked play, “We’re watching Back to the Future Part 2.”

A memory, sharp and unbidden, flashed behind his eyes. The sound of his own ribs grating, the feeling of being utterly, terrifyingly powerless. His chest tightened, a phantom pain stealing his breath. 

Johnny’s vision blurred, and for a disorienting second, Spider-Man seemed to apparate from the shadows. The white spider on his chest, clawing around his torso like a stark reminder of that night, the contrast against his vantablack suit only made it more apparent.

Johnny took a step back. The chunk of metal dropping from his hand, it banged against the roof like ringing bells. Heat brewed beneath his skin. A shield to deploy when needed.

“No need to get so defensive.” Spider-man’s voice was smooth, an audible smirk heard as he shifted into Johnny’s space, there was only inches between them now. “I missed you, Firefly. Haven’t you missed me as well?”

Johnny took another step back, his heel hitting the metal with an awful grate. “I have every reason to get defensive, you— you, murderer.” His voice trembled at the last word despite Johnny’s best efforts. He stared Spider-man right in the emotionless whites of his mask, his own eyes wide like a prey’s as Spider-man squinted at him.

“Murderer is such a strong word.” Spider-man said. He rolled his neck, leaving it tilted to the side, the action so unnatural it shot a quiver down Johnny’s spine. Then he shrugged as if making casual conversation, “I don’t even think the criminals I kill could be considered people. Certainly not enough to be worth the tragedy of being murdered.”

“Ironic.” The taunt fell from Johnny’s mouth before he could swallow it, his lips quivered as he committed to it, “That you of all people think you can be the juror to a person's humanity.”

Spider-man sighed theatrically, “That’s the thing, Firefly. Maybe I shouldn’t but I’m the only one that's willing.” 

“You’re a megalomaniac!" Johnny scowled, posture tensing. The flames under his skin were vibrating. “You don’t get to make those decisions, no one—”

“Spell ‘megalomaniac’ for me, Firefly.” Spider-man put his hands on his hips, the gesture was threatening in some inexplicable way. He wasn’t ridged like Johnny was, movements effortless and fluid with the grace of a dancer. “You don’t have to worry a pretty little hair on your head anyways. I wouldn’t lay a finger on you. You are the most human person I’ve ever met.”

The flames under Johnny’s skin stopped vibrating and erupted. A concussive wave of heat and light blasted outwards from him, not a focused attack, but a reflexive, panicked surge— his version of a scream.

Spider-Man didn't flinch back. Simply stepped out of the way of the blast, it nicked him on the shoulder, from there his suit smoked. The smirk in his voice was gone, replaced by a patronizing fondness that made Johnny’s skin crawl. 

“You are so emotional.” Spider-man dodged Johnny’s next attack, side-stepping completely unhurried, not even giving Johnny the grace of eye contact as he turned away. Before Johnny could process the words, Spider-Man's arm snapped out. Not at Johnny, but at the chunk of black metal on the roof between them. A web-line snagged it, yanking it back into his palm. "I'll be taking this. It's not a souvenir for pretty boys to play with." He backed towards the edge of the roof, his form melting into the shadows from which he came.

The threat rose in his throat, vile and unbidden—I’ll burn it to your skin.

He choked on the words, swallowing them back down like acid. They tasted like someone else’s hatred, not his own. The flames around him guttered, trembling in the breeze not with rage, but with a sudden and cold shame.

Spider-Man’s neck twisted back, staring as if he’d heard the unspoken thought anyway.  He pinched the metal with his index finger and thumb, dangling it as if to tease Johnny with it like an owner would with their dog. Johnny could swear he saw the imprint of an unhinged grin hidden behind that black spandex.

“This was fun, Firefly.” Were the amused words, like Johnny had performed a trick for him. “Really. We ought to do it more often but I’m afraid that I am out of time—”

Johnny shot forward, feet kicking off the ground as soon as he heard the click of the webshooter on Spider-man’s wrist.

Spider-man sputtered as Johnny slammed into him, fingers spasming just long enough for his grip on the metal to slip and land back onto the roof. 

However, what Johnny had in speed Spider-man matched in strength. Digging his fingers into the black tie suit Johnny had worn for the gala—so tight it ripped tears into the fabric—and shoved Johnny away. Johnny’s back slamming against the roof, as Spider-man webbed away from the scene.