you just hit the jackpot .

Always? Peter had to hum, thinly, at that. Generous of her. If only he could’ve always been there, always said the right thing, always known what to do, to be what she needed. But that was some half-therapized thing talking, insisting he shoulder responsibilities he couldn’t carry, with all the power he didn’t have. Half - that was generous, too. He’d give it a whole… third, therapized. Yeah. Not that any amount of couch-sitting, counsellor-approved or otherwise, could snuff out the spark that tiger set in his chest. Even now. Apparently. Just the sound of it - how he could tell she was smiling, somehow. MJ was smiling, in some kind of way. Good. The world, on the whole, always seemed a better sort of place when Mary Jane was smiling. Maybe that was just his world, though.

On that note. Battened down, collar up against the drizzle, head cocked to keep the phone dryish, Peter stayed right there on the line as MJ answered, thinking out loud, circling her hot-hearted point. And a glass or two of afternoon wine, he’d guess. She really was feeling this, right to the bone; of course she was, of course she’d come out swinging when the Accords landed, fighting for that better before the dust even settled. Only, nobody frothing and screeching in the comments and the studio crowds - yeah, he’d seen those, the flame wars, the ugly words slung her way, the worst in a career that’d already weathered plenty - knew why. Nobody knew just how completely Mary Jane Watson understood so-called superheroing, how much of that kind of mess she’d survived, personally. And, sometimes, barely. The girl in the spider’s web had grown up to make it big on Broadway, to walk the red carpet at Cannes, to blow minds at the Met Gala, and to be tougher than any of those assholes could begin to imagine. No, they were happy to tear her down for caring too much, too loudly. For being earnest as hell when it was easier, prettier, popular, to give your guts up and wear a thick layer of cynicism like it was the new black. For trying to do something. 

She already had. She’d done more than any of them could’ve ever asked. Hopefully Spider-Man wasn’t the only one who knew that.

Peter’s grip had tightened on the phone, his mouth pressing into a tight, crooked line. She’d slowed, her train of thought closing in on some kind of station after that rush-hour run. There was a maybe, two, like a bump in the tracks. Then - he tilted further, eyes wide, phone tight to his cheek. Making sure he heard her right. Because that, that was…

That was far from the biggest ask they’d made of each other. Miles away. 

He’d put his face in his free, rain-cold hand, turning away from the call. Just, just for a moment. For a slow, steadyish sigh. Resigned? Relieved? All of the above, and then some. “It’s not,” Pete insisted, abruptly. “It’s not too big. I - I’ll just need…” he peered off, wincing, in the general direction of that class he was pretty late for, and the Doc, who’d be worrying, fairly, that his TA had gone and got smeared across some Manhattan sidewalk. “A few days, yeah. How many is that, exactly? So I’ve got my deadline right.” 

As if he had much to pack. He’d - he’d see Aunt May, and Uncle Ben. Sign off with Jonah, and Robbie, and Betty, at The Bugle, and shove his life in a backpack and himself into an economy seat. Drop everything. Not just because MJ had asked. Because she was right. This was an in. A dangerous one, for both of them. But if what Cap’d told him after Berlin still stood, any press ops in Sokovia needed some serious vigilante-adjacent obfuscating. Luthor had just headhunted an A-lister to spotlight the place. Couldn’t mean anything good. That team Rogers had holed up, they’d want somebody on the inside of whatever this was. Should that person be him? Definitely not. Natasha would laugh. Opportunity had kicked the door in, though… 

And, MJ had asked.   

...

Well, he wouldn’t lie. Really. “Eh,” his head seesawed left, right - like she was right there, to see it. “Friendly-ish?” On the whole, the city was a little kinder, actually. Even Jonah’d spent the last few years spilling most of his ink on bigger problems than the Big Apple’s bug issue. (Though he’d still shell out for a picture. Thankfully.) Spider-Man might be a menace, but he was New York’s. Seemed like the ISA hadn’t counted on that. Still, they’d taken their best shot - a few times, and a couple had even been close. But close only counted in horseshoes and Goblin grenades.

MJ shouldn’t have to worry, anyway. Not that shouldn’t ever stopped her. Peter scoffed, disbelieving; soft, at the edges. All of this was soft, softer than that drizzle turning his marking to mulch. Tickets. At the Gershwin. Once a scraped-for special occasion, and now, now she could flash a Tony or four at the door. That’s how celebrity stuff worked, right? How it seemed to work, from his plus one perspective. The smile he’d settled into, flashing right back to all those long, let-down waits in the cancellation line that hadn’t felt too disappointing at all, not when MJ was tucked into his coat to escape the New York night… that smile, it faltered with her, and fell. Moving? Not permanently. What did that mean? How long? In just a few days? To Sokovia? To - do some kind of work, for Lex Luthor? For the sleazeball who’d managed to convince the world to put him in charge of a super-police force? She was being sent, to do what, Goodwill? For that guy? And she was going?

She was. But the way she said it all, that was a tone Peter knew, like maybe nobody else alive did; the sound of Mary Jane Watson scared, shaken out of the confidence she’d learned to play so well and worked so hard to make real, to hold close as reviews and directors and tabloids and tweets and everybody, just about everybody else, it seemed, tried to tear it away. I might be in a little over my head. His eyes had squeezed shut, brow furrowed, tangled in the heavy-duty cycle of his own thoughts. A full load of them, loud, clanging like pockets full of web cartridges and keys and pens and everything else he’d managed to stop forgetting to shake out before ruining another load of their laundry. Back when their laundry had been a thing he got to do. 

But MJ hadn’t called to talk weirdly ancient-feeling history. This was about the future. The very immediate future. Okay. “Yeah, that’s - that’s a turn. A twist. Yep.” Peter scuffed a hand over his face, through his now-nearly dripping hair. “I mean, MJ, you… you’ve gotta know I always figured you could do pretty much anything. If you’re in over your head, you’ll kick until you break the surface. And… swim on from there.” And she’d proved him right, so many times. “But I’ve gotta ask: why this?” Honestly. They could still be honest, yeah? That’s what she’d called for, right? For somebody to be honest with. And he was still that, at least. Peter pressed the phone to his shoulder, swallowing hard. Then got back to the call. To the point. “Why not say no, why not walk, why…” Why not do the safe thing? Like he could talk. He huffed out a sigh, tired, strung skyscraper-high. “What do you see, here?” Like they were reading through an iffy script, sifting for that something. Mary Jane, she’d always had a way for building a character; for becoming somebody who could make it all make sense, no matter how B movie bad or Broadway bombastic. On and offstage, too. For better and worse. Honestly.

...

Good. Good was - good. Obviously. If it was true. Why would she lie? A lot of reasons. None malicious, or anything. Just… reasons. Peter was nodding, all the same, stacking up those rain-spackled lab reports, phone shrugged between his shoulder and his listening ear. Good and busy. Busier than usual. Vague of her. Given most of Mary Jane Watson’s life was everywhere, Googleable, trending, whether she liked it or not. (And she hadn’t. Often. Didn’t? Felt weird, to presume anything present-tense about her.) And all of it had a way of appearing, inescapably, in his feed. She was news. 

And sure, Peter could probably figure out how to avoid that kind of update. If he wanted. He’d meant to, but… put it off, procrastinating, until he just didn’t have enough of whatever had shoved the idea forward in the first place. Probably for the best. Really. For instance, he certainly would’ve been a little deeper in the dark than he was, at the moment, if he’d actually managed to Mary Jane-proof his algorithms. As it was, yeah, he knew what lately had meant for her. Big things. Different things. Somewhat awkward things, given the state of the world. Except - well, who knew half so much about the damage a little, or a lot, of well-intentioned vigilantism could do? And being a celebrity Goodwill Ambassador wasn’t the same as joining up with the actual Task Force, as endorsing the ISA and everything it was, right, not exactly, but…

God. They’d become so complicated. 

If they’d been simple, still - or at least been so good at this that it’d felt simple, at least sometimes, the way it used to - he’d have asked how busy was too busy. Checked in. Found those twisted up knots high up in her shoulders, kept so perfectly in place for the cameras, and kneaded them away. But him and MJ, they were complicated, now. So he followed along, yeah’d and oh’d, paying all his attention. Actually. It showed, in his floundering attempt to salvage fifty-odd lab reports. He’d just reprint them. Kill some more trees or whatever. Real heroic. 

“Mm.” That was his answer to home, and how good it was. He could get vague, too. Shaking rain from his hair, Peter shifted his hold on the phone, finishing the last of his somewhat crumpled coffee. Just giving up on those assignments entirely. “Uh, me, I’ve been… busy, yeah. Not new office at the UN busy, which - wow,” he swerved, stumbling around the subject. “Yeah, there’s nothing. Nothing new. Just the friendly, neighbourhood usual. Y’know.” She did. And no surprises there, right? After all, his life, or half of it - little more, little less, he didn’t punch the time - was out there in the headlines too, wearing those tights she knew so well. As his battered ribs and aching back could attest. He huffed through a sudden tweak as he reached out, helping a battered textbook out of the churned up grass. “So. A few days, huh? I…” Brushing the cracked cover clean, clean-ish, Peter crammed it back into his perhaps beyond-saving bag. And didn’t finish that sentence the way he might’ve planned to, if, in fact, he’d planned anything. “… hear Wicked’s showing at the Gershwin. And it’s great, like, kinda mind-blowing. Fun. So I’m told.” Not that he’d bothered to go, himself, alone, to find out. Wouldn’t be the same. “Sold out months ago, but. Not for you, I bet.” Maybe she’d hear the soft smile that’d snuck onto his face, even as he took a damp seat on the stepping stones. Defying at least a little gravity, for the moment. It was just - good, to talk to her. Yeah. And good was good enough. Because it had to be. 

... Just the friendly neighborhood. Yeah, she did know. Maybe just about better than anyone, really, other than Spider-man himself. “I don’t know, Peter. I’d say the neighborhood was always pretty damn busy, and it always made sure to keep you busy.”  Maybe busier than ever, with the state of the the world. That was complicated, and she chose not to dwell on it; it was strange, toeing this line, being technically on the other side of things. Mary Jane wasn’t sure how she felt about it, knew right away she didn’t like it based on the bitter taste in her mouth. Her intentions in working for the UN might be good, but that certainly didn’t change who she answered to at the end of the day and where her office was located. Best not to think about it, push right through, with another healthy glug of wine to wash it away. “Hope the neighborhood’s actually been friendly lately.” Somehow, she doubted it. That was never the case, and she’d seen enough of just how friendly the neighborhood treated their friendly neighborhood Spider-man over the years. 

Not often, but not never, Peter had to admit that despite how absolutely, profoundly traumatizing it’d been to sprout a few extra arms, then, you know, gradually turn into a mindless Man-Spider… a couple extra hands might be real convenient. One of those occasions was now. He’d been jogging across the drizzly campus common, dodging students doing the same thing. Only sort of late for Doc Connors’ night class. (Quiz first, today. Past-Peter had put it in his phone, like he did with everything these days. So long as he remembered. And had his phone. And it wasn’t shattered past use, again.) Sipping gingerly at a fresh and much-needed coffee, messenger bag hanging heavy with textbooks, a couple classes’ worth of lab reports clenched under his arm, Peter had precisely enough hand left to check who was calling. 

Which, of course, meant he dropped everything. Almost literally. 

The reports? Slipped and scattered outward like cards from a wannabe magician’s suit-sleeve. The coffee? Lightly crushed by a rare (really!) twitch of spider-strength. It was his bag that spilled, though, the much-abused, half-done zippers peeling apart with a sudden rip and the heavy slap of textbooks hitting the damp grass, half-churned to mud. Peter stood, papers still fluttering. Took a breath, face upturned to the spattering rain. And answered.

“Hey. Hey, MJ.” Awesome start. Just great. Weeks, since they’d last texted, and months, since they’d actually talked - called, but still - and… yeah, that was the best he had. Spectacular. “How’s - things? Stuff?” Peter bent with a sigh, shaking one of those reports… drier. He winced, but. Not about the homework. “How are you?” Jackpot. Very Jane. Superstar. Blockbuster. Booked and Blessed. All the old nicknames and sweet something-or-others rattled by in the back of his head, loud as South Ferry. Right by, unsaid. Barely, but he bit down. Just to make sure. For both their sakes’. 

...

It was the third event related to her newest movie premiere for the week - acclaimed by the critics who had been allowed to preview, highly anticipated and very fucking big. Mary Jane Watson was already a renowned household name, known for being the fiery-haired spitfire from Queens that had clawed her way to fame with nothing but grit, determination and sheer fucking talent.  Known for being the girl in the spider's web, the woman that Spider-man had saved more than once. But that was complicated now. Even more complicated was the fact that this was the first series of premieres after the divorce was finalized, the first set of after parties without Peter Parker on her arm. The press had been advised and warned with every threat her publicist could aim their way against bringing up the divorce, though the press did what the press wanted. The suggestion by the publicist team of the movie had suggested that Mary Jane and the hunky leading man beside her on the poster attend all press and movie related events together, both for the sake of the movie and to keep the reporters distracted with a different narrative to focus on. He had jumped at the opportunity, and she wasn't surprised. Narcissistic or not, she was Mary Jane Watson and this was his first movie break. She had agreed for the sake of going with the current than against it, and thought it might be nice to have a distraction from the elephant in the room. But he wasn't him. He didn't know from the set of her smile that she was worried or anxious or just done with a conversation. He didn't know any secret hand squeezes or arm grabs that were meant for quiet reassurance, hadn't looked over the details of the event with her to plan exits and ways to sneak away. He complained and huffed at the idea of carrying her clutch for her, or carrying her phone and cigarettes in his pocket for easy access so she wouldn't have to fumble. He wasn't a welcome distraction from the flash of cameras, brighter than the city lights back home, with a warm smile that both grounded her and made her feel like she could take on the world with nothing but his hand in hers. He wasn't fumbling through speaking to the press, answering questions awkwardly or making the reporters laugh - he was all charm, smooth conversations, dazzling and heartbreaking smiles paired with prepared dialogue that had been pre-prepared by his publicist. He was jumping over her words, demanding half of he spotlight rather than letting her soak it all in. He was on time, devastatingly handsome without a hair out of place. He wasn't Peter. He wasn't her stability, her biggest cheerleader at her side, just beaming and happy to be there with her. He wasn't Peter, the man that had been there for it all - from the screaming matches overheard through open windows with harsh words and insults wafting inside the Parker household with the warm summer breeze, to struggling to make ends meet with no auditions on the horizon and being known as nothing more than another singing waitress at Ellen's, to first off-off-off Broadway shows and horrible press and even worse critics to finally getting her big break. Peter had been there for every step of it, every rise and fall, every harsh criticism she'd cried over and every glowing review that had made her heart soar. Peter was the man that had once been the boy that had shared his birthday cake with her when her father couldn't be fucked to make one and her mother was working three jobs, letting her blow out her own set of candles to wish herself away from the hell she called childhood. He was Peter Parker, the love of her life even though she'd asked to end that. It was the third premiere party this week, and she couldn't remember much of the first two. She couldn't stand the eye candy on her arm, despite the perfectly manicured smile on red glossy lips (with a matching lipstick stain left purposefully on his collar).

Mary Jane became known as the girl in the spider’s web after a very public rescue by Spider-man himself, after the actess had found herself abducted by the Green Goblin and flung from the Empire State Building like a rag doll. Her career had just started blooming, Mary Jane Watson becoming a name known around New York through her Broadway career and elsewhere as she began to land TV appearances, though this particular moment brought more attention to her name. Who was this girl, that had been kidnapped by the Green Goblin and saved by Spider-man? Rumors began to circulate, linking Mary Jane to Spider-man romantically despite her public and ongoing relationship with Peter Parker at the time. Regardless of rumors and tabloids and gossip, Mary Jane made sure that one point was clear: she not only supported Spider-man, but she believed in him.

That viewpoint remained throughout the years, and Mary Jane took to her very public and widely-known platform after the Sokovia Accords with a series of vlog entries on YouTube and whatever interviews came her way on the topic. The tragedy of Sokovia was undeniable, though her stance on the Accords was conflicted: the idea was understandable, though the application wouldn’t work for the heroes trying to do their part to save the world. Her stance on this became even more cemented as she continued to make videos and statements, especially as the ISA was formed and began to target once-beloved heroes as criminals.

Working with the UN was hardly one of Mary Jane’s big starry-eyed-dreams, though it was an opportunity that fell into her lap that she couldn’t refuse. A docueseries she’d done for Netflix had landed her several UN interviews, which earned Mary Jane the title of Goodwill Ambassador and a job with the UN. Mary Jane Watson the philanthropist was not an expected career shift, and it was met with mixed reviews ranging from insisting she was tone deaf and throwing her money around to fans cheering her every move.  The UN job was the first rung of the very tall ladder that would lead to change, and a foot in the right direction was a solid first step even if the ladder was wobbly Three years into working alongside the UN and continuing to write and speak on her very pro-hero stance on whatever platform she could wedge herself onto, Mary Jane had garnered the attention of Lex Luthor - dangerous, suspicious, though she took it and ran. She had opinions and problems with the ISA, and a very big voice and an even bigger platform to make herself be heard and her intentions and hopes to do so were driving her. 

Change was hard, but it was even harder with the world watching her every move and an army of online personalities lined up to crucify her. The word hypocrite was certainly being thrown around directly next to her name, with all of her history being dragged back out into the open - Mary Jane, the girl in the spider’s web, the pro-hero activist had sold out to the ISA.

new york city, please go easy on me tonight .