AUTHOR aidan adair ([email protected])
SUMMARY some people don't like waiting.
AUTHOR'S NOTE an attempt at a long fic. will try to update once a week minimum; however, a holiday to france might interfere. but i will try if anyone reads. :)
(UPDATED 25/5/02 - second half of first chapter added, and a bit more to come! sorry, it's getting long.)
1 propositions
to deny your home is to deny me too
and i could start a religion with the things i don't do
He used to dream about building a rowboat. Smooth the oars, shove off somewhere around Maine. He'd paddle to the point where he finally reached the exact spot where the water lapped at the sunset and stay there maybe forever. It always seemed nice in that little moment before he fell asleep.
But that belonged with things like drinking out of the carton and searching for your Christmas presents, with "Honey, I'm home!" and kissing the girl next door. Thieves didn't give you much time to dream about fairytales.
And this one was really freaking fast. He wanted to recommend her to the Boston Marathon or at least a sprinting club. He gave up chasing her by foot and instead shot webbing up to the streetlight. With a graceful arc, he landed in front of the criminal.
"Hi there."
The girl backed up a good five feet; she stumbled over a fire hydrant and dropped a pile of glistening silver on the ground. "You know, it's more polite to say hello back," he said, stooping neatly and snatching up the necklace at his feet. "Actually, probably more polite to pay Tiffany's than just carry-out."
She stared at him fearfully through the slit in her mask, crouched near the ground. Jesus, he thought, she can't be more than sixteen. "Make a buck somewhere else, kid." He squinted as flashing blue and red lights burst around the corner; with a sigh, he shot webbing at her feet as he turned to face the nearest building. A very distinctive voice kept him from leaping.
"Don't you leave me like that, Peter Parker!"
He whipped around.
Vivid red hair, accusing blue eyes. The mask was crumpled in her hands, and with a start, he recognized it as his own.
Peter was never good at symbolism. His English teacher could sigh all she wanted, but chemical formulas made far more sense than Plato every day. There wasn't room for interpretation: if something should be one way, it simply was. There were no second glances in science. Things may have been rediscovered, but they were never ripped apart. Not like things were when he closed his eyes.
His dreams left him clammy and cold, groping for his alarm clock like it was a lifeboat. Harry woken up to Peter's terrified screaming several times, and finally dragged him up to the roof for a cigar (which wasn't very helpful, but Harry did try). He knew where his problems stemmed. Nicotine wasn't going to help.
Peter's problems sauntered down the street with every headstrong redhead that passed his way. They danced in the shows he saw on weekends, they collected tips in the diners where he ate his lunch. His problems were in every pair of smiling aquamarine eyes behind the cash register.
In essence, his demons were on parade. What was worse: he hadn't seen Mary Jane since Norman Osborn's funeral. It made crime fighting nearly unbearable; what was the point, if no sacrifices came with it? His thoughts were destructive and wild, and they ravaged his dreams.
Aunt May's phone call was only too welcome.
"Peter? Have I finally caught you at last?"
Her warm tone teased a genuine smile to his lips. "Yes, Aunt May, it really is me. How've you been? I haven't heard from you in awhile!" He winced as the paring knife he was wielding nicked his finger.
"What was that?"
"Oh, sorry. I'm chopping onions for dinner. Harry has me almost domesticated, Aunt May: I'm always doing the cooking!"
Her laughter rang over the line. "It sounds like you're keeping busy. How's your job with that new scientist fellow?"
"Dr. Meyers? Very well. It's microbiology. Really very interesting, and I just earned some vacation time. And then there's my job at the Bugle." He tossed the onions into his soup pot and began stirring.
"Peter, dear, with your classes too? You sound as if you could certainly use that vacation time!"
The corners of his mouth twitched. "It sounds wonderful, Aunt May, but I'm just so busy – "
"Exactly the reason why you should take time off! That was why I called; an old friend of mine offered his manor upstate. Rolling hills, lots of trees, and a big old rambling house to explore. Doesn't it sound great?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry making frantic hand motions. Peter ladled the soup faster, still cradling the phone. "Yes, Aunt May, it does sound really great, I'm just afraid that I can't take the time - "
"Of course you can, dear. It will be good for you, I promise."
Harry was now frantically waving his arms, trying to get Peter's attention.
"All right, I'll think it over and call you back!" he said a quick goodbye.
His housemate was pacing frantically. "MJ just called my cell. She's been evicted. Effective immediately."
Her clumsy feet had done her in.
It wasn't that she didn't like her job; she waited tables where legends once worked. The playwright Jonathan Larson tended bar here. Portraits of waitresses-turned-divas covered the walls. She decided she liked the place the moment she poked her head through the door.
Shifts were easy at first. She'd show up for the lunch crowd, refill their diet Cokes and serve up french fries with that starlet smile. Studying came later, and dinner, and a bit of shopping before bed.
Her roommate moved out. Something about job opportunities elsewhere; she left no deposit, and the month's rent was now entirely MJ's problem. She began working double-time, selling the customers her sweetest grins. Tips added up and she studied during breaks and mopped floors at night and one night she even locked up -
- but it all came crashing down with the huge tray of food all over the floor and her unkempt hair and baggy eyes and the snapping of her high heel right off her left shoe.
Enrique handed her the pink slip on her way out the door, as well as a bill for a hundred fifty dollars: the cost of the plates and cups laying shattered about the floor.
MJ gathered her dignity.
He simpered.
She flicked him off.
For once, she didn't care that her bags were scattered around the floor. She stripped off her red and blue uniform, fully intending to roast it at the next bonfire; a quick hop into her sweats and then between the covers.
Her bed had been really kind of inviting when she fell into it. A sort of embrace that had been missing from her life lately. When was the last time that she had been hugged?
It didn't matter. She could feel Peter's arms now.
Mary Jane was not a weak girl. She had paved her own way through the world, laying her goddamn yellow brick road a bit at a time. If Peter didn't want to be part of her life, so be it. She was attractive. There were other boys.
They might not nibble their bottom lip when thinking of home. Their soft blue eyes might not burn like firecrackers when they saw her face. And maybe their shoulders wouldn't ripple under their shirts when they reached up to a shelf or their mysterious little grins might not speak of depths unknown or their name might not be Peter Parker but there would be other boys.
MJ draped an arm over her eyes as she mulled her options. There were always other waitressing positions, but as she remembered the damage done to her shoes and the good chance of a swelling ankle, she dismissed them. Who cared if waitressing was the bohemian-actress thing to do? She was worse at that than she was at acting, if you listened to the results of her auditions.
What were the things that she could do? MJ chewed her lip as she considered her walk to the diner every morning: were there any Help Wanted signs in any of the boutique windows? Anything open for a hairdresser? Filing? Something?
She sat up, unconsciously squaring her shoulders. I should at least file for unemployment in the meantime. She grabbed her coat, pulling the door handle open, and noticed the little yellow slip taped loosely to the door. Oh, no. Did I ever pay the rent? Was I too busy earning that money to actually give it to the landlord?
MJ slumped against the doorframe, cradling her head in her hands. But only for a moment. This is ridiculous. You're a grown woman, Mary Jane. You've dealt with worse than this. Images of tombstones and Peter's morose face flashed through her mind. Damn him. He said he'd always be there for me, and where is he now?
She flew down the stairs, shredding the eviction notice into bits as she went. It was time she took care of things for herself.
"Well, what are you planning to do?" At Harry's gesture, he pushed the Coke bottle across the table.
"Me?" His housemate frowned as he filled his glass. "Huh. Good question. I could lend her money, but, I mean, she isn't really the type to accept charity."
Peter nearly spat out a mouthful of soup. "Yeah, I'd say so," he managed. "C'mon, Harry, really. Where's she going to stay?" He saw Harry quirk an eyebrow and nearly choked again. "No, not in your room!" He shook his spoon for emphasis.
Harry laughed. "Fine, fine, I give up. God, Peter, you ruin all my fun." He dodged another glare and continued. "Look, I can get her another place, pay the rent for awhile. She can always pay me back if she feels the need. There's plenty of places around Greenwich Village – that's what performers like, right? People playing violins under your window all night? It'll be perfect."
"Just get her indoors." Peter sighed, watching the last bits of sunlight travel across the floor. "She can have my room. I can always sleep on the couch."
"Well, since you volunteered - " Harry grinned.
Peter wrinkled his nose in return, shoving back his chair and grabbing a jacket. "And in return, you're doing the dishes. I'm going over to her place to check up on her. See if she needs help moving out."
Well, it hadn't been a total loss of a day.
So she had a new job. It definitely had taken a bit of begging and flirting, but she had a new job. As for the rent? Screw it. She'd called Harry, and he reassured her that he could put her up someplace else. He told her to go buy herself ice cream or something and head back to her apartment.
As much as she hated to take her ex-boyfriend's advice, she wearily decided that it sounded good enough. As she'd discovered once today, high heels were hell to run around town in. She vaguely wondered why she even bothered with that sort of thing these days; it wasn't exactly like she ran into Peter anymore.
"I never knew you liked mint chocolate chip."
Then again…
She laughed quietly to herself, turning from the small counter in her kitchen as she held the sugar cone. "How did I not hear you come in?"
Peter dangled a key in front of her nose, stepping fully into her apartment. "Elementary, my dear Watson," he said playfully, pleased to astound her. The way those blue-green eyes widened was just – okay, Parker, move on. "No, actually, Harry had this from a few months ago, and I decided to come help you start packing. I'm sorry I beat you here."
MJ reached to grab her key, only to have it snatched away. He's certainly in a good mood. "Oh, it's okay; thanks for the help! I was just out looking for a job. I think I found one – oh, hey, did you find the moving cartons?" She polished the last of her ice cream, standing up and stretching.
She looked lovely in midnight blue. He blinked, willing the spinning thoughts in his mind to dissipate. The best way to deal with this sort of thing was to just push it all away. If he didn't look for her gentle curve of her neck or the way her hair barely brushed her shoulders - - he wouldn't see it. But the echoes of those dreams hit him at the oddest times: like now. He saw her accusing glare, saw the tears dripping down her face…
Peter lifted a hand to his temple. "Actually, I think I did. In your closet?" At her nod, he continued. "How about you just make some stacks of things you want me to bring over and head back to the apartment? I think" – he paused to search his pockets - "I have enough for cab fare. You're probably exhausted. Harry said he's set up something for you back at our place."
MJ shook her head. She yanked a handful of silverware from a drawer, moving on to the next. "No, that's really okay. I can just stay in a hotel for a few nights, I - "
He took a step closer and lifted her delicate chin with a finger. "I know you can take care of yourself. But that doesn't mean that I don't want to help." He found it difficult to breathe; her lips quivered as she visibly struggled with tears, her vibrant hair spilling over her forehead. "It's really no trouble. I want to help," he whispered, a chill running down his spine. "I know - "
She shook her head, laying a finger on his lips. "Please don't do this," she begged quietly. "If there's anything you know, it's how hard it is for me to be around you right now. And I want to be around you, but those words just make it worse." Her legs shook; it seemed almost as if he moving closer.
Warm arms engulfed her as she gasped.
Peter hadn't seen anything else to do; she trembled in a way that reminded him of Aunt May after his uncle's death. His protective instincts overrode any lingering shyness; it was all the chivalry of an earlier generation that he'd been raised with, the sort of golden boy mentality that Uncle Ben always said would win him a princess.
Peter smiled bitterly as he felt Mary Jane's arms slip around his back. It doesn't always work the way you'd think, Uncle Ben.
What felt like hours later, she silently escaped his grasp and disappeared into her room. She emerged with a duffel bag, slipping by him like a ghost as he wrapped her plates in foam.
It was going to be a long night.
A/N: no, i'm not done with the first chapter yet. i did say it was going to be a long story, correct? :) please read and review! and thanks to everyone who's done so - you've all been very kind to me so far. :)