AUTHOR aidan adair ([email protected])
SUMMARY some people don't like waiting.
A/N chapter three's here! (pending edits.) please give me your honest thoughts. this was the hardest one for me to write; the rest should be up in a pretty short fashion. thanks!
3 in here life is beautiful
"wanting to want to talk it out
without you always flying away
wish i could say you will be tomorrow
and always"
Mary Jane was not an early riser. She surprised herself as much as anyone else by stumbling downstairs around eight-thirty with a growling stomach.
"You could wake up the dead with that noise," Harry observed, not looking up from his corn flakes box. "Morning."
"Morning." She rubbed her eyes and reached for the pantry door. "What do you have to eat? Cereal, Pop-Tarts . . . do you have any real food?" she teased, turning to Harry with her hands on her hips.
Her playful demeanor dropped when she saw his expression. "That's Peter's shirt," he said quietly, laying his spoon next to his bowl.
"Oh." She took a compulsive look down; it dangled below her knees. "Yeah, I didn't bring any boxes and raided his drawers. This was one of the only things that didn't smell." MJ sighed. "Come on, Harry, you know he dragged my boxes in at the middle of the night. I didn't even see him. Where is he now, anyway?"
Harry shrugged, but his shoulders were relaxing. "Class, probably. Then he checks in at the Bugle around noon, works at the lab until about four, and gets home in time to release his inner Julia Child for dinner. Speaking of which, there's sausages and eggs in the fridge. Just heat it up."
She laughed as she swung open the fridge door. "He's totally wasted on science, I'm telling you."
"So, what time do you have to get to work?" he asked, grabbing his bowl on his way to the dishwasher. "We could go house hunting. I called a few people, and I think I might've found a building. How do you feel about the Village?"
The microwave beeped. "It's a great area! I do a lot of shopping there." She stood on tiptoe to pull out her breakfast. "I don't have to be at work until a little before seven, so we have plenty of time. Sound good?"
He nodded. "Uh, about last night?" he asked, clearing his throat.
"Could we wait to discuss that until I'm settled again?" Her expression softened. "The ring's beautiful, Harry. I'm just not sure if I'm ready for what comes with it."
A shy smile spread across his face. "I had to steal one of your rings to get that sized, you know."
"I figured." She giggled as she picked up the salt and pepper and eased herself into the table.
"Anyway, I'll hop into the shower." He ducked out the door, then popped his head back in. "So…your own clothes are here now, right?"
MJ mimed a blow at him. "Go get ready," she said, tucking in.
Went house hunting. Be back by dinner.
Peter laid the note back on the counter for the second time. It was almost seven. He sighed at Harry's vague concept of dinnertime and popped the chicken breasts in the oven, leaving a note of his own.
It hadn't really been the world's best day. He was this close to being lost in his organic chemistry class; the only thing that saved him was a lab partner who showed up to class about twice as much as he did. Lunch was a faint memory: he had to stop a mugging and ended up with just enough time to grab a coffee before running over to the Bugle.
And, of course, Mr. Jameson loudly disapproved of the lack of new photos. Peter had to explain that there just wasn't that much brewing in town at the moment, and when something did occur, it was rather commonplace.
To cap it all off, Aunt May called his cell just as he was preparing to leave the lab. She gently chided him for forgetting to call her last night, forcing Peter to explain MJ's run of bad luck. Although Aunt May was sympathetic, she was adamant about Peter giving her his decision by tomorrow morning.
Peter grabbed his coat. I think I need a drink.
The bar that Harry and Peter visited when life was handling them with less care than usual wasn't exactly a sleazy dive. The counters were modern, the ambience friendly. A stage sprawled across the back wall with a baby grand piano and several microphones, as the place played host to any number of rising stars over the years. There didn't seem to be any entertainment tonight. All the better, Peter thought, signaling a waiter. I don't think I'd be the best audience right now.
He leaned over his rum and Coke, jingling the ice cubes before draining half of it in one go. His choice of poison wasn't exactly that potent, but Aunt May had drilled into him that there was nothing more disgusting than a man entirely drunk. One drink was his limit, but it was enough to help him put a new spin on things.
Peter had long decided never to stew over anything he couldn't change. When his parents died, no amount of crying had brought them back; he rather doubted rending his clothes before the Powers That Be would take away his powers. And at this point, he didn't want to give them up. When one experienced flying – not like a bird, but when your feet scrape the sky as your body contorts and bends and you see the cars below you but they're not there yet not there yet not THERE and you dart back up into the sunspeckled clouds – no, he didn't think he could give up flying.
As for Mary Jane – this requires the rest of the drink – well. MJ was going to go far. He could see her hobnobbing with the biggest stars on Broadway, handing out Tony Awards with that million-watt smile. Performers would work harder just to measure up to her. And – waiter, could you get me another? – she'd probably marry money, like she should've with Harry but was too blind to see, and she'd beat all the odds and fall in love with that rich guy, and maybe he could steal her away from her mansion to see her now and then.
His third drink and he could see the bottom. Peter wasn't an angry drunk: the one time he'd been entirely smashed was Harry's twenty-first, and the worst he'd done then was burst into tears. MJ had smuggled him away from the party and back to her apartment, feeding him popcorn shrimp and cold glasses of water until he could see straight. He never knew exactly what he said to her that night, but she shot him sweet little smiles for the rest of the week.
I don't want to keep going like this. Peter ordered a water and a plate of fries, slumping further into his chair. At least I don't have to give her up. At least I can watch her back. Lord knows she watches mine.
He heard a chord come from the piano and glanced up, bleary-eyed, to the stage. A girl in a sparkling black cocktail dress stood before the microphone, her red hair swept back in a neat twist.
Oh, Mary Jane.
When she opened her mouth, Peter's jaw dropped. Granted, she wasn't the best singer he'd ever heard, but she was certainly not the worst. He remembered her whistling the tune while helping with that one disastrous Thanksgiving dinner when Mr. Osborn came over, but he'd never heard the words. When he asked her, she said it was a song from her favorite musical.
MJ finished the piece and dropped a slight curtsy; the half-attentive patrons applauded politely and turned back to their meals. But Peter set a twenty under his last glass and swung his coat over his shoulders, tripping around to the front of the bar and back to the stage door.
It was partially open. Peter ducked in. Mary Jane faced a mirror, pulling bobby pins out of her hair, wincing with each slight action. Bit by bit, her hair spilled like liquid copper across her back. Peter stumbled forward. She whipped around with a slight gasp.
"Hey, relax, it's just me." He was rather proud of the fact that he wasn't slurring his words. "You were - - God, MJ, you were so good up there. You looked so good up there, like you belonged there."
She fingered the chain around her neck. "Thanks, Peter. It really does mean a lot coming from you." He hiccuped. "Hey" - she peered forward into his eyes – "are you drunk?"
He grinned. "Slightly. I've been worse." He began to topple to the side but quickly replanted his feet. Mary Jane laughed and steadied his shoulders with her hands.
Peter's addled mind raced. She's so close. He abandoned any remaining conscious thought, dropped an arm around her waist, and kissed her.
She watched as he slid into the cab seat, leaning forward and directing the driver.
"Don't worry, pretty lady," the cabbie nodded at her, "I'll take care of your boyfriend."
MJ didn't bother to correct him. Instead, she turned and flew back into the dressing room, dragging her fingers through her hair. The remaining bobby pins caught on her hands. She swore quietly.
He keeps throwing me into these impossible situations. Does he expect me to keep clawing my way out? She tossed her sheet music back into her bag, fiercely yanking the zipper. Just because he's drunk and I'm a pretty girl and he knows I...
She hadn't resisted the kiss. She was tired – but you wouldn't have pulled away even if you weren't – but she didn't want him – quit lying – and the alcohol on his breath was a definite turnoff – but you had the chance to take care of him, for once. To return the favor.
Peter sobered up very quickly when she pulled away. His shocked stare sent her heart plummeting to somewhere down around her shoes, and when he took several tentative steps backward, it broke. "I'm sorry," he'd whispered. "I didn't mean to – oh, God, MJ."
"It's okay," she soothed, reaching forward to touch his cheek. "You're not really in control right now. Hard day?"
He had nodded, sticking his hands in his pockets nervously. "Thanks for putting up with me," Peter sighed; Aunt May would be so disappointed. "I'll just go now. See you at back at the apartment."
Her mind flew. She just watched him leave, as she'd done before; and she was cursing herself, now, more than the bobby pins or the shoddy microphone or even Peter Parker, because she never called wait! when he turned his back to walk away. She had her own suspicions about his life, but she didn't really like to think too much about his relationship with Spider-Man. Things maybe started to spin out of control but all that seemed so trivial compared to the depth of the man who she couldn't quite catch.
Stop! MJ ground her train of thought into a halt, breathing deeply and shutting her eyes. Just talk to him about it like a sane person tomorrow. Things aren't that bad. You have your house, you have your job, and you're still breathing. Be happy.
Mary Jane mustered her composure, threw her purse over her shoulder and left.
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