The screen door creaked open.
MJ stepped inside, dragging her suitcase behind her. Jet lag and the morning flight sapped most of her energy. Her NASA shirt clung to her from the long ride—Harry had dropped her off from the airport and left a few minutes ago, her hair a frizzy mess from sleep and bad weather. She was exhausted. The kind of exhausted that made her want to melt into the couch and not move for a week.
"Home sweet home," she muttered to herself, kicking off her shoes with one foot.
She rubbed her eyes, yawned, and made her way toward the kitchen.
Then she froze.
A figure stood in front of the fridge.
Bruised. Limping. Hood pulled low. A hand massaging his bruised jaw.
The figure turned.
Peter.
He stared at her with empty eyes, like a deer after it was run over.
MJ's blood ran cold.
"What the fuck—"
Peter winced at the sound, even before she finished the sentence.
MJ took a shaky step back. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Peter opened his mouth to answer, but only a grunt escaped—tight, sharp, painful. His jaw was too swollen to talk. The corners of his lips cracked red.
MJ blinked, unsure if she was hallucinating. "Why are you in my house? Are you bleeding? Why the hell are you in my house, Parker?!"
Anna's voice called from the hallway. "MJ?"
Mary Jane turned toward the sound, stunned.
Anna rounded the corner in pajama pants and a tank top, holding her coffee like it was shielding her from the blast.
"Oh. Right." Anna ran a hand through her hair. "You're home early."
"Yeah, obviously." MJ snapped, eyes locked on Peter. "And unless I've been teleported into some fucked-up sitcom, why is he in our kitchen?"
Anna sighed and leaned on the doorway. "He's living here."
MJ gaped. "He's what?"
"I'm his temporary guardian. His aunt, well, May and I signed some paperwork before… well, before the coma."
Mary Jane slowly turned back to Peter.
He moved around her. Said nothing as he picked an ice pack out of the fridge and pressed it against his jaw.
His silence was a wall between them. Cold and heavy, like they were both waiting for a pin to drop.
"You've got to be kidding me," MJ muttered, dragging her fingers through her hair. "No one thought to tell me?"
"You weren't home," Anna said carefully.
MJ's mouth opened, then shut. She stared at Peter again.
"You—you've been here this whole time?"
Peter nodded once. Barely.
"You've been sleeping in my house. Living with my aunt—and you couldn't even text me?!"
Peter glanced away. His eyes seemed to say Why would I?
"No, don't just look away." She took a step forward. "Say something. You sure as hell had a lot to say the last time we met."
Peter turned to her with a glare, one that lacked the fire they held before.
He tried. He really did. His mouth opened—jaw trembling—but whatever came out was mangled. Garbled. A sound full of pain and apology and something uglier underneath.
MJ froze at the noise.
She saw the way he cradled his side. The cuts on his lip. The scabbing wrists.
He looked wrecked. Hollowed out into an empty shell of his former self.
"What happened to you?" she asked, quieter now.
Peter just shook his head. Slowly. No answer.
The silence between them stretched, bitter and hot.
MJ's voice cracked. "You were my—Gwen's best friend, Peter. And you shut her out. You let everything go to hell and took her down with it."
Peter looked up, just for a moment.
And in that moment, MJ thought she could see him, or at least the version of him that she was familiar with. Behind the tired eyes. Behind the bruises and exhaustion, she glimpsed the Peter she remembered. The one who mumbled physics facts when nervous. Who waited in the rain outside her dance recital. Who thought his crush was a secret when half the school was betting on it.
Gone.
"I… don't." Peter's jaw twitched.
Then, through the blood and pain, he croaked something out. A breathy rasp. Half-formed words.
"…don't need… your pity."
The venom in it wasn't strong. But it was still there.
MJ flinched like she'd been slapped this time.
She let out a bitter laugh. "You think I pity you?"
He didn't answer.
"You're right. I don't." Her voice dropped. "I don't even know you anymore. Don't think I ever did."
Peter looked down.
MJ stared at him a second longer. Her eyes burned holes into his face, but that was all. The anger in her fizzled out, leaving only exhaustion now.
She turned and grabbed her suitcase.
"Just stay out of my way and out of my room, Parker."
She didn't wait for an answer.
She walked away.
Peter didn't stop her, choosing to step out of her way and let pass.
Anna, also seeing MJ leave, exchanged a knowing look with Peter, who completely understood her without words. The awkward talk could wait. They'd both had enough for one day…
MJ paused in her steps. She turned slightly and spoke over her shoulder. "I'm really sorry, Pete, about Ben and May."
With her piece said, she turned and left.
But this time, she didn't slam the door.
She closed it quietly.
Anna turned to Peter, letting out a resigning sigh as she spoke. "Well, guess that's that then."
***
The house was too quiet.
Peter lay in the spare room—his room now, technically—staring at the ceiling. The ice pack had gone warm an hour ago. His jaw throbbed in time with his pulse. Every breath reminded him of Poindexter's fist.
You're not strong enough. Not fast enough. Not nearly ruthless enough…
The words played on loop.
2:47 AM, according to the clock on the nightstand.
Sleep wasn't coming. Hadn't come in days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Uncle Ben's face. Saw the gun. Saw Poindexter's wave.
Peter pushed himself up. Winced. His ribs protested.
He needed water. Or coffee. Or to do something other than lie here drowning in his own head.
The hallway was dark. He moved quietly—didn't want to wake anyone. The floorboards creaked anyway.
Anna's door was closed. Light off.
MJ's door was closed too. But light leaked from underneath.
She was awake.
Peter paused. He rubbed his jaw reflexively. You are just getting an ice pack for your jaw, Pete…
He continued to the kitchen.
The fluorescent light buzzed when he flicked it on. Too bright. He squinted, made his way to the sink, filled a glass with water.
He was halfway through drinking when he heard footsteps behind him.
Peter turned.
MJ stood in the doorway.
She'd changed into sweatpants and a hoodie—Midtown High track team, faded and worn. Her hair was pulled back. No makeup. She looked tired. Really tired.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
"Couldn't sleep?" MJ asked finally. Her voice was flat. Neutral.
Peter shook his head.
"Yeah. Me neither." She moved past him to the fridge. Pulled out a carton of orange juice. Drank straight from it.
They stood in the kitchen together. Not looking at each other. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence.
"Your jaw looks better," MJ said eventually.
Peter touched it gingerly. It was better. Still hurt, but the swelling had gone down. He could almost talk now. Almost.
"Little bit," he managed. His voice came out rough. Unused.
MJ nodded. Set the juice down.
More silence.
"I shouldn't have—" she started.
"No, you were right," Peter cut her off. The words hurt coming out. Not because of his jaw. " I shouldn't have done that to Gwen, wasn't my best moment, and my… circumstance was no excuse for my actions. We were both hurting, I was just being a bitch about it."
"You were." MJ looked at him. Really looked at him. Bruised face with almost empty, tired eyes. An expression that gave little away. If Peter Parker was an open book before, MJ would bet his pages were empty if not transparent now unless he wanted you to read it.
"You're not exactly making it easy for me to stay angry at you, you know?" she grumbled quietly. "I'm still angry. But..." she trailed off. Shook her head. "Gwen told me. About your aunt. Your uncle. I didn't know until—"
"Don't," Peter's voice was sharp. Then softer: "Just. Don't."
MJ's jaw tightened. But she nodded and watched as carefully walked past her towards the fridge.
Peter took an ice pack out of the fridge and placed it against his jaw, he then took a glass from the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass of water.
Another beat of silence.
"The funeral," MJ said. "When was it?"
"Two weeks ago."
"We were on tour."
"I know."
"If I'd known—"
"Wouldn't have changed anything." Peter set his glass down. "You were helping Gwen. That's. That's good."
MJ studied him. Like she was trying to find something in his face. Some hint of the Peter she used to know.
"Are you gonna talk to her? Gwen I mean," she asked. Not angry this time. Just... curious.
Peter didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
MJ waited. When nothing came, she sighed.
"Right." She picked up the juice. Started to leave.
"I didn't mean anything I said back then. I was just..." Peter said to her back.
MJ stopped in the doorway. Didn't turn around.
"I know."
"Can we make this work somehow? For your aunt's sake at least."
She stood there for a long moment. Then:
"Sure. Just don't expect me to hold your hand or anything."
She left.
Peter stood alone in the kitchen. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. He walked over and dropped the ice pack in the kitchen sink.
Yeah. I shot them. Both of them. Six rounds. Center mass, mostly…
He looked down at his hands.
The old lady—May, right?—she took the other three. Shoulder, chest, gut…
Tough old bird…
At the scabs on his wrist from the zip ties.
They were witnesses. Wrong place, wrong time. Your uncle? Collateral…
Felt the bruises on his knuckles from when he'd tried to fight Poindexter.
Not strong enough. Not fast enough. Not nearly ruthless enough…
He clenched his fists.
Not yet…
***
Three days later.
Peter woke at 5 AM.
His body ached. His jaw was still tender. But he could move. Could function.
That was enough.
He pulled on the only workout clothes he had—grey sweatpants, white t-shirt, Uncle Ben's old running shoes that were half a size too big.
The house was dark. Anna asleep. MJ asleep.
Good…
Peter slipped out the back door into the yard. Gotta start somewhere…
The air was cold. His breath came out in clouds.
He dropped to the grass.
One hundred push-ups…
That's where it started. One hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, one hundred squats, and a ten-kilometer run. Every single day.
Peter had spent the last three days researching it. The training routine that compelled him to act.
But Peter had nothing else.
It was stupid. Impossible. An urge that came from nowhere and wormed its way into his mind with a zeal beyond his control, but here he was trying to work out like his life depended on it.
He started the push-ups.
One. Two. Three.
His arms shook at fifteen.
Twenty. Twenty-five.
His ribs screamed at thirty.
He kept going.
Forty. Fifty.
His vision blurred. Sweat dripped onto the grass despite the cold.
Sixty. Seventy.
His body begged him to stop. Every muscle was on fire.
You're not strong enough…
Eighty. Ninety.
Your uncle learned that too. Right before the third bullet.
Ninety-five. Ninety-six. Ninety-seven.
Not nearly ruthless enough…
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-nine.
One. Hundred.
Peter collapsed. Face-first into the grass. Breathing hard. His arms were jelly.
He gave himself thirty seconds.
Then he rolled onto his back.
One hundred sit-ups…
One. Two. Three.
His core was already screaming from the push-ups.
He kept going.
Somewhere around forty, he heard a window open.
He didn't stop.
Fifty. Sixty. Seventy.
The window didn't close.
Eighty. Ninety.
He finished the sit-ups. Stood on shaking legs.
One hundred squats…
His thighs were already burning from the run three days ago. He hadn't recovered. Wasn't supposed to recover. That was the point.
Break the body down. Force it to rebuild stronger.
One. Two. Three.
He found a rhythm. Down. Up. Down. Up.
Twenty. Thirty. Forty.
His legs were going to give out. He could feel it.
Fifty. Sixty.
Keep going…
Seventy. Eighty.
Don't stop…
Ninety. Ninety-five.
His vision was swimming now. Black spots at the edges. Just one more…
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-nine.
One hundred.
Peter stumbled. Caught himself on the fence.
Ten kilometers…
That was next.
Six point two miles.
His legs were rubber. His lungs were already burning. Bile built up in the back of his throat. Peter considered himself lucky that he had skipped breakfast.
Didn't matter.
He had to do this. Had to get stronger. Had to become something that could stand against men like Poindexter. Against men like Fisk.
Had to become something that could protect what little he had left.
Peter pushed off the fence. Started toward the front yard. Toward the street.
"Well, that's one way to start a morning."
He froze.
MJ stood on the back porch. Arms crossed. Watching him.
She was in pajamas—flannel pants, oversized shirt. Hair messy from sleep. But her eyes were sharp. Awake.
She watched him with a raised eyebrow, as if she found the sight before her unbelievable.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
Peter didn't answer. Started walking again.
"Peter." Her voice was firmer now.
He stopped. Turned to look at her.
"Training," he said simply. His voice was still rough, but clearer now. The jaw was healing.
"Training for what?"
He wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow as he stared at her. He wasn't sure how to answer that. Couldn't tell her the truth.
Training to kill the man who murdered my uncle…
Training to destroy Wilson Fisk….
Training to become strong enough that no one can hurt me or mine ever again…
"Does it matter?" he said instead. "Call it emotional transference. Can't keep sulking forever."
MJ's expression flickered. Something between concern and amusement.
"You can barely stand."
"I'm fine."
"Famous last words, Pete, you don't look fine. You're—" she stopped herself. Looked away when Peter met her gaze and ran her fingers through her hair as if to wake herself. A habit of hers Peter noticed. "Whatever. Do what you want. Just... don't die in our backyard, okay? I don't think I can carry your ass back inside."
She went back inside. The door clicked shut.
Peter stood there for a moment.
Then he turned and started running.
His legs protested with every step. His ribs ached. His jaw throbbed.
He ran anyway. Don't think. Don't stop…
Six point two miles. Ten kilometers.
The sun was starting to rise. Orange and pink spreading across the sky.
Peter ran toward it.
His breath came in ragged gasps. His pace was slow. Uneven.
But he didn't stop.
One hundred push-ups. One hundred sit-ups. One hundred squats. Ten kilometer run. Every single day. No matter what…
By the time he finished, the sun was fully up. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. His legs barely functioned.
Peter limped back to the house.
Anna was in the kitchen now. Coffee in hand. She looked at him as he stumbled through the door.
"You look… active," she observed.
"Trying something new," Peter nodded. Grabbed a glass of water. Drank it in one go.
"You planning on doing this every day?" Anna asked.
"Yes."
She studied him over her coffee. "Why?"
Peter set the glass down. Met her eyes briefly, and then looked away.
"Don't know. Like I said, just feel like trying something new is all."
Anna's gaze followed him for a long moment. Then she sighed.
"Just... be careful. Please. I'm too tired to deal with another hospital trip."
"I know my limits. As you can see, I'm already sore from just the warm up." Peter chuckled as he turned to leave. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go wash up."
"Peter." Anna held a curious tone. "You're not doing anything weird in the basement are you? I know I gave you the key but, you seem to be spending a lot of time down there."
Peter turned to her and let a smile settle over his features. "Come on Anna, can't a boy have his own chill zone. It's my sanctuary, my safe space."
Peter shrugged. "If you find putting together about 2000 Lego pieces of the Death Star weird then we may have a problem."
"Star wars, really?" Anna raised an inquisitive brow as she asked.
"May the force be with you."
Peter answered as he left.
He went to take a shower leaving Anna to enjoy her breakfast. His body screamed at him the entire way.
When he looked in the mirror afterward, he barely recognized himself.
Bruised. Gaunt. Hollow-eyed.
But there was something else there too.
Something harder. Colder.
Something that looked back at him and didn't flinch.
Day one, he thought. Three hundred and sixty-four to go…
He had a long way to go before he'd be strong enough.
But he'd start here.
One day at a time.
Until he became something that could stand in the light and not cast a shadow.
Or something so dark that shadows feared him.
Peter wasn't sure which anymore.
Didn't matter.
His efforts would speak for themselves, eventually.
After a quick change of clothes, he made his way to his home.
The doors of his basement clicked behind as he made his way down. He was the only one with the keys now.
He turned on the lights and glanced around the room.
The room was disorganized, with clothes strewn everywhere and various types of trash, mostly fast food and pizza containers. His eyes traced the colored strings that linked numerous maps, documents and close—up pictures of faces that covered his walls.
On the desk just below the walls was a line of monitors and PCs interconnected by cables that spread about the desk they sat on, each one seemed to be loading numerous files and programs. One screen displayed intricate code, the other a map of Hell's Kitchen, the other traffic and routes, and one even had a logged in account of an NYPD officer with the NYPD database loaded.
Peter was rotating NYPD credentials by using stolen sessions to keep himself logged in to the NYPD's network.
They thought it was over.
They thought he was some traumatized kid, shows what they know.
He was just getting started.
He just needed one more shot. This time with a different target and a different place.
He walked towards the setup and took a sit.
Just one shot and a loaded gun were all he needed.
He would succeed or he would die trying.
***
[Host now has the will and spirit to pursue strength immeasurable]
[Will of Saitama: Unsealed (Partial Seal lifted)
State: Passive (Awaiting evolution)]
[Ajin: Dormant? (Self-aware)]
Chapter End