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Beginning at Endings preview
🕑 Added 2019-12-23 04:31:04 +0000 UTC“You wanna hear something weird? Being back together with you, dealing with your craziness, feels like things getting back to normal for me.” Back inside the apartment, Mary Jane brushed her lips against Peter’s ear and squeezed his hand one last time. “Go get ready for bed. I’ll be by in a minute to tuck you in.”
Peter watched her walk away, considering the trim ass that Mary Jane showed off as she sashayed away, surprisingly voluptuous for such a slender, long-legged woman. And that was in a pair of boot-cut jeans. Sometimes, lucky didn’t seem like nearly enough of a word.
He set the dishwasher going, then brushed his teeth and changed into the boxers and plain white tee that he wore to bed. Lying down on his mattress, he put his hands behind his head and listened to the familiar, perfect sound of Mary Jane rustling about in the walk-in closet. They’d lived together in this particular apartment in a previous, abortive attempt at getting back together. It’d never felt right after she’d moved out. Now, even with just a spare toothbrush in the bathroom and a few of her clothes in the closet—it was home.
“You wanna hear something weird?” Peter echoed, staring up at the ceiling. In the corner, a spider had built its web. “It’s not that I worry you only love me for being Spider-Man—only an idiot could think that, after how many times you’ve patched me up and… But it’s like I only love me for Spider-Man. Like if I’m not making up for Uncle Ben by going on patrols and Avenging, then. Then what good am I?”
Mary Jane’s voice came through the wall. “It’s good not to rest on your laurels, tiger, but you’ve saved the world easily twenty times. Maybe God or Odin or whoever said that’s enough. You’re free and clear. Retire already.”
“I know,” Peter sighed. “It’s ridiculous. And now I am out there, so I am doing my part, more than ever. But maybe even if the city doesn’t need Spider-Man and Spider-Man doesn’t need me—maybe I need Spider-Man. Some fucked up coping mechanism.”
“As coping mechanisms go, it’s a good one,” Mary Jane told him. “But putting on a mask and beating the hell out of the Hobgoblin isn’t the only way to deal with guilt, you know.”
“I know.” Peter squeezed his eyes shut. “Maybe I should volunteer at a soup kitchen.”
“Why not?” she asked, her voice moving through the apartment. “Your Aunt May’s still running FEAST. I bet she’d love to see you helping out.”
“She’s going to think she’s gone senile when I go a week without making excuses and running off somewhere.”
“Or she’ll think I’m keeping you on the straight and narrow.”
Mary Jane came to the door of the bedroom. She wore a pink negligee that covered her like cake frosting, semi-translucent. It must’ve been more opaque in some places than others, because Peter could see every inch of her long legs as she strode to the foot of the bed, but only hints, impressions of her belly, her hips, the ghosts of her nipples through the fabric as it swathed up her chest to become a halter top. By hiding her slender body, the filmy material only accentuated it. Peter’s nostrils flared as she scented the whiff of her perfume, wafting over to him like an extension of the flimsy gown.
“And you’re right. It was never the spider I was interested in. It was always the man.”
