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Peter Benjamin Parker was intrigued by his visit to another universe. Who wouldn't be? He'd been sucked into another dimension, met two other versions of himself, plus a dead one, and seen six total other spider-people—and all of them were happier than him. Even that old odd-ball with the peach-fuzz had hope, had his dame, a real ginchy one too. But the PI was past that. He had nothing.
He was back in his own dimension, and back on the daily grind, taking cases, dusting off crooks. In the time between jobs, he'd fiddle with that cube thing he'd taken from the other dimension. Even brought into his greyscale world, the cube retained its colors. He missed colors. He'd learned a few of them, but he had some trouble distinguishing between some of em, like pink and red, or orange and yellow. He knew they were different, but he couldn't always say which was which.
Eventually, he solved the thingamajig, matched all the sides like Peni showed him, and he occupied himself with trying to remember all the colors of the other world he'd visited. The spider suits were mostly blue and red, but Gwen's had been black and white, but not the same kind of black and white that he was, with blue ballet shoes, but not the same blue as the other spider suits.
Peni's eyes were brown, her backpack green; she was a sweet kid, and a real whiz. He liked her. Ham had a red and blue suit like the others, but he was pink, apparently most pigs were pink. He'd liked Ham, too. He was funny, if a bit of a twit, and had almost managed to make Peter happy for the few days they'd known each other.
Miles' favorite song was "Sunflower," and sunflowers, Ham had assured him, were yellow, though Peter had not actually seen a sunflower there. The lights on police cars were red and blue, The sides on the cube thing were red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and white. There was another color called purple. Prowler was purple, another dead uncle in a long line of Spider-Man's dead uncles.
That doll, MJ, Peter had thought her hair was orange, but his other selves had called her a "redhead" so it was probably just another case of him misidentifying a color. She was his wife in two universes, and Ham had mentioned a Mary Jane Waterbuffalow as well, even Gwen knew MJ in her universe... his other selves all seemed to have their own MJ, but he didn't. Unless he did.
If there was a Peter in every universe, it stood to reason there would be an MJ as well. There was almost certainly an MJ in his universe, and he was a detective, damn it; he could find her, and he would. He began compiling a list of everything he knew about this MJ woman, which he realized wasn't a lot. In the universe he'd gone to, MJ was a "broadcast journalist," and gave televised news reports. In other Peter Parker's universe, she was an actress. In Gwen's universe, she was the lead singer in a band.
Based on that, it was safe to assume that the MJ of his universe would work in the media: news, film, live theatre, music, he went ahead and added radio to the list since that was a prevalent media outlet in his universe.
Besides that, he didn't really have anything that might lead him to his universe's MJ, but he didn't let that deter him. He went to the movies, but none of the credits had a Mary Jane Watson, or even anyone with the same initials, or a similar sounding name, so he moved on to scouring the bylines in the newspapers, but again found nothing. There was a Marlene J. Watts writing for a tabloid, but she turned out to be a woman of nearly sixty with a bad temperament and a sour mug.
Next he went to every live theater and jazz club in New York and picked up playbills, and scanned posters. The only MJ he found there was a young black woman who sang in a jazz club uptown named Michelle Jones. He met her to ask some questions, but he came to the conclusion that she was not the one he was looking for when he learned that she'd never gone by MJ, and was already married to a man named Harold Jones.
Too bad, he thought. She was a ripe tomato, and she had a beautiful voice. Peter was a sucker for a nice voice. But alas, it wasn't meant to be. Even if she had been the MJ he was looking for, he couldn't have married her, with the laws against interracial marriage. No more dejected than usual, he continued his search. He began listening to radio programs instead of police scanners, and had even extended his search to authors, though he knew most female authors wrote under a pseudonym, so he didn't really expect to find her name on a book cover.
He'd just gotten back from a fight with a gang of mobsters who'd be busting rocks for a long time once they were out of the hospital, and he turned on the radio to a station he hadn't tried yet in his continued search for the MJ of his world, and he heard a familiar voice. It sounded like Ham, but not quite. It wasn't quite as squeaky or nasally, and it sounded smoother, but it was just as bright as Ham's and had that same edge of laughter. Peter spent several moments just appreciating the sound of the man's voice before he actually started to hear what the man was saying.
"What a feat, huh folks? Seven members of New York's most feared mob in one fell swoop by our very own Spider-Man. Seven in one blow, folks, can you believe that?" the radio host was saying. "Old Mr. Jameson over at the Bugle has been spitting all over him lately, but that Spider-Man's a real, genuine hero in my book, and this city owes him our thanks at the least. He's put away some of the biggest baddest big-bads of the past decade, and I'd wager he's a looker under that mask too, am I right ladies?" Peter almost chuckled, this guy was funny. With his scars and his perpetually somber demeanor, Peter thought he was anything but a looker.
Peter did not change the station. He didn't really have a justification for that, since the only reason he was listening to the radio in the first place was in the hope that one of the voices might be MJ's, but the man was entertaining, and one evening's break from his thus far tireless search wouldn't hurt. He'd pick it up tomorrow.
After the local news stories, the radio host moved on to talk for a few minutes about the war overseas, and though the things he reported on were somber, the hopeful tones never left his voice, nor did his seemingly unavoidable inclination toward humor. "I'd better not be alone in thinking this, folks, but I don't care for these Nazi creeps, and you can quote me on that."
For the second time since he'd turned on the radio, Peter felt a laugh in his chest, even if it didn't quite make it past his throat. He had almost fallen asleep to the pleasant voice on the radio when it said something Peter hadn't expected to hear.
"It's about that time folks, when I leave you in the capable hands and lips of Leon Proser, and his smooth jazz and classical. This is WBNY's MJ Watson wishing you a good night, and sweet dreams. That's all folks!" Peter's eyes flew open suddenly.
The man's name was MJ, and MJ Watson no less. Was the MJ of his universe, the one he'd been looking so hard for these past months, a man? Was that even possible? He supposed if there really were infinite parallel worlds as Peni had told him, then anything was possible. If Spider-Man could be a woman, then MJ could be a man, but why did MJ have to be a man in his universe? It was just his luck that he'd live in a world where he didn't even stand a chance with the love of his other lives.
It was probably for the best. He'd been trying to ignore the dangers so far, but eventually he had to face the fact that anyone who got close to him ended up dead. As much as he wanted happiness, he'd always known that no person could really give that to him, at least not for long. Nevertheless, Peter had found his MJ, and even if he couldn't romance him, Peter could listen to his wonderful voice, and let it bring him comfort as it had that evening. Maybe someday he'd even get to meet Mr. Watson, and put a face to that soothing voice.
Peter moved on from his search for MJ and threw himself back into his detective work. Nothing had changed really, except he found himself listening to a different radio station in his office than he had before, and more often: WBNY. Watson was their main host, performing in both their morning and evening segments (Peter was curious how he managed that), and Peter loved listening to him. Plus, as it turned out, they had a couple pretty decent radio dramas on that station, and Watson was a regular voice actor in one of them, a fantasy called The Lost Island, in which he played the comic relief character, Stanton, and played him very well.
It was a small change, as far as changes go, just a few notches to the left on his radio, but he found it made a noticeable difference in his life, made him a little less desolate. Life was still a massive shitshow, New York especially, but he'd found a little spark of light, a match that burned down to his fingertips, and still didn't fizzle out. Listening to MJ on the radio, he felt something other than pain for once, and it was nice.
It turned out that Peter, well, Spider-Man was one of Watson's favorite subjects. He was a huge fan of the hero detective, and was always saying kind and encouraging things about him on his little Mickey-Mouse radio show, which was a nice change of pace from the irate, vocal protests of JJ Jameson and other news outlets.
"Always there for the little guy, that Spider-Man," Watson said on the radio. "And a PI to boot. I tell you, I'd hire him, if I ever needed anything investigated, that is. His agency's on thirty-third street, if any of you listeners do need something investigated though: an unfaithful spouse, a missing friend or family member, a lost engraved money clip with fifty dollars in it, you know, things of that nature, and our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is there to help. Doesn't he just beat all? Literally as well as metaphorically." Spider-Man smiled at that.
MJ was not on the radio the following day. A dry, gravelly voice came on instead and announced that Mr. Watson had not come into the studio that day, and they assumed he was sick. Watson was gone again the day after that, and again the day after that. On the third day of his absence from the radio station, a very familiar woman walked into Peter's office, and she was all nerves.
"Hello, my name is Gwendolyne Stacy," the woman said, confirming his suspicions. She spoke in a Mid-Atlantic accent; her hair was much longer than the other Gwen Stacy he'd met, and meticulously styled. She was a little older, lacked piercings, and was wearing a classy dress instead of a spider suit, but other than that, she was the spitting image of Spider-Woman. "I'm here about a missing friend. His name is Martin John Watson, and he's a host on one of the local radio stations. Just a small one, you may not have even heard of it, WBNY."
"I know it," Peter said. "You say Mr. Watson is missing?"
"Yes." She nodded emphatically, her pin curls bouncing against her shoulders. "I thought he was sick, so I went to his house with some chicken soup, but when I got there, his front door was broken, and he was gone."
"Sounds like he was abducted. Did Mr. Watson have any enemies, anyone that might've wanted to hurt him?" Peter asked. He felt a sinking feeling in his gut, but refused to show it, trying to treat this case like any other.
"Probably. He was one of the few people in media who openly supported you, and I know that upset a lot of people, but he was on such a minor station, and he's... so harmless. I don't know if people took him all that seriously."
"Write down his address. I'll get him back for you." Peter slid a pad of paper and a pen toward her as he stood and came out from behind his desk, grabbing his fedora.
"Oh thank you," she said, though none of the tension left her face or body. "Only the thing is, I don't know if I can afford to pay you, I'm just an assistant—"
"We can work that out later," Peter said, already fully intending to take this job pro-bono. "Don't worry your pretty head about it Miss Stacy."
"Oh thank you!" She took the pen and wrote down the address as requested, full of desperation and gratitude, and Peter noticed a shiny ring on her left hand, an engagement ring. "Thank you so much, I don't know what I'd do without him."
"There's no need for that, miss," he said, tearing off the piece of paper, and walking out the door before shooting his webs at the building across the street and swinging away. Peter had known from the moment he'd found him that MJ would never be his like in the other dimensions, but somehow, quite separately from his own will, he'd grown attached to the radio host anyway, and no matter how irrational it was, seeing the man's fiancée made his heart sink like it wasn't supposed to.
As he traveled to the address Miss Stacy had written down, he compiled a list in his head of every reason his feelings for MJ Watson were irrational, and why he should move on from them immediately.
- MJ was engaged to Gwendolyne Stacy, and Peter wouldn't want to take away her happiness.
- People hated Spider-Man enough already, and he didn't want to imagine how much that hatred would increase if people found out he was fruity.
- He wouldn't want to subject MJ to the dangers that being close to him always brought.
- He was just setting himself up for more disappointment, and he didn't deserve to be happy anyway.
- If the relationship end of things did work out, and that was a big 'if,' MJ would face massive prejudice and danger just for being with another man, Spider-Man or not, and Peter didn't want to do that to him. Peter loved him too—loved his show too much to do that to him.
- They barely knew anything about each other, so how could they possibly be in love? That was ridiculous.
Peter was practically despairing when he finally reached the house, and ready to bottle up his emotions and focus on work like he always did.
Just as Miss Stacy had said, the latch on the front door of the house was broken, like the door had been kicked in. The house looked lived in, but neat, and nothing expensive seemed to have been taken. The radio was in its proper place, a silver vase sat on the mantel with wilting orchids in it, untouched. Not a burglary. There were prisms hung in the east facing window, so that when the sun rose, they would cast pretty lights on the opposite wall. Peter frowned. Six months ago, he would have called them rainbows, but he knew better now.
The kitchen was the only place in the house that looked disturbed, besides the front door. There was some dried liquid on the kitchen floor, with a mug next to it. Spilled coffee, which would have been insignificant, if not for the footprint in the middle of it. It wasn't a clear print. He couldn't determine tread or weight, but he could see basically what size it was, and from that he knew it was probably a man, about six feet tall. Of course it could have just been someone wearing oversized shoes to throw off any investigators.
There was blood on the kitchen counter. Someone's head had been slammed against it, probably MJ's, and Peter was gonna get a bang outta dropping the goons responsible. There were no notes or calling cards left at the scene, so this wasn't motivated by ransom or status, this was meant to go down quiet like, and not get noticed. That wasn't going to happen though, because Spider-Man wasn't going to let it.
The people who took MJ were obviously professionals. They didn't leave a mess, and there was very little evidence left behind. Aside from the kitchen and the door latch, the only clue was tire skid marks out of Watson's driveway with a clear veer towards the road leading to the docks. Always the docks, wasn't it?
Peter watched the bustling docks from his place on the wall of a boat house. It was immigrants, refugees, and the fish market in the early afternoon, but once the sun began to set the crowds cleared, and the docks became a hot-bed of criminal activity. Drug deals, hit contracts, gangs, mobs, counterfeiters, money laundering, trafficking. You name it, it had probably gone down on those docks.
But Peter didn't have the time or the patience to wait until sundown in this case. MJ was in one of these boats, or one of these buildings, if he hadn't been killed already, and even if he had, Peter was going to find him if he had to search all night, or all year.
It was in one of The Goblin's bases—the old dilapidated House of Freaks of a carnival near the docks that had closed down years ago, soon after the depression hit—that he finally found something, but not MJ. A lot of blood is what he found, most of it old, dried, crusted over, but some of it fresh. It filled him with rage, and he punched the closest wall so hard the building shook, and dust and feathers and rat droppings fell from the rotting rafters. Any harder and he would've knocked the whole building down.
It was almost dark by then. If he wanted to continue his investigation, it would be more effective to do so once some of Goblin's lame-brained thugs showed up for him to interrogate. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long. Not half an hour later, two of Goblin's men showed up: big, lame, gorillas in pinstriped suits, one very tall and lanky, the other heavyset, average height, and smoking a cheap cigar.
"Aw Smokes, we're early again!" whined the taller one with a high pitched voice. "We always early to these tings, nobody else is be here for 'til nine!"
"Nine's only a few minutes away Shorty," said the one with the cigar, his own voice hoarse as if he had a bum throat. "We're not that early, and besides, better early than late."
"Still, I shoulda brought a book or somefin'," the taller one, Shorty apparently, continued. "I'm halfway through Tales of Space and Time, and I's liketa finish it this century, if I eva getta chance between shuffling' horse."
"I wouldn't have pegged a drug mule as the type to read HG Wells," Peter called down, perched precariously in the rafters. "Tales of Space and Time is a good one."
"Yeah?" Shorty turned toward the voice, not yet realizing who it belonged to. "I've only got up to 'The First Horseman' so far, but I's really enjoyin'—say, ain't you that spida fellow?" Peter swung down and kicked Shorty in the face. He was out cold in an instant. Then Peter turned on the other man, Smokes, Shorty had called him, and pinned him to the wall so roughly his chintzy cigar flew right out of his mouth.
"Tell me about Goblin's latest abductions," Peter demanded.
"I don't know anything about any abductions!" Smokes blubbered pathetically. "I'm just the mouth, Shorty's the thinker. He don't talk so good, but he's real smart, all the math goes through him!"
"Math?" Peter questioned. "Wait, what to you think 'abduction' means?"
"It's the same thing as subtraction, isn't it? You know, taking numbers off, like tax abductions?" Smokes looked so terrified, Peter thought the guy might spew.
"That's DEductions, ya meatball, I'm talking kidnappings!"
"Like I said, I'm just the mouth. I talk to the buyers and suppliers. I don't know anything about no kidnappings."
"Who would?"
"Shorty might. He's real receptive like that. Knows things, even when he's not supposed to sometimes."
"Receptive?" Peter thought for a moment. "Perceptive, you mean," he guessed, rolling his eyes, then head butted Smokes so hard the goon blacked out. Maybe when he woke up his brain would work properly. From what the pair had said earlier, more people would be arriving shortly, and he didn't want to waste time fighting them, so Peter grabbed Shorty and took off.
He landed on a roof a few blocks away, webbed together Shorty's arms and legs, and pulled some smelling salts out of his pocket to revive the man.
"Wh-what?" Shorty demanded, struggling against his binds. "Wha's goin' on?"
"You can stop that. You don't stand a chance of breaking my webs." Shorty frowned but stopped struggling. He sounded like a simpleton, but maybe he was smarter than he seemed.
"Whadda you want?"
"Information," Peter said. "I need to know about any and all abductions Goblin's been involved with." Shorty stayed silent, still frowning. "Abductions means—"
"I know what it means," Shorty said. "Why should I tell you anyfin'? Hm? So Gobby can kill me fo' bein' loose-lipped. I don' tink so. There's nufin' you can do me, make me tell you. I ratha die from you 'n from Gobby."
"Well I think a few minutes of friendly interrogation might change your mind." Peter lifted him up and held him over the edge of the roof. They were more than forty floors up, so if Peter let go of him, there was no way he'd survive. "Tell me what I want to know." Shorty said nothing, just stared right into his eyes. Peter let his hand slip, let Shorty slip for a moment before gripping tightly again. "I'll do it, Shorty."
"Then do it." His voice was still squeaky, his words still plain, but there was no mistaking the look in his eye, and it was not the look of a fool. "Cool me, coward. It ain't do you no good." It was the look of a man who knew, despite all appearances, that this could only result in his adversary's failure, regardless of what happened to him. Peter was beginning to believe that this man was not at all what he had first assumed. He sneered and flung Shorty back onto the roof harshly. It was time for a new tactic.
"Do you read Agatha Christie?" Peter asked after a long moment of silence.
"Course, love her books," Shorty responded. "What? You gonna threaten a death right out of 'em."
"Have you read her latest book yet, The Body in the Library?"
"Haven' had the time."
"Well I have," Peter said. He'd stood in line to get it as soon as it came out, and finished it in two days. "Great story, full of intrigue, and if you don't tell me what I need to know, I'll tell you who the killer is, and how they did it, and you'll have no way to avoid hearing me."
"You wouldn'."
"Try me."
"Tha's a dirty play," Shorty said after a moment, and Peter almost couldn't believe it when he gave in. "The las' aduction Gobby did's twelve days ago, woman from the Times. She dead arready."
"I need dope on something more recent, just three days ago," Peter said. "A radio host named Watson was taken from his home."
"That wa'n't Gobby." Shorty shook his head. "I hear when I's sellin' herb downtown, a regular had a beef with some radio freak of yous, always spreadin' good word on ya."
"I need a name and a location."
"The docks, as usual. Ol' brownston, jus' two floors, broken door, ivy all uppa side," Shorty said. "Fella goes by Night Night, but a name's Blake Ryan. I fink he's gotta bone to pick wiv ya."
"Yeah, he does." Blake Ryan was a honcho for the Irish mafia, and one of its last functioning members since Spider-Man broke it up a few weeks before the dimension jumping debacle. Peter had forgotten about it, and that was a mistake.
"'S'at it? Can ya lemme go now?"
"Those webs'll dissolve in two hours."
"Two hours?" Shorty moaned.
"Sorry Shorty, I ain't giving you a free pass. Thanks for the help." He heard the drug dealer calling after him indignantly as he swung away, back to the docks.
Peter overlooked the building before, but he shouldn't have. It was easy to miss, much shorter than the buildings surrounding it and practically buried in vines of ivy. To Peter's knowledge, the building had been unoccupied for a long time. He could tell by the way it sagged that the foundations were no good. The brick exterior was cracked and crumbling, most of the windows were broken, and the door hung, splintered, on one hinge.
No sane person would set up their base of operations in a building so close to falling into the sea, which meant it was perfect for Night Night Ryan and his band of Irish wackjobs.
Peter snuck in through a broken window on the upper floor, avoiding as many of the cock-eyed bastards as he could, and knocking out the ones he couldn't as quietly as possible. He heard most of the guys milling around on the ground floor, so he was less likely to run into them upstairs. He had just reached the last room on the upper floor, and he heard voices coming from inside.
"Do you know who Spider-Man is?" demanded a soft voice, heavily accented with an Irish brogue. Peter recognized it as Seamus 'Whisper' O'Dwyer. Him and his daughter Angelica—AKA the body bag of the Irish mafia, the angel of death, the Irish hellhound, and in some circles simply, Dullahan—were Ryan's favorite lackeys. It was the second voice he heard that almost made Peter fall off the ceiling.
"Who's Spider-Man?" He sounded tired, and a bit sauced, but it was definitely MJ; Peter could've recognized the man's lovely voice anywhere.
"Don't play the fool ye gombeen," O'Dwyer said. "We know you know Spider-Man. Who is he?"
"That's what I just asked you! Are we playing Abbot and Costello? I'd rather play charades."
"I thought you said getting him drunk would make him give up the information," another accented voice, female this time, said, sounding thoroughly displeased. He'd never met the woman, but Peter would hazard a guess that that voice belonged to none other than Angelica O'Dwyer, probably the most dangerous woman in New York that didn't have any superpowers, at least, as far as he knew.
"It usually works that way, but all I really promised was that it would make him talk," Whisper replied.
"Well he's talking alright."
"I wouldn't be talking if we played Charaaaaades," MJ sang loudly. Peter took advantage of the noise to open the door.
"For the last time, who is Spider-Man? How do we take him down? Do you know where he is?" Whisper shouted.
"Do I know where he is? Of course I know where he is, silly billies." MJ giggled. It was adorable.
"Where is he?" Angelica demanded, getting right up in his face.
"He's right behind you." The O'Dwyers turned to look at Peter a moment too late. He webbed Angelica to one wall and and threw Whisper right through another one, then went to untie MJ.
Before he could finish, Angelica shrieked at the top of her lungs, screamed bloody murder. Peter webbed her mouth shut, but this time it was he that wasn't fast enough, and he'd barely untied MJ when the only doorway in the windowless room was blocked by six mafia thugs, including Angelica O'Dwyer, who had freed herself with a knife while Peter was busy with MJ.
"Looks like we're gonna have to fight our way out," Peter said, putting up his fists and lowering his head into a fighting stance.
"Why?" MJ hiccuped. "Just go out the same way the other guy did." He pointed to the unguarded hole in the wall where Peter had thrown Whisper through it.
"Oh." Peter grabbed MJ and went through the wall and out the window in the next room. He held tightly to MJ as they swung far away, all the way to Peter's office in town.
"That was fun," MJ said and Peter turned on the light as they walked into the detective agency. Once inside, Peter got a good look a the radio host, whose voice was so intoxicating, whose personality was so charming, for the first time, and he was even more handsome than Peter had imagined.
His hair was loose, and wavy, and framed his face attractively, despite the scabbing gash on his forehead. His smile was bright and beautiful. His figure and features were sharp, and his voice... his voice sounded even better in person. If he hadn't been completely in love with this dreamboat before, Peter definitely was now.
"Must be nice to travel like that all the time," MJ mused, but Peter was too busy ogling him to respond. "You're really strong. Thanks for saving me."
"Tha—you're welcome," Peter managed, cursing his stammer. "It was my pleasure. I like your show, by the way."
"You listen to my show?" MJ lit up, and Peter felt his insides get all warm. "I'm so happy! I've always had so much admiration for you, and everything you do for this city. You have no idea how glad it makes me to hear that you like my show."
"It's one of my favorites actually," Peter continued, riding the high of MJ's magnificent smile. "It's really entertaining, and I love the sound of your voice."
"Oh?" MJ blushed, and after a moment of indecision, he stepped forward and threw his arms around Peter in a hug, letting go before Peter had gotten over his shock enough to reciprocate. "You're pretty easy on the ears yourself handsome." Peter had just regained his composure, and he was already knocked flat again.
"Oh, I'm uh, I'm not handsome, I'm really not."
"Prove it."
"What?"
"I'll believe it when I see it, and until I do, you're the most handsome man I've ever met."
"Have you met yourself?" Peter retorted before he could think about his words.
"Even handsomer than me," MJ insisted without pause. "And I am very good looking." He ran a hand through his hair. He was right, though Peter thought he shouldn't be after three days captive of the Irish mafia. "So let's see that pretty face of yours."
"I... can't," Peter said. For the first time, he actually wanted to show someone who he was under the mask, but it wasn't worth the risk. "You've been hurt already because of me, because people thought you might know me. I won't expose you to more danger by showing you my true identity."
"Alright fine," MJ pouted and Peter almost gave in. Instead, he went to his desk to find the card Miss Stacy had left with her contact information.
"I'm going to call your fiancée and tell her I found you."
"Fiancée?" MJ squinted and drew his eyebrows together. "I can't get married I'm..." he trailed off, pressing his mouth shut, and Peter glanced at him curiously for a moment, wondering what he was about to say before he began dialing the number.
"Miss Stacy?" he said into the receiver.
"Ooh is that Gwendy? Can I talk to her?" Peter held up a hand to say 'one moment.'
"Yes, Miss Stacy, I found him. He's here at my office if you'd like to see him, or I can take him home and you can meet us there." She told him she'd meet them at Watson's house, and thanked him profusely, and he hung up. "I'm taking you to your home," he told MJ.
"Aw, but I didn't get to talk with Gwendy!"
"She's meeting us there."
"Oh, goodie." Peter allowed himself a small smile behind the mask; MJ was still quite drunk, and he was a cute drunk.
Peter took MJ in his arms again in preparation to swing back to his house, and MJ wrapped his arms around Peter's neck, grinning. Peter was so glad he'd opted for a full face mask instead of just the goggles, because the black fabric kept his blushing cheeks mercifully hidden.
Miss Stacy reached the house only a minute or two after they did, and the moment she climbed out of her car, she ran to MJ and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. Peter noted that she'd come from the passenger side, and watched a man climb out of the driver's seat moments after her, smiling and chuckling lightly. Once Miss Stacy let him go, the new man gave MJ a firm handshake.
"Thank you so much for doing this Spider-Man, MJ's been my best friend since we were kids, and I just can't imagine... well... how much do I owe you for your services?" Miss Stacy asked.
"This one's free of charge," the web-slinger responded, still watching the new man in his peripheral vision.
"That's awfully generous of you," the man said suspiciously. "You're not keen on my Gwendolyne are you?"
"No sir, I'd never make a pass at a lady who was spoken for."
"Oh, let me introduce you two," Miss Stacy said. "Curt, you know who this is, and Spider-Man, this is my fiancé, Dr. Curtis Connors. He's a scientist."
"I see. It's nice to meet you, Dr. Connors." He shook the man's hand as he returned the greeting. "I'm glad I could help you, but I think I oughta be going. It's nearly midnight, and that's when the nogoodniks come out their hidey-holes."
"Of course. Thank you again, Spider-Man..."
"Stay?" MJ asked quietly, apparently talking to the ground, while Miss Stacy was still speaking.
"What?" Miss Stacy asked, while Peter and Dr. Connors turned their heads quizzically toward him.
MJ turned his head up and looked at Peter desperately. "Please. Stay," he said. "They know where I live. There's no way I can..." MJ's bewitching voice cracked, and was choked out by his tears. Miss Stacy collected him in a hug again while Peter stood there, at a complete loss for what to do.
"A man who cries like that can hardly be called a man," Dr. Connors said to Spider-Man as they watched his fiancée comfort her friend and whisper soothing words.
"It might be the booze they forced into him," Peter reasoned, clenching his fists in frustration. "They got him pretty sauced, but he still wouldn't talk. He went through a lot, and he was real brave if you ask me."
"That nelly?" Connors scoffed. "I don't believe it."
"Nelly?" Peter asked.
"Didn't Gwendolyne tell you? MJ's a fruit, a queer. Guess maybe she thought you wouldn't help if you knew, and I wouldn't blame you," Connors explained. "I don't really approve of the man's choices, it's not natural, you know, but he's a nice enough fella, and at least I know he's not gonna snatch my dolly from me. Honestly if he tried, I don't think I'd stand a chance; they're real close, grew up together and all that."
"I wouldn't let him get killed by the mafia just because he prefers johnson," Peter said. "That don't matter to me."
"I know a lot of people who might disagree with you," Connors said.
"People disagree with me anyway. It gets to the point, after a while, where there's just no sense tryin' to please them anymore." Peter stepped forward toward MJ and Miss Stacy and placed a hand on MJ's head, like his Uncle Benjamin had done when he was sad as a child, the only thing he could think of to do, and said the only thing he could think of to say.
"I'll stay," Peter told him. "I should fix up those injuries of yours, anyway."
"Thank you," MJ said through his tears.
"I can stay with you," Miss Stacy offered.
"No. It's late, and you have to get your sleep," MJ told her, sniffling and shaking his head gently. "Besides, I'll be fine if Spider-Man's here, Gwendy. He's Spider-Man." She smiled at him and nodded, and gave him one last hug before returning to her fiancé and their car.
"Let's get you cleaned up," Peter said as the others drove off, and MJ nodded, wiping away his tears. "You sober enough to bathe yourself?" MJ nodded again and let Peter lead him inside. "Then do it. Leave the bathroom door unlocked, just in case; I don't want you drowning on me. While you do that, I'll cook up something greasy to sober you up, good?"
"Alright. Thank you Spider-Man."
"And quit thanking me already. It's starting to bug me." MJ just smiled at him, long and content, despite the tear tracks on his cheeks. "Go on and take that bath, would ya."
"So forward," MJ teased, and Peter belatedly realized he was a mood swing drunk, from happy, to scared, to flirty, to God knows what next. "I should've guessed Spider-Man was a wolf, but I never thought you'd try to get my pants off so quickly."
"Just go take the bath," Peter commanded, his face hot, and MJ giggled as he wandered into the bathroom, peeling off his shoes and leaving them by the coffee table.
After a minute, Peter heard water running, and sighed with relief. He set to the coffee stain on the kitchen floor with a damp rag, washing away the footprint, which he was fairly sure belonged to Whisper O'Dwyer by that point, then the crusted blood on the counter. All the evidence of MJ's abduction drained down the kitchen sink.
He put on a pot of hot water and found herbal tea in a cupboard to make, the same kind that sometimes helped him fall asleep. Then he started cooking up some bacon and eggs. Protein helped perk you up, and grease prevented a bad hangover. The poor guy'd still probably have a headache in the morning, but hopefully it wouldn't be too unbearable.
The bathroom door opened, and Peter forced himself not to look until he heard the bedroom door open and close, and MJ shuffling through his dresser drawers. Peter pulled the steeper out and poured the tea into two mugs, then placed the plates of eggs and bacon on the kitchen table just as MJ came out of his room.
"Mm, looks yummy," MJ said, looking at the food and then at Peter. "You planning on taking off the mask to eat, handsome?"
"No." Peter hadn't thought of that. He took the seat next to MJ, rolled the mask up to the bridge of his nose, and took a sip of his tea.
MJ picked up his fork and began to partake of his eggs, his eyes barely left the hero's half-hidden face as he commented on how nice Spider-Man was, and how, "You're surprisingly cool-headed and kind for a gumshoe in the hot-seat. My gran told me that 'people are never as good as you think they are,' but you're better."
"Your grandmother was right."
"The woman's afraid of her own shadow."
"Doesn't make her wrong."
"Why do you have such a low opinion of yourself?"
"Why do you have such a high opinion of me?"
"Someone has to." MJ leaned in close to Peter, eyes squinting sternly. "There's nobody in the world that everybody hates. If the newspapers hate you, and the criminals hate you, and you hate you, then somebody's got to like you to balance out all that hatred. So I like you." He leaned forward another inch and gave Peter a peck on the snoot. Peter jumped back, nearly knocking over his stool, cheeks darkening.
"I'm so sorry!" MJ shouted, taking several steps back and leaning against the floor... Wait, what? No. MJ stood against a wall, and Peter had accidentally stuck himself to the ceiling in his hurry to get away. Peter cleared his throat awkwardly and lowered himself to the floor, failing to look at MJ as he did so.
"Don't worry about it... you just... caught me off guard..." Why was his spider-sense so useless? It pointed out bad guys right in front of him, but didn't warn him about important things.
"You're not mad?"
"No. You're drunk. It was just the nose. No harm done."
"I got my arm broke for doing that once back in high-school," MJ said. "And a black eye in a bar. Most fellows don't take too kindly to being kissed by another one."
"I'm not most fellas," Peter said. MJ nodded, but he was stiff for a while after that, didn't get close to Peter, tensed up as Peter was bandaging his wounds. He talked incessantly, but didn't really say anything; he just wanted to fill the silence, and Peter didn't mind. He liked the sound of MJ's voice.
At around one in the morning, MJ started to drift off. He fell asleep on the sofa, bare feet just barely touching Peter's thigh. Peter didn't do anything for a while, just watched the gentle rise and fall of MJ's chest as he breathed steadily. Eventually, though, Peter got up, carried MJ to his room and laid him on his bed, pulling the covers over him and tucking him in carefully.
Peter made sure all the windows were latched and the doors were locked and bolted—having fixed the latch on the front door with a screwdriver and nails he found in a toolkit under the kitchen sink—before making his escape through a vent in the attic. He didn't sleep that night. There were Irishmen to beat senseless.
Peter returned to his apartment, a secret basement under the building where he conducted his detective business, at a little after six AM and turned on the radio, as had become his habit in recent months. He smiled when he heard MJ's voice back on air once more, just as it should be.
"Yes, I'm so glad to be back folks, let me tell you. I normally don't like to bring my personal life on the air with me, but it was a rough few days. At least one good thing came out of it, though," MJ was saying. "I got to meet Spider-Man, and he is as amazing as I always believed.
"'How did you get to meet Spider-Man?' I'm sure none of you are asking. 'I thought you were sick,' you might be thinking without any particular concern. Well, that's what my boss told you, because he didn't bother to find out what actually happened when I didn't answer my telephone. Thanks Jim.
"Anyhoo, I wasn't sick. I actually got kidnapped by the Irish mob because I said nice things about Spider-Man. They broke into my home at the absurdly early hour of five in the morning, which is when I have to wake up to do the morning program here on WBNY. They spilled my coffee, dragged me into their car and took me to their secondary location down by the docks. As you all know, one should avoid secondary locations whenever possible, but in this case, try as I might, it was sadly not possible."
MJ continued to describe how he was interrogated, practically drowned in booze, interrogated some more, and subsequently rescued by Spider-Man, and how he had a massive headache as he described all that in entertaining detail.
"And of course, I was positively soused from those Irish folks, and anxious, and Spider-Man, genuine sweetheart that he is, if a bit edgy, stayed to protect me until I fell asleep. Now, isn't that nice folks?" MJ said to finish off his story. "Although, when I woke up this morning, all my doors and windows were locked from the inside, so I'm not sure how he left my house, but I'm fairly certain he was there."
Peter decided to take some time off from his Spider-Man business, maybe write an article on Spider-Man's takedown of the Irish mafia last night and send it to the Bugle. He freelanced for them sometimes as an investigative journalist; it was a pretty good cover, gave him an excuse for all the things he knew.
He changed out of his spider suit, pushed up his glasses, and pulled out his typewriter. He inserted the page, turned the knob until it was in the right spot, reset the left margin which had gotten jolted and changed at some point, and began to type. The keys clacked in time with the pleasant lilting of MJ's sweet voice.
Just after noon, he had finished the article and took a break for lunch. Music was playing on the radio station by that time, and at one-thirty a science fiction radio drama would begin. He didn't care much for that program, and he didn't really want to cook, so he opted to find a café or diner to eat at.
He found himself at a corner table in Ned's Diner. It was slow today, only a few people seated at tables, one man at the counter, Ned and two other employees, Lizzie, whom he'd met, and a younger boy who's name tag read Harley, whom he had not. As Lizzie was coming to take his order, he heard the bell in the doorway ring as another customer walked in, the new customer was a man, but he was wearing a hat and coat, so Peter couldn't get a good sense of what he looked like.
"Hey Peter, what can I get for you today?" Lizzie asked.
"One black coffee and a burger with all the usual stuff on it," Peter said. "Thanks babydoll."
"Of course. Coming right up." Lizzie smiled at him, finished writing down his order and walked toward the kitchen. Once she was no longer blocking his line of sight, Peter managed to see who the newcomer was. With his hat now off his head and in his hand, Peter had no trouble distinguishing the figure of MJ Watson staring right at him with a curious look on his perfect face.
The radio host's hair was slicked back, but Peter could still see some of the natural wave. He was notably taller when he was standing up straight than when he was stumbling drunk. Maybe even a split-inch taller than Peter, but he couldn't quite tell. MJ took a deep breath and walked over to Peter's table, which confused him. MJ couldn't possibly recognize Peter, could he? Why was he walking over?
"Hey handsome, mind if I sit here?" MJ said, placing his free hand on the back of the chair opposite Peter. Peter looked around at all the empty tables, considering the possibility that MJ was talking to someone else.
"What?" Peter asked dumbly.
"I asked if I could sit with you," MJ said patiently. "And I called you handsome."
"Uh, I—I guess so," Peter said. "I'm not very handsome, though."
"I disagree," MJ said. "You think a couple of scars can ruin a pretty face like yours?"
"What are you doing?" Peter asked, taken aback by his flagrant behavior.
"I'm flirting with you," MJ said, low enough that the few other patrons of the diner probably couldn't hear, not that they had any reason to listen. "Does it make you uncomfortable?" Peter shrugged. It did make him uncomfortable, but not for the reasons MJ assumed. It was mostly because they were in a public place, and MJ was someone he really liked, and without the suit on he was a complete stranger to him, making this a potentially very dangerous move on MJ's part. He didn't mind at all that MJ was making advances.
"I wondered how you'd react," MJ said next.
"That's not a very good reason to do something with such a high potential to get you injured," Peter chided. "Lotta guys woulda decked you for making a move like that."
"You didn't before. I didn't think you would now," MJ said, and Peter frowned deeply.
"I don't think we've ever met before, sir," he said. MJ couldn't recognize him. There was no way.
"Of course," MJ said with a smile that suggested he knew something Peter didn't, then he held out a hand across the table, and Peter shook it hesitantly. "Martin John Watson's the name, but you may call me MJ. I work in the radio business hosting the morning and evening segments on WBNY."
"I'm Peter Parker, freelance journalist. I think I've heard that channel," Peter said, as though he didn't listen to it daily. "Morning and evening segments? You must have a long day."
"Well, no, not so much long as split-down-the-middle," MJ explained. "I do the morning segment, which ends at nine, and then I have plenty of free time before I return to do The Lost Island at five on Thursdays, and the evening show's at six. At ten I'm off and then up at five for the morning segment again. It's only seven hours usually, but I only get a one day weekend."
"Sounds like you've got it all figured out," Peter noted, leaning back in his chair.
"I've got work figured out. I don't know about everything else."
Lizzie came to the table with Peter's coffee. "You're food will be ready soon, Peter, Ned just overcooked the onions again." She chuckled and turned to look at MJ. "Can I get your friend here anything?"
"I'll have a cola and whatever sandwich you'd suggest, but no mustard, it makes my throat itch. Thank you miss... Lizzie," he read off her name tag. "Short for Elizabeth?"
"Yep, does a BLT sound good to you?"
"Sounds just fine," MJ smiled at her as she walked off.
"So I'll be spotting the check," MJ said. "To properly thank you for yesterday."
"I don't know what you mean, seeing as I never met you before today"
"If you keep insisting like that, you might convince me, and then you'll have to pay for your own lunch." MJ unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap. "And seeing as you don't appear to own a second hat, I wouldn't be turning down free meals if I were you, Peter."
"Lots of folks have hats like mine," Peter argued, trying not to think about how much he liked the sound of his name on MJ's tongue.
"With the same scuffed brim and torn band?" Peter looked at his hat, hanging on the back of his chair. He never bothered to take notice of the damage it took when he was fighting. He should invest in a second hat, if only to protect his secret identity. "I think you're a pretty swell guy, and you know what else? I was right. You are the handsomest guy I've ever met."
"Did you really figure me out by just my hat?" Peter asked. He was starting to blush again, and this time he didn't have the mask to hide it, so he ducked his head and hoped MJ wouldn't notice.
"I recognized your voice as soon as I walked in. 'One black coffee,' you said, and I trade in the spoken word, Mr. Parker, I'm excellent with voices. Then there was your face. I saw the lower half of it last night when we ate together, and you have a scar up the left side, from your chin to your cheek, very distinctive." Peter covered the scar with his hand. He hated his scars, and they made him self-conscious. "Don't hide it. I like them, your scars. They give you character, an air of mystery, a hardness and a ruggedness which I find very attractive."
Peter buried his face in his hands just as Lizzie came to the table with the rest of their lunch. "Here you are fellas, sorry for the wait. You got everything you need?"
"Yes, thank you Miss Lizzie," MJ said, looking very pleased with himself. She nodded, shot a mildly concerned glance at Peter, and moved on to the next table.
"I have to say," MJ said to Peter, who still looked as though he wanted to shrink into himself like a turtle. "I didn't expect to find you so quickly. What a coincidence that we'd both come to the same place the day after our first meeting. I mean, what are the chances?"
"Not high enough for this malarkey," Peter scoffed.
"My gran told me that 'when you meet someone destined to be an important person in your life, you're bound to meet them again, and the sooner you reunite, the more important they will be to you.'"
"That's the cheesiest pass I ever heard," Peter told him.
"I thought you agreed with my gran."
"Not on this."
"It's just as well. She always followed that statement with 'remember that important isn't always a good thing, MJ, so be careful who you put your trust in.'"
"That part I agree with."
"Yeah, I thought you might," MJ said with a chuckle. "I think you'd like Gran; she's a paranoid pistol, too. Of course, she lives in a mental hospital upstate now, so I'm not sure what that says about you."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Oh, she's still the same as she ever was, just old. When Madeline tried to put her in an old folks home, they tested her, and said that she should be institutionalized. She's in low security though, so I can visit her. Heck, maybe I'll take you some time."
"Madeline, is that your sister?" Peter immediately regretted asking when MJ's face darkened, and his lips pursed momentarily before he schooled his expression.
"Mother, but she won't let me call her that after she found out I'm..." MJ sighed. "Why couldn't I just be normal?"
"There's nothing wrong with you," Peter said seriously. "I've met people who really have something wrong with them, every one the type of normal you're thinking of, and normal is subjective. Let me tell you, MJ, it wasn't no nelly that ate my uncle. That man had something wrong with him. You don't."
"Ate...?" MJ evidently decided that wasn't a line of questioning that he wanted to follow, deciding instead to clear his throat and change the subject entirely. "Thank you. Um... how old are you, Peter? You look a bit younger than I was expecting."
"Nineteen," he answered.
"Nineteen?" Peter nodded. "That's three years younger than I am... so... what's an able-bodied nineteen-year-old like yourself doing here at home and not off fighting in the war overseas?"
"I tried to enlist, but they do a blood test," Peter explained. "After that, the doctors concluded that I should be dead, and there was no way in hell they were gonna let me fight Nazis. And anyway, there's plenty of fighting to be done right here in New York. What about you? Why aren't you overseas?"
"Do you really have to ask?" MJ raised an eyebrow. "It always comes back to one thing, doesn't it? All I can do is support on the home-front as best I can and hope I don't get drafted. I get found out, not only am I unqualified to serve, I could be arrested. I've tried to go straight but..."
"What did I tell ya, MJ, there's nothing wrong with you," Peter insisted. "It wasn't a choice, and no one should hold it against you. This world is messed up and terrible, and all the more so for making you think like that."
"I can't really disagree with you, but unfortunately it's the only world there is," MJ said.
Peter almost argued, almost told him about the whole multiverse, that there were other worlds, that he had visited one of them, but he held his tongue. That topic was a bit intense for such a new relationship—friendship. "Yeah," he said instead.