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IT WAS A FORM OF SELF-ABASEMENT, what Peter did. Looking down at his phone was reminiscent of a life he would never see again. His friends— past friends— in the frame. All happy, smiling. Throwing a large party in their new apartment building, one they both paid rent for, because God knows being a solo act in the city of New York is more hell than heaven. Ned with a new bro he had probably found while geeking out over a Star Wars LEGO set. His dorky, broad face wore a gleeful smile as they chugged down shots of vodka that some of the guys Peter didn't know had brought. Ned looked happy as he stumbled around the apartment while his friends laughed.
The camera moved to another person. Curly-haired, slender, and as beautiful as the day he had lost her. MJ…
She looked happy— especially without him. Blanketed in the arms of her new man. A stinging pain stabbed Peter's heart, and a bubbling feeling boiled somewhere in his stomach. His jaw tightened, and he had to consciously remind himself not to crush his phone…
Again.
But even if he was mad at the sight, he couldn't deny how happy MJ looked.
Maybe it's for the better. She's away from him now. She's safe. He told himself. Over and over again. Telling himself the farther they were, the safer they got.
But he would never admit it. That the farther they got— the more he wanted them close.
That's why it was a kind of self-torture for Peter to keep watching them. Opening Instagram and watching their stories.
"Are you self-loathing again?"
Peter turned to see her. A new 'friend' he had made through his Spider-Manning. She strode forward with a pack of cigarettes pinched in her left hand.
Long, wavy red hair that glowed like brimstone. Sharp emerald-green eyes that told him she had seen and experienced things no normal person could relate to. She wore all green— her uniform— a green and black mix, with a golden bird in the center of her chest, its wings spread to her shoulders.
Jean Grey sat beside him on the same flat roof of a random building facing Manhattan. She plucked a Marlboro stick out of the pack and pursed her lips to hold the filter end still.
"You know that thing could kill you," Peter warned, pulling his knees up to his chest.
"So can the things we do," Jean Grey said. "But I don't see you stopping. Will you?"
"Not a chance."
Jean watched the loop of Ned’s post, her lips pursed tight. She let out a low, unintelligible grunt that carried more disparagement than any insult could. She removed the cigarette from her mouth to speak her thoughts. "Are you still stalking them?"
Peter snapped his phone shut—a signature habit with his Galaxy Flip—and pocketed it out of Jean’s sight. He was still too guarded to let her in, regardless of how many times she’d saved his skin.
"Just making sure they're safe," Peter murmured.
"They're safe, Pete. No need to keep checking on them every minute of your break," Jean Grey said, taking a long drag of her cigarette. "If you want to forget, you know I can help with that."
Peter said nothing. She just gazed at him.
It was part of her ability— being a psychic and all. To make someone forget. God, there were so many times Peter could have wished to forget.
Thinking about it now, it hurt him. Flashing images of his past. Uncle Ben. Tony Stark. Aunt May. Happy. MJ and Ned.
"You know my answer," Peter said, and Jean nodded in confirmation, blowing another nicotine cloud into the dark New York air.
Peter watched her.
It had been three months since she stepped into his life as a partner. They shared an apartment and a rent check, haunting the same ESU campus under different majors. While she focused on psychic studies, their worlds frequently collided in overlapping classes and occasional midnight patrols—the latter a duty she performed with visible reluctance.
When they first met, she was more rogue than hero, wanting no part in the "heroine" mantle—a stance that made perfect sense given her origins. She was a mutant, born with the specific genetic markers Peter had once studied under Bruce Banner’s tutelage. In this world, however, that biology was a death sentence; public outcry demanded that those with the gene be monitored, controlled, and treated as little more than living weapons.
Organizations like the DODC had turned that prejudice into policy, codifying the fear that kept Jean a prisoner. It was the reason she’d refused the "hero" mantle for so long; she was still nursing the scars of being caged and treated like a live round in a chamber. Why help them? she’d ask him. In her eyes, the world was a collection of the cruel and the callous. Why bleed for people who want you in a cell? Yet, something had shifted, and Peter couldn't quite put his finger on the trigger.
"What?" Jean snapped. She hadn't looked up, but she could clearly feel his stare lingering.
Peter jumped, caught in the act. "I—um—nothing. I was just wondering..." He looked everywhere but at her, his eyes finally locking onto the cigarette held between her stained fingers. "Does that actually do anything for the stress? Or is it just a habit?"
A thin red brow arched as she flicked the pack toward him. "Want one?"
"Uh… no thanks."
Jean offered the glowing tip of her own cigarette. "Split?"
"Pass," Peter managed, his throat suddenly dry.
She took a long, deep drag, the ember flaring bright against the twilight. "Shotgun?"
Peter's forehead creased. His mind halted. Confused and mesmerized eyes trailed on as she nearly finished the leaf in one steady pull. “What does that mean?”
He wasn’t prepared for the invisible gravity that drew him into her orbit. Before he could process the question, Jean’s hand cupped the back of his head, her fingers threading through his hair to tilt his face toward hers.
"!!!"
Her lips met his with a warm, insistent press. Peter’s eyes stayed wide, locked on her closed lashes, as she leaned in to bridge the gap. Her tongue slipped past his teeth, guiding a cloud of smoke into his lungs—a shared breath that flooded his senses with the clashing tastes of sweet strawberry and harsh nicotine.
Small wisps of grey mist curled from the corners of their mouths, dissipating into the cool rooftop air. As the heat of the smoke filled his chest, the world around them blurred. Peter’s hazel eyes grew hazy, his resistance crumbling as he finally leaned into the weight of the kiss.
The warm press of Jean’s lips caught him off guard, her hand already cupping the back of his head to pull him into the tilt of her kiss. Peter’s eyes stayed wide, locked on her closed lashes as she leaned in, her tongue slipping past his teeth to guide the smoke home.
It was a sudden, invasive flood—a thick, heady rush of sweet strawberry and harsh nicotine that filled his lungs like a new kind of air. As small wisps of grey mist curled from the corners of their mouths, Peter’s vision finally went hazy, his resistance crumbling as he leaned into the heat of her.
Peter didn't realize that his response had caused Jean to moan softly against his mouth as they exchanged the warmth between them. She exhaled gently before pulling away.
Peter coughed, realizing some of the smoke had caught in his throat– filling his clean lungs with dirty gases. "Gah! W-What was that for?"
Jean simply drew another stick from her pack. "Does that answer your question?"
“Y-You are such a—”
“Ah-ah-ah,” Jean interrupted, playfully wagging a finger. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Spidey doesn't use that kind of language, remember?”
“I was going to say ‘insensitive’,” Peter countered, though the heat in his face betrayed him.
A comfortable silence settled over the rooftop. Jean sat with her legs swinging, her eyes glazed as she drifted into the skyline—uncaring, a fresh cigarette smoldering between her lips.
They didn't need words. The shift was silent but deliberate as Jean leaned over, resting her weight against him. She used the curve of his shoulder as a pillow, her ginger mane spilling over his suit as they turned their eyes to the stars. In the quiet, the message was clear: despite the DODC, the rogue past, and the "weapon" labels, she felt safe here.
But Peter’s internal clock—ever the buzzkill—tripped him up. “We should probably head back. It’s a school night, Jean.”
“Professor Frost wouldn’t mind us being a little late, Pete. She’s chill like that,” Jean murmured, her voice thick with a rare softness as she wrapped her arms around his.
They stretched out on the flat of the roof, the gravel biting into their backs as they watched the night. The stars were steady, soothing points of light against the velvet dark, while the moon hung like a silver watchman above the city. The roar of New York faded into a low, mechanical hum—a perfect ambiance for two people who finally stopped running, if only for an hour.
Peter was the first to fall asleep. Jean’s gaze trailed his sleeping mask. The lenses turned to thin slit, a telltale sign that his eyes were close.
So she took the opportunity and kissed him once more. A different kiss.
Not like the clownish stuff she did with the cigarette. A kiss that carried a purer fire that came inside her. Inside her heart.
“I love you.” She said, her heart burning brighter but not for Peter to see.
They both fell asleep. And the next day they got a lot of tongue from their Professor at ESU.