[Home Plot | Breakfast In America | Pt. III]
Look, I wasn't exactly a hermit on the Island. I mean, I've been there for nearly two years, and between my job at the school and my position on the Council, I made my fair share of acquaintances -- students, fellow teachers, other Council members (and a lot of those guys were, quite possibly, even less qualified to be leading anyone than yours truly). My point is, I was connected. But what I lacked on the Island that I have crawling out of the woodwork in New York are friends. People who I can count on, even if they haven't the slightest idea why I really tend to bolt at a moment's notice. So if this is a dream -- and I'm honestly not yet convinced it isn't -- the clock's ticking for when I'll be able to see them all again.
But a single phone call to my old pal Betty Brant -- gosh, was it ever good to hear her voice again? -- fixes that problem, at least. I might not be known as a real party animal, but whenever I do show an interest, people are pretty quick to seize the moment. With Mary Jane forgoing the fancy S.H.I.E.L.D. tech in favor of an Aunt May-funded trip to the salon -- because of course I'd sign up for the incarnation of the Avengers that doesn't pay -- she's barely recognizable as herself by the time we make it to Betty's apartment, though I guess that's sort of the point. Her long red hair's been chopped off and dyed blonde, and while I'd think she's beautiful no matter what, it's definitely an adjustment. The bigger adjustment, though, is calling her by her alias -- Katherine Kirby. Maybe it's true what they say, that a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, but it's a conscious effort to remember to introduce her as Katie nevertheless.
Yet introduce her I do. To Randy and Glory and Liz and a just-recovered Flash -- everyone and anyone. Betty really outdid herself, getting the whole gang together like this, and for the first time in a long time, I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to get the heck out of Dodge. Being here is easy, even with the lie, and I tell the story of how Katie and I met -- Spider-Man saved us from Stegron the Dinosaur Man a few months back, which isn't as big a tall tale as it could've been -- to anyone who asks, each beat rehearsed ahead of time. It's too soon for us to be married, but I have my wedding band on a chain around my neck, anyway, tucked underneath my shirt. In turn, they share embarrassing stories about me -- Randy's particularly keen on telling her about the time he caught me dancing around our apartment naked, singing 'Bohemian Rhapsody' at the top of my lungs -- and while normally I'd be mortified, I'm in too good a mood to do anything but laugh, and regale them all with anecdotes of my own.
No one, I notice, mentions Mary Jane. Conversations are carefully steered away from mentioning her. Subject changes are abrupt and unsubtle. She's the elephant in the room until, quite suddenly, she's just the ex in the room. You could hear a pin drop from across the building, it gets so quiet.
Mary Jane Watson is standing in the doorway with a hand planted on her hip, long, dark red hair cascading over her shoulders, her too-green eyes surveying the gathered crowd until, inevitably, they fall on me. Even just dressed in jeans and a tank top, she walks into the room like she's on the runway, oozing an easy confidence that most people would kill for. She always did know how to make an entrance. It probably balanced the fact that I always knew how to make an exit.
This is bad. Really bad. My heart's beating a mile a minute, and at some point in the past few seconds, I've forgotten how to perform that very basic bodily function known as breathing. I feel like I'm gonna throw up or pass out or some combination of the two, but before I have a chance to cough out my usual gotta run, she's heading straight toward me and MJ -- Katie. My wife. My current wife. The one I'm technically not married to, here, which is apparently a recurring theme, because I'm not married to her, either. Not anymore.
"Sorry I'm late, Petey," she says, smiling in that way of hers that makes my heart ache, and I have no idea what to do, staring at her numbly even as I instinctively reach out for MJ, my fingers brushing against her elbow. "You know I hate to miss a party."
But a single phone call to my old pal Betty Brant -- gosh, was it ever good to hear her voice again? -- fixes that problem, at least. I might not be known as a real party animal, but whenever I do show an interest, people are pretty quick to seize the moment. With Mary Jane forgoing the fancy S.H.I.E.L.D. tech in favor of an Aunt May-funded trip to the salon -- because of course I'd sign up for the incarnation of the Avengers that doesn't pay -- she's barely recognizable as herself by the time we make it to Betty's apartment, though I guess that's sort of the point. Her long red hair's been chopped off and dyed blonde, and while I'd think she's beautiful no matter what, it's definitely an adjustment. The bigger adjustment, though, is calling her by her alias -- Katherine Kirby. Maybe it's true what they say, that a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, but it's a conscious effort to remember to introduce her as Katie nevertheless.
Yet introduce her I do. To Randy and Glory and Liz and a just-recovered Flash -- everyone and anyone. Betty really outdid herself, getting the whole gang together like this, and for the first time in a long time, I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to get the heck out of Dodge. Being here is easy, even with the lie, and I tell the story of how Katie and I met -- Spider-Man saved us from Stegron the Dinosaur Man a few months back, which isn't as big a tall tale as it could've been -- to anyone who asks, each beat rehearsed ahead of time. It's too soon for us to be married, but I have my wedding band on a chain around my neck, anyway, tucked underneath my shirt. In turn, they share embarrassing stories about me -- Randy's particularly keen on telling her about the time he caught me dancing around our apartment naked, singing 'Bohemian Rhapsody' at the top of my lungs -- and while normally I'd be mortified, I'm in too good a mood to do anything but laugh, and regale them all with anecdotes of my own.
No one, I notice, mentions Mary Jane. Conversations are carefully steered away from mentioning her. Subject changes are abrupt and unsubtle. She's the elephant in the room until, quite suddenly, she's just the ex in the room. You could hear a pin drop from across the building, it gets so quiet.
Mary Jane Watson is standing in the doorway with a hand planted on her hip, long, dark red hair cascading over her shoulders, her too-green eyes surveying the gathered crowd until, inevitably, they fall on me. Even just dressed in jeans and a tank top, she walks into the room like she's on the runway, oozing an easy confidence that most people would kill for. She always did know how to make an entrance. It probably balanced the fact that I always knew how to make an exit.
This is bad. Really bad. My heart's beating a mile a minute, and at some point in the past few seconds, I've forgotten how to perform that very basic bodily function known as breathing. I feel like I'm gonna throw up or pass out or some combination of the two, but before I have a chance to cough out my usual gotta run, she's heading straight toward me and MJ -- Katie. My wife. My current wife. The one I'm technically not married to, here, which is apparently a recurring theme, because I'm not married to her, either. Not anymore.
"Sorry I'm late, Petey," she says, smiling in that way of hers that makes my heart ache, and I have no idea what to do, staring at her numbly even as I instinctively reach out for MJ, my fingers brushing against her elbow. "You know I hate to miss a party."