Air I Breathe

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Saturday, February 8

Peter's thankful that the last two days have been mostly cloudy in his memory. He doesn't want to remember May's face when she saw him so sick with machines and tubes and wires all over, and he doesn't want to remember the specifics of the dreadful, failed attempt at coming off of the BiPap, how the apnea spells returned and sent him into a horrific panic attack that was made worse by having to be back on the BiPap machine in order to breathe for most of Thursday.

He's happy to be in his own bed by the weekend, albeit with continuous oxygen and around-the-clock treatments again, including the annoying vest treatment. It wasn't his asthma this time, but the reaction sparked a flare of his asthma, and he hates the idea that he is starting from what feels like scratch again, even though Bruce has assured him that he isn't.

All because he ate a single shrimp at the gala.

MJ shows up with a movie, microwave popcorn, and a bag full of boxed candy. It brings a welcome smile to Peter's face, even if he does think Good N Plenty should be banned.

"Hidden Figures," she says, holding the movie up. "Science, kicking racism in the ass, and women in STEM."

"MJ," Peter says, but MJ won't look up, is rifling through the bag of candy.

"I wasn't sure if you were a Milk Dud or Sour Patch Kids person, so I kind of bought up the dollar section," she says, ignoring him.

"MJ."

"What?" she asks, finally lifting her gaze.

"I can tell that you're trying really hard not to bring up what happened, and I appreciate that...but you're also not looking at me, and you never used to do that before." He takes a deep breath, thankful for the oxygen, and leans his head back against the pillow. "I promise I'm fine."

She sits on the side of his bed, doesn't crawl in beside him like usual, and Peter isn't quite sure how he's going to make this better, make it okay, because dammit, none of this is fine.

It never was, even though everyone has been telling him over and over that it is, but it really isn't fine now.

"You're fine here in this moment, but Peter...you weren't at the gala, and you weren't in the car." And she's crying, but not in the way Peter's expected. Her face isn't twisting like Tony's does, and her hands aren't coming up to wipe her tears away like May does, and it feels wrong. All of it feels so wrong. She's stoic, isn't even looking down, and for a moment, Peter questions whether or not she's actually crying. But then there are tears dropping onto her jeans, and he reaches for her hand, but she's pulling it away, and now he's debating just asking her to leave because it feels like maybe she can't handle this, like maybe he shouldn't want her to, shouldn't expect her to.

He doesn't want to think like that, but of course he is.

Peter knows he can't even handle this, and he's somehow supposed to expect MJ to after what happened?

"I'm sorry, MJ," Peter's offering, his voice worn from medicine and sleep, but the words feel flat and unaffecting. "I'm sorry that it happened and I'm sorry that it could happen again, I...I can't control it, it just...h-happens?" Tears are rolling down his own face even though he was sure he was cried out.

She turns toward him with a sniffle, looks him in the eye. "I know you can't, Peter. That's why I'm so upset! I'm not mad at you, I'm just mad that you have to deal with all of this."

"I don't really remember much else, because I blacked out, but I know you saw all of it and I'm just...really, really sorry, MJ. I'm-," he chokes out, the tears streaming down his cheeks as he sobs. These moments keep happening, take over when Peter is sure he's fine, and it's been the ultimate blow to his confidence. "You don't have to stay. With me, I mean. I get it. This is a lot. I'm...I'm a grenade like Hazel and I'm..."