(Jean Grey School)
Spider-Man enters the school with Logan leading the way. There is some trepidation in his steps as he stands in the middle of the school's foyer. Jeff in his arms and the phoenix on his shoulders. Both there with him for different reasons.
"Nice to see this place so lively again," Spider-Man says as he looks around at the multitude of students mingling, and Jeff wiggling in his arms, clearly eager to explore the new environment.
Logan takes out cigar and lights it, "With the reamergence of mutants all over the world, this place has been packed to the brim." He states, his mouth occupied with the cigar.
The hero beside him raises a brow at this and comments, "Yet that doesn't seem to stop you from exposing these kids to second hand smoke."
Logan shrugs, "Not the worst thing they're exposed to." He informs his team leader.
Spider-Man shifts Jeff to one arm and gives Logan a flat look through his mask. "You know, for someone who's supposed to be a role model to these kids, you're doing a pretty terrible job."
"Role model?" Logan snorts, smoke curling from his lips. "Kid, I'm here to teach 'em how to survive. Sugar-coating the world ain't gonna help when some bigot with a gun comes knocking."
The Phoenix chirps disapprovingly at Logan, ruffling its tiny feathers in what Peter can only interpret as cosmic judgment. He finds himself oddly proud of the little bird's moral stance.
"See? Even the cosmic force of creation and destruction thinks you're setting a bad example."
Logan eyes the cosmic entity given physical form with something akin to concern, "Still think bringing that bird here is asking for trouble," Logan mutters.
"Most definitely," Spidey confirms as he places the shark down and it begins to explore its new environment. "But I also know ignoring it is not the best way to move forward."
Logan eyes the sea predator that is now loose in the school, "And the shark?"
"He's a peace offering," the Queens-born-hero states, also keeping his eye on his pet, "It's hard to be mad when the little guy is around."
The hero watches as his companion takes his cigar out of his mouth to retort but stops when a familiar face phases through the wall Jeff was by. The little guy jumps in fright and runs back to his owner, hiding behind his legs.
The hero stares at it and says, "You're a great white shark, not a great white chicken."
Jeff lets out an indigent sound, bothered by his owner's comment.
Spider-Man turns his attention back to the arrival of the headmistress of the school, and sees two more people come out the room she was in.
He stares at Alex, Bobby, and Kitty before he gives waves awkwardly and greets them, "Hey guys. How's it-"
Bobby walks by him without a word.
"-going?" He finishes as he drops his head and lets out a sigh. He was hoping after Logan says things were fine between them, that the rest of the X-Men were going to be as amicable. But if Bobby is mad, he doesn't think he'll have an easy a time as he originally thought.
He looks back at the remaining two X-Men, who stare at him expectedly. He knows they are waiting for him to say something about everything he revealed.
He takes a breath and starts, "Okay, let me start by saying that I did what I did because if I didn't, some other poor soul would have been chosen instead. And as we've learned, that doesn't go well."
Alex raises a brow and crosses his arms, "Meaning?" He inquires.
"We fought a war over it." Peter states, believing that's enough of a reason.
"The implication being that the X-Men would start a war to get it back?"
"Of course not." Peter says firmly.
"Really?" Alex challenges him, "So you told your friends and girlfriends but didn't tell any of us, why?"
"We literally just stopped fighting." He points out. "I wasn't here when you guys came to your senses but I was told that things were tense at the time. Most of the others weren't thrilled about you guys suddenly joining our side."
Spider-Man watches Alex's expression shift, seeing the conflict play out across his face. The younger Summer's brother uncrosses his arms, his posture relaxing slightly, though tension still radiates from his shoulders.
"Look," Alex says, running a hand through his hair, "I get why you made the call you did. Hell, maybe it was even the right call. But it's more about the fact that, like you said, we fought over it. People who were our friends and allies told us to not use this power to try and restore our people, and yet here you are, with the same power, and they're not telling you to give it up."
The spandexed hero grimaces, "In their defense, I do have advantages you guys don't." He tells him.
Alex rolls his eyes and crosses his arms in frustration, "Yeah. Jean. We remember."
Peter winces at his slip. He knows it's a sensitive issue right now, the fact that Jean is alive and could have prevented the disaster they went through but didn't.
Kitty steps forward, her expression more understanding than Alex's. "The important thing is that you told us eventually," she says, though Peter catches the slight emphasis on 'eventually.' "And you're here now, trying to make things right."
"Trying being the operative word," Peter mutters, glancing in the direction Bobby disappeared. "How mad is he, exactly?"
"Scale of one to ten?" Kitty tilts her head thoughtfully. "About seven. Which for Bobby is practically volcanic."
Spider-Man becomes disheartened. Bobby Drake is his closest friend when it comes to the X-Men. To have him be this mad, makes him wonder if he can actually mend bridges.
Logan clears his throat, smoke curling around his words. "Drake'll come around. Kid's got a good heart, just needs time to process."
That doesn't make him feel better, but it's better than nothing. Still though, there is one person he is most concerned over. "And Rogue?" He asks.
Alex and Kitty exchange a look that makes Peter's stomach drop. It's the kind of look that says 'be prepared for the worse.' Which he was expecting but still.
"She's in the danger room," Kitty informs him before waking past them, "Logan can't take you there while I talk to Bobby."
"Thanks," he says before he follows Logan's lead leaving Alex behind. Jeff trailing behind him, the animal just happy to be out.
"Fair warning, Webhead," Logan says over his shoulder, "she's been in there for hours. When Rogue's this worked up, she ain't exactly receptive to heart-to-hearts."
Peter nods, his stomach tightening. He's faced down supervillains, cosmic entities, and even death itself, but somehow the prospect of confronting an angry Rogue makes all of those seem like a cakewalk. "Any advice?"
"Duck," Logan says simply.
"Great. Very helpful."
They reach the observation deck overlooking the danger room, where Beast is sitting at the control station.
"Hey Hank," Spider-Man greets his fellow genius.
The man turns around and greets him cordially, "Spider-Man." He turns his attention to the two animals with the hero, "I did not know what to expect, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."
"That's how I get through the day." Spider-Man quips. The hero steps closer and, through the reinforced glass, Peter can see Rogue demolishing a series of simulated opponents. "I guess it's reassuring that she didn't make those simulations look like me."
"Only after the day you revealed the phoenix to her," Hank tells him.
Well that's discouraging. But maybe the fact that she is no longer pounding simulated versions of him means she is in a better mood.
Hank adjusts his spectacles, peering at the readouts. "Her sessions have been growing increasingly intense. I believe she's working through some rather complicated emotions."
"That's one way of putting it," Logan mutters, chomping on his cigar.
The Phoenix chirps anxiously on Peter's shoulder, sensing his unease. Jeff nudges against his leg, as if offering moral support.
"Well," Peter says, squaring his shoulders, "might as well get this over with." He hands Jeff to Hank. "Watch him for me? He bites, but mostly furniture."
Hank accepts the animal with a bemused expression.
"Wish me luck," Peter says to Logan and Hank as the Phoenix chirps anxiously on his shoulder. He leaves Jeff with the two X-Men and heads for the elevator that will take him down to the danger room floor. He becomes more anxious when the doors slide open and a ding announces his arrival.
He steps into the room, and Rogue glares at him. "Hey," he says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "So... come here often?"
Rogue doesn't smile. Her eyes flick to the Phoenix on his shoulder, then back to his face. "What do you want, Spider?"
"World peace? A lifetime supply of coffee? To not have this incredibly awkward conversation?" He shrugs. "But since those aren't options, I'll settle for clearing the air between us."
Rogue crosses her arms, her stance wide and defensive. "Always got a joke for every occasion, don't ya?"
He rubs his neck uncontrollably, "It's what I do," Peter says with a shrug, trying to defuse the tension. "Look, I just wanted to—"
"Fight me," Rogue interrupts, her eyes narrowing.
"What?" Peter blinks behind his mask.
"You heard me." Rogue uncrosses her arms, flexing her gloved fingers. "You want to clear the air? Then let's do it my way."
Peter is taken aback by the challenge as the phoenix chirps anxiously on his shoulder. He doesn't think this is the best way for them to mend bridges. "Rogue, I didn't come here to fight—"
"That's your problem, Spider," she cuts him off, stepping closer. "You talk. You joke. You hide behind words when sometimes what people need is to work things out the old-fashioned way."
Peter hesitates, weighing his options. Fighting Rogue isn't what he had in mind when he came to make amends, but he recognizes the look in her eyes—it's the same one he's seen in his own reflection countless times. Sometimes physical exertion is the only way to process complicated emotions.
"Alright, Rogue," he finally says. The phoenix flutters off his shoulder, finding a safe perch on a nearby simulation pillar. "If this is what you need, I'm game. But let's keep it clean."
"Beast," Rogue calls upward to the observation deck, "set the room for open combat."
The space around them shimmers, the stark white walls transforming into a ruined cityscape. Chunks of concrete and twisted metal create an urban battlefield, complete with overturned cars and crumbling buildings. Peter recognizes it as a simulation of downtown Manhattan after one of the many catastrophes they've faced.
"Stop until someone says uncle?" Peter asks, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders.
Rogue doesn't respond. Just raises her knuckles and cracks them. He's starting to understand that Rogue needs this—needs to physically work through whatever's churning inside her.
"I won't drain ya," she states, as she gets into a fighting stance, "But I won't be gentle."
Peter takes a deep breath and nods. "Fair enough."
The moment the words leave his mouth, Rogue launches herself at him with the kind of speed that would make a freight train jealous. Peter's spider-sense screams, and he barely manages to leap sideways as her fist connects with the concrete where he'd been standing a split second before. The impact creates a crater the size of a manhole cover.
Okay, he thinks, she really wasn't kidding about not being gentle.
Peter fires a web-line at a nearby building simulation, swinging up and around to put some distance between them. The Phoenix chirps from its perch, sounding distinctly worried, which doesn't do much for his confidence.
"Running already?" Rogue calls out, launching herself into the air after him with a powerful leap that carries her three stories up.
"Tactical repositioning," Peter shoots back, twisting in mid-air to avoid her grab. "There's a difference."
He lands on a simulated rooftop, but Rogue is already there, her fist whistling past his head as he ducks. The wind from her punch ruffles his mask, and he can feel the raw power behind it. If that had connected, he'd be eating through a straw for a month.
Peter backflips off the building, firing webs as he goes. Not to trap her—he knows better than that—but to swing between the simulated debris field. Rogue follows, leaping from chunk to chunk of concrete with the grace of someone who's spent years learning to control incredible strength.
"You know," Peter calls out as he narrowly avoids another devastating punch, "when I came here to apologize, I was thinking more along the lines of conversation, maybe some heartfelt sharing—"
Rogue's boot catches him in the ribs mid-sentence, sending him tumbling across the simulated street. He rolls with the impact, coming up in a crouch as pain radiates through his side. The hit wasn't at full strength—he can tell—but it still feels like getting kicked by an angry mule.
"Less talking," Rogue says, advancing on him. "More fighting."
Peter springs to his feet, his spider-sense tingling as she closes the distance. This time he doesn't retreat. Instead, he darts forward, using his speed and agility to stay just out of reach of her devastating strikes while landing quick hits of his own. A jab to her shoulder, a sweep at her legs, nothing meant to seriously hurt but enough to keep her engaged.
The rhythm of combat settles over them—a violent dance they both know well. Peter realizes this isn't about anger anymore, at least not entirely. There's something else driving Rogue, something she's trying to work through with her fists.
"You want to know what really gets me?" Rogue says between punches, her southern accent thick with emotion. "It ain't that you kept the Phoenix secret. Hell, maybe that was smart."
Peter dodges a particularly vicious uppercut, feeling the air displacement ruffle his costume. "Then what is it?"
"It's that you got to have Jean there to help you," Rogue says, and Peter can hear the pain beneath the anger now. "You got guidance, training, someone who understood what you were going through. Meanwhile, we were all just expected to figure it out on our own."
Peter's next dodge is a fraction slower as her words hit home. He's been so focused on justifying his decision to keep the Phoenix secret that he hadn't considered how unfair the whole situation must seem from her perspective.
Rogue takes advantage of his momentary distraction, catching him with a glancing blow that sends him sprawling. He tastes blood inside his mask, his lip split from the impact.
"Scott had to deal with that power eating away at him," Rogue continues, her voice cracking slightly. "Emma, Colossus, Magik, Namor—they all struggled with it alone. And in the end, it destroyed them. Destroyed us."
Peter wipes blood from his mouth, looking up at her from where he's sprawled on the simulated concrete. The Phoenix chirps anxiously from its perch, but he holds up a hand to keep it from interfering.
"You're right," he says quietly.
Rogue blinks, clearly not expecting that response. "What?"
"You're right," Peter repeats, getting to his feet slowly. "It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. You guys got dealt a terrible hand, and I got Jean to guide me through the same power that nearly destroyed your friends and family."
The fight seems to drain out of Rogue at his admission. Her fists lower slightly, though she remains tense.
"I can't change what happened," Peter continues, taking a cautious step closer. "I can't give you back Professor Xavier, or undo the damage that was done. But I can tell you that every day I carry this thing, I think about what happened to Scott and the others. I think about how easily it could have been me losing control instead."
Rogue's shoulders slump slightly. "It should have been one of us," she says quietly. "We're the ones who needed it to save our people."
"Maybe," Peter acknowledges. "But it wasn't. And we can't change that now. All we can do is move forward and try to do better."
The simulation around them flickers and fades, returning the danger room to its stark white walls. In the sudden quiet, Peter can hear their heavy breathing echoing off the walls.
"I ain't mad at you," Rogue says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Peter tilts his head, confused. "You're not?"
"I'm mad at everything," she clarifies, looking down at her gloved hands. "Mad at Jean for not stopping Scott when she could have. Mad at myself for going along with it all. Mad at Scott for what he's doing now, hiding somewhere like a coward while the rest of us deal with the fallout."
The Phoenix flutters down from its perch, landing on Peter's shoulder with a soft trill. Rogue's eyes track the movement, but there's no anger in her gaze now—just exhaustion.
"I'm tired, Spider," she admits. "Tired of fighting wars that never seem to end. Tired of losing people. Tired of watching everything we try to build get torn down."
Peter feels his heart clench at the raw pain in her voice. Without thinking, he takes another step closer. "Rogue," he starts, "I think I've established that I know exactly how you feel. The anger and exhaustion."
Thier conversation days before should have done that at least. And it seems she knows that too since she asks, "So how do you do it? How do you still smile and try to be happy, when the whole world seems to be working against you?"
He looks down in thought and answers with, "By remembering that, life will always be hard, no matter what. But it's the moments between the hardships that matter. Spending time with the people you care about, helping others, making a difference, and finding joy in small things. I can't fix everything, but I can try to make things better, one moment at a time."
Rogue studies him for a long moment, her expression softening. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"I have to," Peter says, feeling the weight of his own words. "Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?"
A silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable but contemplative. The Phoenix chirps softly on his shoulder, almost as if in agreement.
"I'll work with you," Rogue finally says. "Not because I'm over everything that's happened, but because I think you're right about moving forward."
Relief washes over Peter, his tense muscles finally relaxing. "That's all I can ask for."
She extends her gloved hand, and he takes it, feeling the strength in her grip—restrained now, careful.
"Just promise me one thing," she adds.
"Name it."
"No more secrets. At least not the ones that affect all of us."
Spidey nods, giving her hand a firm shake. "Deal."
As they leave the danger room together, the Phoenix still perched on his shoulder, Peter feels a cautious optimism. It's not perfect—nothing in his life ever is—but it's a start. One bridge mended, a few more to go.
(Outside of The Royal)
Sonja is a fierce warrior. She has stared death in the face more than a hundred times and smiled. But sitting in this cab and heading for a night out with her lovers has her more nervous than she expected. She hides it of course, but still, she tugs at her dress and adjusts the strap for the seventh time in as many minutes. The city lights streak through the tinted windows of the cab, constant reminders of the modern world she is now experiencing first hand.
She acclimated better than she'd thought she would have been able to, but this world still feels like a fever dream conjured by a mad wizard. Glass towers that touch the sky, doors that open without a push, electricity harnessed and used in everything. Clothes so thin and indecent they made her armor seem prudish. 'They're not and they don't'. For years, Sonja had filtered it all through the eyes and mind of Mary Jane, her host, vessel, and friend. But nowadays she is experiencing it firsthand and it feels strange. Many aspects of the modern world are strange to her. And tonight she is dealing with one she felt she had mastered.
Courting.
In her old life, courting was far simpler for her. All she needed to do was merely be present; allow the person to see her and they immediately fell in love with her. It did not matter if it was a man, woman, peasant, or royalty. All of them fell for her the moment they laid their eyes on her. 'Reel it in.' But she knows that will not be the case with these women. Because they will be here for their romantic interest in Peter. Which she can understand, she does love the fool too afterall.
And she is very pleased her shared fool had convinced Natasha and Silver to join them on this date of theirs.
A black taxi pulls to the curb, and Felicia emerges first, her platinum hair catching the streetlight as she pays the driver. The thief moves with that predatory grace Sonja recognizes—a kindred spirit in a world of soft civilians. Tonight Felicia wears midnight blue, the dress hugging her curves like armor, her confidence radiating outward like heat from a forge.
Sonja approaches, her heels clicking against the pavement in a rhythm that feels too delicate for her warrior's soul. "You look radiant," she tells Felicia, meaning it.
"You clean up pretty well yourself, Red." Felicia's smile carries that familiar edge of mischief. "Though you look like you're preparing for battle instead of dinner."
"Am I not?" Sonja asks, genuinely uncertain. "Peter described this as a test of sorts. To see if the others might join our... arrangement."
Felicia laughs, the sound sharp and bright in the evening air. "When you put it like that, maybe we are going to war." She links her arm through Sonja's with easy familiarity. "Come on. Let's see if our boy managed to secure a table, or if we're eating street hot dogs tonight."
They approach the restaurant's entrance, where a stern-faced man in formal attire guards the door like a sentinel. The maître d' surveys them with the calculating gaze of someone accustomed to determining worth at a glance.
"Good evening," Felicia purrs, her voice taking on that silky quality Sonja has learned means the thief is working. "We have a reservation."
"Name?" The man's tone suggests he's already prepared to turn them away.
"Parker," Felicia replies smoothly.
The maître d' scans his list, his expression growing more dismissive by the second. Sonja feels her muscles tense, battle instincts rising despite the civilized setting. In her time, such disrespect would be answered with steel.
"I'm afraid I don't see any reservation under that name," the man announces with barely concealed satisfaction. "Perhaps you'd like to try one of the establishments down the street?"
Sonja's hand moves instinctively toward her hip, where her sword would rest if she wore it. The motion stops when she remembers she's unarmed, dressed for courtship rather than combat. Frustration builds in her chest—not at the man's rudeness, but at her own helplessness in this strange social battlefield.
"Well," Felicia says, her voice carrying a dangerous edge that makes Sonja's warrior instincts sing in recognition, "this is awkward."
A sleek vehicle pulls up to the curb behind them, its engine purring like a contented predator. Sonja turns to see Silver Sable emerge from the driver's seat, her silver hair gleaming under the restaurant's lights. Even in evening wear, the mercenary moves with lethal precision, her dress somehow managing to look both elegant and practical.
Behind her, from the passenger side, steps Natasha Romanoff. The spy wears black—of course—but the simple dress transforms her into something that makes Sonja's breath catch. Dangerous beauty wrapped in silk, every line of her body speaking of controlled violence barely leashed.
Silver approaches with measured steps, taking in the scene with tactical awareness. "Problem?" she asks, her accent adding weight to the single word.
"No reservation," Felicia explains, her tone suggesting this is merely an interesting puzzle rather than a serious obstacle.
Silver's lips curve in something that might charitably be called a smile. She steps forward, addressing the maître d' with the kind of authority that comes from commanding armies. "Romanoff," she says simply.
The man's entire demeanor shifts as he scans his list again, this time with considerably more attention. "Ah, yes! Right this way, please."
Sonja watches this transformation with fascination. In her time, respect was earned through displays of strength or the reputation of one's blade. Here, it seems, certain names carry the same weight as legendary weapons.
They follow the maître d' through the restaurant's elegant interior, past tables filled with the city's elite engaged in their own elaborate social rituals. Sonja notes the way conversations pause as they pass, the weight of stares following their progress. Four women, each beautiful and dangerous in their own way, moving together with predatory grace.
The table they're led to sits in a semi-private alcove, offering both intimacy and strategic visibility—a choice Sonja approves of from a tactical standpoint. She settles into her chair, the unfamiliar sensation of sitting for pleasure rather than around a war council making her hyperaware of every movement.
"So," Natasha says once they're seated, her green eyes scanning each of them in turn, "this should be interesting."
Sonja studies the spy, noting the controlled tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers drum once against the table before stilling. Natasha's composure is flawless, but Sonja recognizes the signs of a warrior preparing for an uncertain battle.
"Where is our shared paramour?" Sonja asks, glancing toward the entrance.
"Probably swinging through traffic as we speak," Felicia replies, settling back in her chair with feline contentment. "Peter has many talents, but punctuality isn't one of them."
Silver checks her watch with the precision of someone accustomed to military schedules. "He has three minutes before this becomes unprofessional."
Sonja finds herself appreciating the mercenary's directness. There's something refreshingly honest about Silver's approach—no games, no hidden meanings, just clear expectations stated plainly.
The restaurant's atmosphere hums around them, conversations blending into white noise punctuated by the soft clink of expensive glassware. Sonja tries to relax into the unfamiliar rhythm of civilian life, but her warrior's instincts keep her alert, cataloging exits and potential threats even in this place of supposed safety.
"I have to ask," Natasha says, her voice carefully neutral, "what exactly are we hoping to accomplish tonight?"
The question hangs in the air between them, loaded with implications. Sonja feels the weight of it, understanding that this moment will determine whether their unconventional arrangement has any hope of expanding or if it dies here among the crystal and fine china.
Before anyone can respond though, the man they were waiting for arrives, heavily disheveled. "Sorry!" He says as he is still adjusting his tie and straightening his jacket, "I'm sorry I'm late!"
"In comparison to previous dates with Mary Jane, you're rather early." Sonja comments.
Peter pauses for a moment before he takes his seat between the four women. "Sad but true." He says with a nod, before picking up a menu and asking, "So what's good here?"
The five of them proceed to place their orders, which range to different cuts of meat and cooking temperatures. But then an awkward silence befell the table. One that Sonja is surprised over. Because her two lover are not ones for silence.
She watches as her man fidgets awkwardly in his seat. He is clearly struggling with a conversation starter. "So… this place you recommended is nice."
Sonja raises a brow at him. A rather bland way in comparison to his usual style.
But it seems to do the trick as Natasha does continue the conversation, "It used to be a mob restaurant." She informs them.
All of them are surprised by this news. "Really?" Sonja voices their thoughts.
"Well it wasn't mob owned," Natasha clarifies as she takes a sip of her drink, "But it was a go to place for them back in the day."
"What happened?" Peter questions.
Natasha shrugs, "Tony happened." She responds, prompting raised eyebrows from not only Sonja but also the others at their table. "See, back then, the mob bosses would come here to talk business, run up their tabs, and never pay for it. 'Course if you were the mayor or chief of police, then you pay."
"Then when Tony showed the world he was Iron Man, and it had been known that this a regular spot, scared the mafia away. Especially when others in the hero community make this place a regular spot too. Hell, Wanda and Vision used to come here every wedding anniversary."
"So that's why this place is known for it's discretion?" Peter says in realization.
Natasha nods, "Pretty much. You can be seen tongue wrestling with the president and not a word of it would reach outside."
"What about the customers?" Silver questions.
"Nobody other than the Maitre d'," Natasha states, "has access to the reservation books so no names can be discovered. It's crucial that only one person knows who comes here and when."
"Speaking from experience?" Peter asks, grinning at Natasha, who merely raises an eyebrow in response.
"A lady never kisses and tells," she replies with the ghost of a smile playing at her lips.
The waiter arrives with their appetizers, setting down elegant plates of calamari, bruschetta, and some kind of fancy cheese Sonja can't pronounce, but Mary Jane can.
The night goes smoother than she or Mary Jane thought. The conversations flow easily enough, and they all get to know one another. Not too deeply, just first date basics such as hobbies outside of the costumes. When the main courses arrive they speak of their careers. Peter even passionately tells them about his work at Horizon labs, which makes Sonja smile, and she can feel MJ happiness as well. When Peter speaks with such passion about his work, makes him look younger, less burdened by the weight he carries as Spider-Man. It's a side of him she never tires of seeing—the brilliance beneath the bravado.
As the empty dishes of their main courses are taken away, Sonja can see from her observations that Natasha is relaxing slightly. The woman seemed tense throughout the night, as if she did not want to be here with them. But now it seems the spy has changed her mind.
Peter gestures animatedly as he finishes a story about a lab accident that turned one of his coworkers temporarily purple, eliciting laughter from them all. His tie is slightly crooked, and there's a small sauce stain on his sleeve that he hasn't noticed. Yet despite these imperfections—or perhaps because of them—there's something endearing about him.
By the time desert arrives, Sonja can safely assume the date has been a success. Just looking at the two women, both seem to be amicable with this.
However, just as she was sure, something changes in Romanoff's composure. It was slight, but Sonja can swear she saw a tremble run up the spy's arm. But if it was there, it got buried by the same composure Natasha came in with.
"So what exactly are you hoping will come from this evening?" The spy suddenly inquires.
Peter looks up from his dessert, chocolate smeared adorably at the corner of his mouth. "Honestly? Just a chance to see if there's something here worth exploring. No pressure, no expectations."
"No expectations," Natasha repeats, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice. "You invite us to join your existing relationship and claim to have no expectations?"
"What I think he means," Sonja interjects, "is that we're not assuming any particular outcome. We're offering an invitation, not making demands."
Natasha's question hangs in the air, creating a tension that makes Sonja's warrior instincts bristle. She studies the spy's face, noting the subtle hardening around her eyes that betrays her discomfort. There is a challenge in Romanoff's tone that reminds Sonja of opponents testing for weaknesses before a battle.
"An invitation," Natasha repeats, her voice cooling several degrees. "To what, exactly? Because I think we should be clear about what's being proposed here."
Peter shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, to explore the possibility of... something more. Between all of us."
"What about relationship hierarchy?" she asks, her voice sharper than intended. "In an arrangement like this, someone always comes first."
Peter's brow furrows. "We don't really think of it that way—"
"That's naive," Natasha cuts him off. "Every relationship has power dynamics. Who makes decisions when there's a conflict? Who gets priority when time is limited?"
She watches the warmth drain from the table, replaced by a cautious stillness she recognizes from countless interrogations. But she can't stop herself now; the protective instincts honed through decades of survival are taking over.
"And what about the long-term?" she continues, setting down her fork with a precision that betrays her rising tension. "Is this just about sex and companionship, or are we talking about deeper commitments? Marriage? Children?"
The word "children" seems to hang in the air between them. Sonja and Felicia exchange glances Natasha can't quite read, while Peter's face has gone slightly pale.
"I think," Silver says carefully, "these are questions that typically come after several dates, not during the first."
"In my experience," Natasha counters, "it's better to know the parameters from the beginning." She turns her gaze directly to Peter. "What happens if one of us gets pregnant? An unplanned child changes everything."
Peter chokes slightly on his water. "That's, uh—that's definitely something we'd have to discuss if it ever became relevant."
"So you haven't thought about it," Natasha presses. She can feel herself pushing too hard, but can't seem to stop. It's like watching someone else take control of her body, sabotaging what had been, until moments ago, a surprisingly pleasant evening.
"Not specifically, no," Peter admits. "Though to be fair, with everything else going on in our lives—cosmic forces, resurrections, team dynamics—family planning hasn't exactly been at the top of the priority list."
Natasha feels a cold clarity settling over her, the familiar comfort of emotional distance reasserting itself. "That's exactly my point. This arrangement of yours seems built on impulse and emotion rather than practical consideration."
Felicia's eyes narrow dangerously. "And what's wrong with that, exactly?"
"Nothing," Natasha says with a shrug that feels too stiff, "if you're looking for a temporary diversion. But you invited Silver and me to join something that already exists between the four of you. That suggests you want something lasting."
She watches Peter's face fall slightly, and a part of her—the part that genuinely cares for him—wants to take it all back. But the words keep coming, driven by a lifetime of conditioning that equates vulnerability with danger.
"Lasting relationships require structure, planning, clear boundaries," she continues. "Not just... feelings."
The way she says "feelings" makes it sound like a contagious disease.
"That's quite the clinical approach to love," Sonja observes, her voice carrying a warrior's bluntness that Natasha might appreciate under different circumstances.
"Love is a luxury in our line of work," Natasha replies automatically. "One that often comes with catastrophic consequences."
A heavy silence falls over the table as Natasha's words land like stones in still water. Sonja feels Mary Jane's consciousness stirring within her, a whirlpool of disappointment and resignation. The warrior woman has seen enough battles to recognize when one is lost.
"I believe we have our answer," Silver says, her voice carrying neither judgment nor surprise.
Peter's face falls slightly, though he makes a valiant effort to mask his disappointment. "Well, it was worth a try," he says with forced lightness. "At least the food was good, right?"
His attempt at humor falls flat, the tension at the table too thick to be cut by a mere joke. Sonja watches as Natasha signals for the check with a subtle gesture that speaks of years of practice ending uncomfortable situations efficiently.
"I should thank you all for the evening," Natasha says, her professional mask firmly back in place. "It was... enlightening."
As the waiter brings the check, Peter reaches for it, but Silver's hand is faster. "I insist," she says, sliding her card to the waiter before anyone can protest.
They exit the restaurant in awkward formation, the earlier camaraderie evaporated like morning dew under a harsh sun. On the sidewalk, they pause in that uncomfortable moment that marks the end of failed dates throughout the ages.
"Well," Peter begins, rubbing the back of his neck, "I guess this is—"
Natasha cuts him off with a curt nod. "Goodnight," she says simply, turning toward the sleek car that awaits her at the curb.
Silver lingers a moment longer, her expression unreadable in the dim street light. "Perhaps another time," she says, her words carrying a weight that suggests she means it. "Under different circumstances."
As the two women drive away, Sonja feels the weight of Mary Jane's disappointment mingling with her own. She places a hand on Peter's shoulder, feeling the tension there.
"It was a noble attempt," she tells him, her warrior's pragmatism coming to the fore.
Felicia sighs dramatically beside them. "Well, that could have gone better," she mutters, fishing car keys from her purse. "Next time, let's stick to people who aren't professionally trained to avoid emotional vulnerability."
Peter lets out a small, genuine laugh at that, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "You might be onto something there."
To Sonja's ear, the laugh sounded more rueful. But she cannot blame him. She honestly believed they would have succeeded in convincing the two women in giving this a real chance. And for a moment, they did. But unfortunately, Sonja forgot one thing. How strong people are when it comes to being vulnerable.
"As disappointing as that was though," Peter voices, "I can't be too upset. We still got you each other, right?"
Felicia snakes her arm around his, "Without a doubt."
Sonja follows her lead, "It goes without saying."
He gets a small smile, but the moment leaves when his phone rings. He takes it out and sees who is calling, "Johnny? Why's he calling?"
Sonja recalls what her host did for the man and states, "Mary Jane set him up with one of her friends, so it's likely he is calling to brag."
Peter rolls his eyes, assuming that as well, before pressing the call button. "What do you want, Storm?"
But when his joyful demeanor leaves, Sonja knows she was wrong.
(Baxter Building, Minutes Before)
Laura travels down the corridor holding the hands of the one sleepy Franklin and one annoyed Valeria. Normally, it would be the two that find this to be insulting, but the boy is too tired to care at the moment. The girl on the other hand, her displeasure is clearly evident on her face.
"We don't have to bother mom with this," Valeria tells her sitter as they continue to walk.
Laura keeps her eyes forward as she responds with her usual monotone, "You are attempting to create another time device like the one that brought the dragon."
After that incident with the dragon, Laura learned quickly how dangerous it is to leave these two without adult supervision.
Dangerous for them and everyone else.
From the corner of her eye, she sees the young girl roll her eyes, "She doesn't know about that. And nobody got hurt."
Laura sends a side glance to the little girl.
"Nobody got permanently hurt." Val corrects herself, remembering how much Laura got hurt from that misadventure. "And we wanted to help Uncle Peter by sending back the younger version of him to his original time."
Yes. The young version of Spider-Man who called her cute back during the flag football game. Laura does not know why, but she has been interested in Spider-Man since that day. But she cannot focus on that now. She has children to deal with.
"Intentions aside, it is still a dangerous thing to be tampering with." She states, not wanting to go through another ordeal like the one with the dragon.
Since she has been here, she has been pulled into so many dangerous situations that she is starting to believe it was safer at the X-Men. And that school gets blown up every other week. That being said though, she feels more welcomed here than she ever did over there.
Laura steps into the med bay with the Richards children in tow, finding Sue monitoring Gwen's vital signs. The woman looks up, her blonde hair falling slightly over her forehead as she offers Laura a tired smile.
"Uh-oh, what did they do now," Sue says, setting down her tablet.
Laura releases the children's hands, noting how Franklin immediately rubs his eyes while Valeria crosses her arms defensively. Laura straightens her posture, hands at her sides as she prepares to report.
"I found them in Reed's lab," Laura states flatly. "They were attempting to build time displacement device."
Sue's expression shifts from tired to alarmed in an instant. "What?"
"Val said they were trying to help Peter send his younger self back to his original timeline," Laura continues, her voice maintaining its even tone despite the severity of what she's reporting. "I stopped them before they could complete the calibrations."
"We were being careful!" Valeria protests, her small face scrunched in frustration. "I triple-checked my calculations!"
The med bay doors slide open with a soft hiss, and Reed steps in, his attention fixed on a holographic display projected from his wristband. Even as he enters the room, his eyes never leave the data scrolling before him.
"Reed," Sue calls, her voice taking on that edge Laura has come to recognize as her trying-to-remain-calm tone.
"Hmm?" Reed responds absently, still not looking up.
"Your children were building another time machine," Sue says pointedly.
This finally draws Reed's attention away from his work. "They were what?" His eyes widen as he looks from Sue to the children. "Val, Franklin, is this true?"
They are interrupted when Sue's brother, Johnny, walks in. The man is dressed in nice clothing, but said clothing g is rumpled and he looks tired.
"Hey everybody," he announces, his voice carrying that particular tone Laura has come to recognize as Johnny's post-date swagger.
Sue's attention immediately shifts to her brother. "Where have you been? It's almost midnight."
"On a date," Johnny replies, flopping into a chair near Gwen's bed. "With Mary Jane's model friend. And before you ask—yes, she was exactly as shallow as advertised."
Laura notes the way his pulse quickens slightly, the subtle scent of alcohol and perfume clinging to him. He's not intoxicated, just... pleased with himself.
"If it went bad then why'd you come home late?" Franklin asks his uncle.
Said uncle does not respond, just gets a pleased smile on his face.
"Johnny," Sue sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Please tell me you didn't—"
"What?" Johnny grins, leaning back in his chair. "Have a perfectly nice evening with a consenting adult? Because that's exactly what happened." He stretches, an exaggerated yawn punctuating his words. "She wasn't much for conversation, but we found other ways to pass the time."
"There are children present," Sue hisses, gesturing toward Franklin and Valeria.
Johnny rolls his eyes. "They don't even know what I'm talking about."
"I do," Valeria pipes up, her expression clinical. "You engaged in sexual intercourse."
Laura suppresses a smile at the horrified look on Sue's face.
"Val!" Sue exclaims before turning her attention back to her brother. "Johnny I thought you put this sort of behavior behind you."
Johnny groans in aggravation, "Sue give me a break will you. I went through a lot when I was gone, and I'm just trying to enjoy-!"
"NO!" Gwen Stacy wakes up and screams as she sits up.
Everyone in the room have different shocked reactions, Laura unsheathing her claws as she gets in front of the kids protectively. She sees Sue and Reed had reeled back in shock while Johnny fell off his chair and is staring at the blonde girl in shock like everyone else.
"I think you need to call, Peter."