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Mary Jane found Felicia wrapped around the toilet. In the white, ultra-modern bathroom—the one room in the apartment where the furnishings didn’t run to the extra—Felicia’s pale beauty with her paler hair and her black outfit (fashion rather than costume this time) seemed like a mirage. Mary Jane hurried over, checking the floor before she stepped, but no—whatever Felicia had vomited up, it’d ended up in the toilet. Felicia was experienced with partying too hard, as experienced as her even, but even at her worst, MJ had avoided stringing together three hangovers in a row.

“Sometimes margaritas are not our friends,” MJ said, kneeling down to gather up Felicia’s hair while the cat burglar rested her cheek on the toilet’s cool linoleum seat. The sight of it made Mary Jane very glad for her maid service. “They are our frenemies.”

“I wasn’t drunk,” Felicia muttered, one side of her mouth muffled by the toilet seat. “I think I have a stomach flu. This is why I don’t do relationships. Bad for the immune system.”

Having ascertained that Felicia’s hair hadn’t been polluted, Mary Jane petted it, much like she would a white Persian. “I miss Peter too. But at least you know, with him, he’s doing everything he can to get back. And you don’t give a shit about him being faithful. So it’s not so bad. Really. It’s not. Where else would it rather be than here, with us?”

“Nowhere. Obviously.” Weakly, Felicia pulled her head up. “Unless there’s some universe out there where I have a twin sister.”

“The man knows his limitations. He wouldn’t be able to handle two of you.”

“What if he had six arms? He does sometimes, you know.”

“Don’t tell me you find that sexy.”

Felicia shrugged a little, then collapsed. At least this time she did it into Mary Jane’s arms rather than any part of the toilet. “How do you do this, MJ? Just… miss him. You can’t help him, you can’t do anything—you just have to wait?”

“It sucks,” Mary Jane said.

“Yes.”

“That’s all. It just sucks. But maybe, I don’t know—it reminds you what you have. Doesn’t let you take it for granted.”

Felicia was silent for a long time. “I may need a bath.”

“I’ll draw you one.”

“And some company.”

“Okay,” MJ said, rising to start the bath, instantly hot water flying from the spigot. She still liked that part much better than the last apartment she’d shared with Peter. “But when I say I’m going to wash your back, that’s all I’m doing. Unless this bath is in Listerine.”

Felicia snuggled into the white rug, running a hand over her black top and leather pants. “Says the woman who was all about not taking things for granted—you should be banging me night and day while you have the chance.”

“Pretty sure I’ve got ‘the chance’ on lockdown.”

“Well, yeah, as long as I’m a slut and you’re pretty.” Felicia sighed, trying to get her top off to assist Mary Jane’s bathing of her. It ended up tangling in her arms and over her face. “I hope Peter’s having fun. Going on a sex tour of the multiverse. Might loosen him up a little. Finally get him to try pegging.”

“And that’s why I should’ve warned Peter about going into battle in skintight spandex with an ass that won’t quit. You think you’re bad, you should see some of the posts Electro’s made…”

“Put in some bath salts, pwease,” Felicia whimpered. “I have a backache.”

“With that chest, I’m not surprised.”

“And a headache.”

“Now you’re just milking it.”

“Rub my shoulders?”

“Fine. Why do you have three taps? Hot, cold, and—“

“Milk.”

“Jesus, you really are milking it.”

“With this chest, you’re surprised?”