Pretty Good (Patreon)

Mary Jane Watson knew the difference between cry-acting and real crying. An actress’s crying was a facsimile of the real thing, a fantasy of a tragedy. It was almost obscene: the waterproof mascara with just a dash of smudge under her eyes to give her a nice, gothic edge. The querulous pitch in her voice that made every man want to hold her, comfort her. The little hitches in her breath that replaced the really full-throated sobs.

And then there was the real thing. The greasy feel of mascara that actually ran instead of setting off the glistening dampness in her eyes. The snot that stuffed her nostrils and dripped down to her upper lip, forcing her to blow her nose with tragicomic squeaks. And last but not least, the heat of embarrassment at her emotions having ruptured.

None of the women Mary Jane played were ever embarrassed to cry. They knew, on some level—Mary Jane’s level—that this was their moment. Maybe not an Oscar clip, but what would move the audience to sniffles themselves, get the critics to say she was a real actress, make Peter squeeze her tight afterward even though he knew (on some level) that it was all make-believe.

Except this character wouldn’t get to cry. Not with Mary Jane’s tears, anyway. She’d be played by someone younger, with big Felicia-sized tits and a make-up line and a fashion show, because God, the twenty-somethings these days, they weren’t just actresses, they were entire lifestyles, and they were hired as much for their endorsement deals as their acting.

It made Mary Jane want to rage at the heavens, but that seemed like a waste of perfectly good vehemence. She had to save it for the next time she got a character with real verve… not that those came along often. Christ, she’d been driven to tears by missing out on the role of the Strong Female Woman that reacted with stony-faced seriousness to all the male lead’s hilarious snark.

But there’d been two scenes… two scenes, that’s all Mary Jane wanted, two scenes of real acting that would probably be long gone by the next draft because Ms. Instagram Model couldn’t possibly handle that level of emotion.

Mary Jane wondered if she should stew in bitterness or go for some self-recrimination. Which was more hazardous to her mental health? And which went better with vodka and peach ice cream, because that was all she had in the way of comfort food and wherever her mental health was now, she didn’t have the strength to cope with a lost part and stick to a diet. Goddammit, she had been on the short list!

Years of marriage had attuned Mary Jane to the sound of a window sweeping open; the brief blip of noise from outside, traffic and raised voices, then their silencing as the window shut again. Peter. She couldn’t let him see her like this. She wiped at her face, but Peter unknowingly made a beeline to her, throwing open the bathroom door and seeing her curled up in the tub, fully dressed, dry, her face ruddy with tears. The toilet paper roll nearly depleted as she pulled from it to clear her nostrils, then wadded up the tissue paper and littered the floor with it.

It was obvious why he’d visited the bathroom. Peter’s costume was dotted with some kind of black pitch; he must’ve hoped to scrub it off before it dried. And he didn’t ask why she was in the tub. It’d been years, decades, since she’d needed to hide her crying in the privacy and soundproofing of an old copper tub. It still soothed her heartache, just a little. Made her feel safe as she vented her emotions.

“Mary Jane? Are you okay?” Peter pulled off his mask. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” The sobs had made her voice scratchy. She sounded like Death. “You really should wash that.”

“You’re not fine.”

Haphazardly Peter separated the upper half of his costume from the less dirtied pants and tossed it into the sink with his mask. He turned on the warm water tap and let it run while he crouched down beside the tub.

Mary Jane thought of the time she’d taken a bath and Peter had been beside her like that. He’d washed her hair, ran the soap over her naked body, even toweled her dry. It had walked that fine line between sexual and erotic; she remembered the tender intimacy, the feeling of him being hers, and yes, the long kiss as they promised that next time, they’d get things started before the tub was full of hot water and she’d washed off all her sweat. Or at least, buy a bigger bath.

Now, she could only think of how that memory might be ruined. Would Peter think of her that way, sensual and happy and passionate, when he could also see her teary and scared and… God. Mary Jane hated it, hated that he’d caught her like this. An irrational anger flickered at Peter before she forced it down. She wouldn’t take out her own issues on him. Not ever.

“You’re not fine,” Peter said again, and ran his fingers through her hair. Mary Jane closed her eyes, leaned into the contact. Focusing on it, she felt a tingle where his fingertips met her scalp—whatever power let him cling to walls also pulled, however gently, at her.

She imagined Peter wanted to hold onto her and never let go. Mary Jane almost wanted that too. At least she could make Peter happy—mostly. On her own, she didn’t seem any good to anyone.

Then Peter’s forehead was against hers. His hand rolled down the back of her head, feeling every inch of her red tresses, pressing her face together with his. It was almost a kiss—that intimacy, that need—but he wasn’t telling he wanted her, was in love with her, he was telling her he was there.

She felt him down to how the mask had mussed up his hair, the sweat that had collected on his brow. Mary Jane rolled her head from side to side, feeling him moving with her, and imagined she could feel the faint indentations of the mask’s texture left behind on his face like the elastic waistband of his briefs put on the skin of his hips.

“Tell me,” he said, the little exhale of his words touching her lips, making her keenly aware of the little motions they went through over the next few moments. Puckering and pinching inward; finally Mary Jane drove her front teeth into her lower lip.

She loved this man. She hated to burden him. Yet it would kill him until he knew what had saddened her. Mary Jane wished she could explain to him how pointless it was, unimportant, only mattering in this microcosm of petty drama and backbiting gossip that was her life. And all of Hollywood, to be fair.

While Peter, he saved lives. Risked his life. How could she think her paltry, irrational feelings were worth his time? What kind of narcissist would believe that?

“It’s nothing. Really.” She forced her eyes open and put a hand on his shoulder, gingerly moving it down his arm—careful not to trigger any bruises he might have gained since the last time she saw him—until she was touching the metal webshooter that graced his forearm.

Seized with a sudden whimsy that felt like the old Mary Jane—the real Mary Jane?—she undid the latch and helped it off of his arm. “Come on, tiger, get these things off.”

Peter moved then, rolling over the lip of the tub to come down with effortless grace across from her. He sprawled out with his long legs, shooting them past her fetal body, then stretched out his arms to take her bare feet and pull them into his lap. His body leaned against his end of the tub and Mary Jane felt herself pushing out of her cloistered posture, relaxing a little, feeling the blood flow through her awakened limbs. She’d stopped crying, she realized, though the tears still scrubbed her face like warpaint.

I must look more like someone he fights than someone he marries, Mary Jane thought.

Peter’s gloved hands rubbed her left foot lightly, casually, as easily as he would pet a sleepy dog in his lap. Mary Jane felt like doing that for him—his head in her lap, his tired body stretched out alongside her, her fingers getting to toy with his hair and his boyish face until he was asleep and beyond.

It didn’t feel right that he was the one comforting her. Why did she need comfort? He was the one who kept getting hurt, kept almost dying. She’d just tanked an audition.

“Don’t,” Peter told her. “It’s a paradox.”

Mary Jane giggled dryly. “I’ve actually been married to you long enough to know what a paradox is.”

“Of course. You’re a smart lady.”

“For marrying you, sure.”

“That’s not the first example I’d choose,” Peter said, switching to her other foot. “You think your problems don’t matter compared to mine. But you matter to me. So how can you not matter, if I matter, and your problems matter to me?”

“You want me to tell you my issues just so you can see how petty and insignificant they are?” Mary Jane asked wryly.

“Nothing that bothers you could be insignificant to me.”

“Okay, tiger. I’m calling your bluff. You wanna know why I’m such a mess? I didn’t get the part. I bombed my audition.”

“Well, which is it?” Peter asked. He bit the thumb of his glove, loosening it, before he pulled it off. “Did you not get the part or did you bomb your audition?”

“What difference does it make? Either way—“

“How many times have you told me that it’s a buyer’s market?” Peter interrogated her, peeling his other glove off with his fingernails under the wrist. “That half the time, the casting directors already have their mind made up and they’re just going through the motions seeing people. Hollywood glad-handing.”

“But if I were any good, I would’ve changed their minds.”

Peter sighed. “There’s a thousand people trying to change their minds, MJ, you can’t all—“

“I want to be great, Pete. I want people to remember me. But more and more, it seems like in a hundred years, all people are going to care about was that I was Spider-Man’s wife.”

Peter pulled on her legs, tugging her across the bathtub until he had her in his lap. “You think people are going to remember me?”

“Don’t be humble, I feel like enough of a spoiled brat—“

“I’m serious!” Peter insisted. “How many Avengers are there? How many X-Men? Then there’s Eternals and New Warriors and Runaways…”

“You made that last one up,” Mary Jane accused him.

“I’ll be a footnote,” Peter told her. “One more guy who ran around New York in a mask and punched Doctor Doom a couple times.”

“But you’re not like the others!” Mary Jane was vehement to the point of shrillness. For Peter, she could go full-blown Karen. “You’re smart and you’re kind and you care about people, not just the fate of the planet…”

“Hey, I’m comforting you, huh?” Peter gave her a light tap on the ass to set her straight. “But that’s what I’m saying. It can’t be that the only ones who count are the best of the best. It’s enough to be smart and kind and care about people… God, Mary Jane, you stopped in the middle of a full-blown breakdown just now to tell me how great I am, that’s how much you care.”

Mary Jane sniffled. “If I cared so much, I wouldn’t be wasting your time like this. Peter, we get so little time together, when I’m not working and you’re not working.” She chuckled at the comparison. As if there were any parallel between her playing dress-up and what he did in his spider-suit. “And here I am, making you comfort me…”

Peter leaned back, stretching out the full length of the tub and pulling Mary Jane on top of him, inside the blanket of his arms. Their legs tangled and even through her angst, MJ felt a frisson of heat. Peter with no shirt on was quite a sight, quite a feeling. She should be taking advantage of that—something they’d both enjoy—instead of selfishly soaking up his compassion like some sort of parasite.

But it did feel good to let him stroke her, caress her, playing the relaxing comfort he wanted to give his wife through her body like an instrument.

“You think I don’t want to be here for this?” Peter asked. “To soothe you when you’re having a bad day? MJ, I’d hate myself if I missed this, if you had to go through this alone. No one knows better than I do that there’s always bad times—and it kills me that you’re having one—but at least I’m here. There’s no place I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing. I signed up for this, remember? Sickness and health too.”

She could feel the metal of his wedding band—the chill of its smooth texture through the body warmth that’d soaked into it, year after year as he wore it night and day. It accentuated every caress he gave her. And it felt just like her own ring, which she touched now, thumb running over the slender gold circle. Then she laid her hand on his shoulder, letting Peter feel the cold-warmed metal on his own skin.

“There’s no one I’d rather have comforting me,” she said. “You’re pretty good at it.”

“Would you say I’m the best of the best?”

“No, just pretty good. You haven’t even brought me any chocolate.”

“I can bring you to the chocolate,” Peter offered, sitting up and then seeming to summon his legs under him, all while holding Mary Jane weightlessly in his arms, though she tightened her legs around his waist anyway. Just to feel him between them.

He turned off the sink on the way out, leaving his mask and half his costume to soak, but being the conscientious type, Mary Jane insisted that his pants be washed as well.

It took a while after that for Mary Jane to get her chocolate, but as she’d said, Peter was only pretty good at comforting her.