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Peter doesn't even know why he calls.
There's hardly anything in his life worth living for.
He has no family, no friends, and his aspirations had been all but strangled to death.
Peter Parker was already a ghost, a name unspoken and a life forgotten. His death would be insignificant, just another body, another missed payment on rent, another no-show no-call to work.
Every second of his life is miserable, spent wallowing alone, or drowning himself in the work that is Spider-Man, desperately aching for a distraction from the never ending loneliness and grief that consumed his being.
Death would be a reprieve.
Maybe that's why he calls — because of the hatred he has for himself. He doesn't deserve the easy way out. He doesn't get to stop protecting the people of New York just because he's sad. He doesn't get to have the only thing he wants- the only thing feasibly in his grasp.
Peter Parker was never meant to have good things. And death would be so, so good.
So he calls.
He doesn't expect such a familiar voice to answer— a voice so familiar and sweet and beautiful— a voice that makes the ache in his chest deepen.
Peter had been vaguely aware that suicide hotlines sometimes accepted volunteers, and of course that was something MJ would do. She was so passionate about the rights and comfort of life of others- it makes sense she would want to help society in such a way. She had always been an activist. Something like this was right up her alley, despite how blunt she could sometimes speak. MJ had a very particular way with words, seemingly able to speak to the core of anyone she encounters.
That could often be intimidating, but it could be comforting as well.
Hearing her voice sound through the speaker of his phone again makes Peter choke on a sob, eyes closing in disbelief. He isn't entirely sure if this counts as his signature Parker Luck, or if this was something good for once.
He can hear MJ asking for him, well, not him specifically, but asking for some sort of answer, in a gentle prying sort of way.
"I'm here," he manages, voice croaking in a way that makes him wince.
"Hi, here." MJ says, lightly sarcastic. It's not in a rude way- it almost makes Peter laugh. It's something so achingly familiar and foreign at the same time.
It had been so long since he's heard her joke or speak at all.
"Any chance I could get your name?"
"Sounded like you figured it out already."
Despite his attempt at humor, Pete's voice is dull and tired. It falls flat.
"Funny guy, huh? Well, you don't have to tell me if you don't want."
Peter hums, dropping his head.
He doesn't know if he can handle it. He doesn't know if he can take MJ speaking his name with no recognition when he used to mean so much to her— when she still means so much to him.
"People usually talk when they call," she pipes up, Peter seemingly having gone quiet for too long.
"I don't really know what to say," he admits, looking out over the expanse of water beneath him.
Peter had rested himself atop a bridge, curled tightly at the top, likely away from view from anyone. Not many people usually looked up this high- and if they did, the dark was a good of a cover as any.
"That's alright. How about starting with telling me where you are?"
Peter scoffs out a laugh, a broken and watery thing.
"Does that usually work?"
"No, but it was worth a shot."
"Is that a part of your training?"
"I have my own take on the training material."
"Isn't that dangerous? Or…. something," Peter asks, face scrunched.
He can't say he's surprised. He knows MJ. He knows how she's able to find flaws in a system and fix it, how she trusts her own instincts more than Peter trusts his spider-sense.
"Everything has a risk— but I'd say my method works well so far. Hasn't it?"
Peter falls silent.
In a way, it had.
For a brief moment, he had forgotten where he was— what he was doing. Misdirection. MJ had always been good at that. She was good at so many things. She was good.
It strikes him again how much he misses her. He misses being able to confide her. He misses resting on her chest and hearing her heart thump beneath her ribs. He misses feeling her soft lips against his skin. He misses when she would scold him for not taking enough time for himself. He misses her reassurance and unwavering belief in him.
He misses her and he can never have her again.
"Are you there?"
She had started talking again, Peter too wrapped up in his own mind to have answered.
"I'm alone," he blurts, voice quiet, more dejected than it had been when he first initially called.
"You aren't," she assures, tone soft just like the way she spoke to him about doing the right thing that day he lost her. "The things you're feeling— I know it's isolating, but there will always be those who care and want to help, and there will always be those who are feeling similar things."
Peter shakes his head, though he knows MJ can't see it.
"No, I— I'm alone. I know other people are.. are depressed but…" he lets out a harsh breath, closing his eyes. "I have no one. All of my family is dead and I… I don't have anyone. No friends or… even those people you say are friends, but they aren't really friends but they aren't acquaintances either— I mean— just— there's no one."
Peter huffs, brows pinching. MJ remains quiet on the phone, waiting.
"I don't exist in anyone's life anymore."
"It doesn't have to be that way—"
"No, MJ, it does! I can't let anyone get hurt because of me again," He interrupts, breath ragged and voice strained.
Another gap of silence.
"You know my name?"
Shit.
He hadn't even realized he had said her name. How could he even explain that? How could he have made such a stupid mistake?
"Hey— it's okay— I don't mind. Who… who are—"
BEEP.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't hear her ask.
Peter stares at his phone until the screen turns black, the device entering sleep mode.
Peter couldn't handle much of anything anymore. Looking down at the water below, he doesn't think he could handle death either.
It's stupid. He had died before. He knows there is nothing beyond it.
But maybe that's why he can't do it.
Not when the last thing he'd ever experience would be MJ telling him not to.
She may not know him anymore, but he could go on one more day.
Just one more day.
For her.