The Last Night

01

Day 6 · 1 day to go

Jean came back at noon.

Peter smelled her first. He was lying outside Hank’s lab with his nose pressed to the crack under the door, and he shot to his feet so fast his tail went thwap-thwap-thwap against the floor.

The door opened. Jean was wearing the same army-green jacket she’d left in, backpack over one shoulder, hair a mess, dark circles under her eyes. She crouched down, and Peter crashed straight into her arms.

“Okay, okay.” The impact knocked her back onto her butt, and she laughed, hugging his neck. “I was only gone two days.”

Peter: Woof! Woof woof! (Two days, and you almost tore New York down!)

Hank stood by the lab bench, watching the two of them. “He kept watch by the door every night. Barely slept.”

“Thanks for looking after him,” Jean said. “Really.”

Hank pushed up his glasses, smiled a little, and didn’t ask a single question.

The common room was packed. As Jean walked past the doorway with Peter, Bobby sprang off the couch.

“Jean! You’re back! Did you see the news?” He shoved his phone in her face. On the screen was the clip of Marvel Girl hanging Scorpion from a streetlight. “There’s a new hero in New York! She’s so strong! The name and the outfit are just super lame.”

Jean glanced at it with zero expression. “Yeah. Super lame.”

Peter buried his face behind her legs.

Scott leaned out of the kitchen. “We spent all of yesterday in New York looking for her and came up empty. Did you run into a woman in a green outfit while you were in the city?”

“No,” Jean said.

“If you do, let me know,” Scott said earnestly. “It’s too dangerous for her to be out there on her own.”

“…Okay.”

Kitty’s head popped up from behind the couch. “So, did you find Peter?”

Jean paused. “I did. He’s fine.”

Jubilee let out a breath and leaned in, lowering her voice. “Good. Oh, and you’ve seen the news, right? Spider-Man has a girlfriend now. That Marvel Girl. Time to let it go and settle down with Peter.”

Jean’s face froze for a split second, then settled into pure resignation. She picked up the coffee next to Kitty’s hand and took a sip.

“That’s my coffee,” Kitty said.

“Sorry,” said Jean, who was not sorry.

Peter rolled over at her feet, all four paws in the air, tail thumping the rug, making a string of whimpering noises even he couldn’t control.

“What’s up with Pita?” Bobby asked.

“He’s happy.” Jean glared down at him.

02

Back in her room, Jean dropped her backpack on the floor and flopped face-first onto the bed.

After a while she crawled back up, dug a wad of green fabric out of the very bottom of her backpack, and shook it out. It was the costume. One cuff was scuffed through, and the mask was a crumpled mess.

She stared at it for a long time, like it had personally wronged her.

“Never again.” She balled it up, stuffed it into the bottom of the closet, and piled two sweaters on top.

Peter: Woof. (I think it looks great on you.)

Jean sat back down on the bed, pulled out her phone, and opened that email. Peter saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward before she forced it back down.

“Do you know where I was when I got this?” She held the phone up to Peter. “On top of a water tower. I’d been looking for him all night. I was sitting up there with no idea where else to go, and then my phone buzzed.”

Peter: Woof. (I know. I was watching.)

“I read it, like, twenty times,” Jean said. “Then I went to his place. I never gave back the key he lent me. It still looked like a twenty-something single guy lives there, and even EV was down for maintenance. The only good news is he finally listened to me and put some actual balanced food in the fridge.” She paused. “Though none of it looked very fresh.”

Peter: Aroo… (I was going to eat that this week…)

“I sat on his couch all night. I know he said a few days, but I just wanted to wait and see. What if he climbed in through the window in the middle of the night?”

Peter rested his chin on the edge of the bed and didn’t move.

“He didn’t show up, either.” Jean sniffled, then her tone changed. “He makes me wait all these days, and then he thinks he can buy me off with some ice cream.”

Peter: Woof. Woof! (A whole tub. If I’m treating, it’s definitely a whole tub.)

“And ‘stop fighting.’” Jean snorted. “Like he ever comes home before he’s fought himself into the ground.”

Her finger scrolled down and stopped on the sign-off.

Yours,

P

Jean stared at that word for a long time.

“He never signs his messages,” she finally said quietly. “A P, at most.”

She brought the phone a little closer, as if looking harder might make the word mean something else.

“What does ‘yours’ mean?” she asked Pita. “Your friend? Your neighbor? Your…”

She didn’t finish. She buried her face in her pillow.

Peter lay by the bed, ears burning. He’d tapped that out bit by bit with his nose, stared at the screen for a full minute afterward, and sent it anyway.

Pretty sure it means exactly what you think it means. You have me.

Jean lifted her head from the pillow, face still red, and scrolled down one more line: “P.S. Green looks good on you.”

“…He recognized me.” Her voice was full of despair. “He saw me dressed like that.”

Peter: Woof. (It looked good! I mean it.)

“And how does green look good on me?” Jean slapped the phone face-down on the blanket, then picked it up and read it again. “…How?”

Peter’s tail kept sweeping the floor.

03

Jean stared at the email a little longer, then sat up straight.

“I have to reply.”

Peter’s ears shot up.

She opened the reply box, typed a line, and read it out loud. “‘Okay.’” She frowned. “Too cold.” Deleted.

Another line: “‘Did you want to pick a different flavor?’” She thought about it. “…Makes it look like I care.” Deleted.

“‘What does yours mean?’” The second she finished reading it, she buried her own face in the pillow. “No no no. Absolutely not.” Deleted.

Peter: Woof woof! (Any of them! Send any of them!)

Jean lifted her head from the pillow and looked at him. “What do you think? One bark means reply, two barks means don’t.”

This time Peter barked once, loud and clear. “Woof.”

“…Fine.” Jean took a deep breath, typed a few words, hit send, and flung her phone to the other end of the bed like it might bite her.

Peter propped his chin on the edge of the bed and saw the message she’d just sent:

Jean: Make it a large!

J

He’d seen everything: in the sign-off, she’d typed “Yours” first, stared at it for a while, then deleted it one letter at a time, leaving just a J.

She SO wanted to write it.

Peter rolled around by the bed, tail slapping the floor. He had no idea whether his smashed phone would even get the message. The first thing he’d do once he changed back was check.

Jean pounced and pinned him down. “What are you so happy about!”

Peter: Woof! Woof woof! (You almost wrote “Yours”! I saw everything!)

Jean snatched her phone back, glanced at the few words she’d sent, and went red to the tips of her ears.

04

That evening, someone knocked on the door.

Jean opened it. Scott was standing there with a mug of hot oat milk.

“You haven’t left your room since you got back.” He held out the mug. “You look tired.”

“Thanks.” Jean took the mug but didn’t let him in. “I’m fine.”

“Jean.” Scott hesitated. “These last two days in New York, what exactly…”

Before he could finish, something tugged at his shoelace.

Scott looked down. A golden retriever had his shoelace in its mouth, all four paws braced, pulling with everything it had toward the hallway.

“…Pita?”

Peter didn’t let go. He dragged it back another step. Scott stumbled and hopped twice on one foot before he caught his balance.

Jean held onto the doorframe and burst out laughing.

Scott looked at the dog, then at Jean, who couldn’t stop laughing, and his expression went from confused to something like resignation. “…Okay.” He bent down and pulled his shoelace out of the dog’s mouth. “Get some rest.”

He left. Peter sat in the middle of the hallway like a war hero home from battle, tail standing straight up.

Jean crouched down, grabbed his snout, and narrowed her eyes. “Are you jealous?”

Peter: Woof. (…Yes.)

Jean laughed even harder and ruffled his head into a mess of fur.

After dinner, Jean leaned in to sniff Peter’s neck and frowned.

“You smell like disinfectant,” she said. “Did Hank wipe your paws with the lab hand soap?”

Peter: Woof. (He did.)

“Come on. Bath time.”

She herded him into the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the shower. Peter sat politely on the tiles, waiting for her to grab the shampoo.

Then Jean started taking her clothes off.

Peter froze.

No no no no no.

He spun around and bolted for the door, claws skidding on the tiles, and slammed headfirst into it.

“Where are you going?” Jean tossed her T-shirt into the hamper. “I’m gonna get soaked washing you anyway. Might as well do us both at once.”

That is NOT efficient! That is the opposite of efficient!

He squeezed his eyes shut so tight his eyelids trembled.

Warm water poured down. Jean’s fingers sank into his fur, worked in the shampoo, and scrubbed him from neck to tail. Suds plugged his ears, so all he could hear was the water and her humming.

“Why are your eyes closed?” Jean laughed and squeezed his ear. “Scared of getting shampoo in them? Smart boy.”

Peter: Whine. (For the greater good!)

Halfway through the second rinse, she patted his back. “Okay, turn around.”

Peter opened his eyes on reflex.

Just one look. She’d turned away to adjust the temperature. Her soaked red hair clung to her back all the way down to her waist; water ran down the shallow line between her shoulder blades, and the steam had turned her skin a soft pink.

He shut his eyes again immediately, even tighter than before.

You didn’t see anything. You didn’t see anything.

But the image was already burned into his brain, and it wasn’t coming out.

After what felt like an eternity, Jean turned off the water, wrapped him in a big towel first, wrapped herself in another, and blow-dried him from head to tail. By the time she was done, Peter’s fur had puffed up into one giant dandelion.

Jean took one look at him and doubled over laughing.

Peter lay by the bathroom door and let her laugh, not making a sound. His head was full of that one moment, and one very sinful thought:

He wanted to see it again. With her permission. Out in the open.

That night, Jean turned off the big light, sat on the bed for a long time, and then patted the spot next to her.

“Up.”

Peter froze in his dog bed.

“Just this once,” Jean said quietly. “I’m so tired. I need some fluffy energy.”

Peter struggled where he was for a long time three seconds.

In the end he climbed up anyway, found the corner at the foot of the bed farthest from her, and curled himself into the most polite dog shape possible.

Jean reached over, scooped him up, and pulled him into her arms like an extra-large body pillow.

“Fresh out of the bath, all soft and fluffy.” Jean buried her face in Peter’s back and took a deep breath.

Peter went stiff as a board.

Calm down. You flashed your belly three days ago. There’s no dignity left to lose.

And don’t think about the bathroom.

Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron…

When he got to carbon, his tail started wagging on its own, slapping the blanket. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

“…Stop wagging,” Jean mumbled.

I don’t WANT to wag!

He used every ounce of willpower he had, and the tail finally stopped. But Jean’s hair was spread across his face, the ends brushing his nose again and again. His nose started to itch, then itch more, and that familiar sneeze began building.

No. Don’t you dare. Last time a sneeze ruined everything.

He held it in until his eyes watered, and finally swallowed it back down.

Jean’s breathing slowed and evened out. Just as Peter thought he could finally relax, she mumbled something in her sleep:

“…Peter… idiot…”

Peter’s entire dog body froze. He even stopped breathing.

It was a long time before he dared to rest his chin gently on her arm.

The clock on the wall ticked slowly. One more day. Tomorrow night, he wouldn’t get to be held like this anymore. Not as a dog.

05

Day 7 · Last day

Peter woke up in Jean’s bed to pins and needles in his paws. One of Jean’s arms was still draped over his back, and she was fast asleep.

He stretched his legs and realized this wasn’t the kind of numbness you get from lying on something wrong. It was coming from inside his bones, in waves, like electricity zipping through his veins. He got up and shook out his paws. The tingling faded, then came back. Faded, came back.

It’s coming.

According to that researcher, seven days. He’d been hit around three on Tuesday afternoon. Which meant three o’clock this afternoon.

He glanced at the clock: seven in the morning. Eight hours to go.

Peter wriggled out from under Jean’s arm, sat by the bed, and came up with a very serious plan.

Step one: get out of Jean’s sight before three. Turning back into a naked human in front of her is not something I can even think about.

Step two: hide in the laundry room in the basement. Once I change back, find some pants. Ideally Bobby’s or Hank’s.

Step three: sneak out the back, walk back in through the front, and say I just got in from the city.

Step four: stand in front of her and say everything I owe her from this week, one sentence at a time.

It was the most thorough plan he’d ever made in his life. At the very least, it beat his last one: “spend the weekend tracking down Damage Control.”

When Jean woke up, the first thing she did was open that email again. She read it with a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth and mumbled, “How many days is ‘a few days’?”

She paused, then added, even quieter, “…Today would be good.”

It IS today!

At noon, Kitty and Jubilee ran into Jean in the hallway. She was looking down at her phone and smiling. Still that email.

“Peter again?” Jubilee asked.

Jean didn’t look up. “Mm.”

They both stopped dead.

“She admitted it.” Jubilee grabbed Kitty’s arm. “Kitty, she admitted it!”

“I heard,” Kitty said. “I need to sit down.”

After lunch, Jean went to class. Peter lay outside the classroom door for five minutes, and the moment the hallway was empty, he turned around and bolted for the basement.

The laundry room was warm, and the dryers were humming. Peter squeezed into the gap between the last dryer and the wall. In the basket next to him, he spotted a pair of pants with “Kitten” written across them in sparkles.

No no no, not again! Peter looked like he’d lost the will to live.

Okay. Let’s just wait. I refuse to believe there’s only one pair of women’s pants in this entire laundry room.

The clock on the wall hit three. He held his breath.

3:01. 3:05. 3:30.

Nothing happened.

At four, the laundry room door opened. Bobby walked in with a hamper and immediately spotted half a golden tail sticking out from behind the dryer.

“Pita?” He bent down. “What are you doing in here?” He followed Peter’s line of sight to the sweatpants in the basket, and his eyes narrowed. “…Are you eyeing my pants?”

Peter: Woof. (Got it in one.)

Bobby grabbed the basket, clutched it to his chest, and backed out of the laundry room.

Step two: failed.

Did that nerd do the math wrong?

Peter remembered the guy yelling “Probably!” as he ran off. He mentally cursed that researcher out from head to toe.

When it was almost dark, Peter slunk back to Jean’s room with his tail down. The second the door opened, Jean crouched in front of him.

“Where did you go?” She cupped his face and checked him over. “I looked for you all afternoon.”

Peter: Whine.

“Going missing is a bad habit! Don’t you start learning from him.”

Peter hung his head. He couldn’t say a single word.

Jean sighed and pulled him into a hug. “Every single one of you. You’re all so much trouble.”

06

By nightfall, the tingling in his paws hadn’t stopped. If anything, it was coming faster.

Jean got out of the shower, changed into her oversized T-shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed for a while. She picked up her phone and read that email one more time, squirming on the edge of the bed. She’d been like this all day; once the happiness hit, there was no stopping it. She glanced at Peter in his dog bed, then at the closet.

Peter already knew what was coming next.

[b:(BGM: Florence + the Machine – Dog Days Are Over)

♪ Happiness hit her like a train on a track♪

♪ Coming towards her, stuck still, no turning back ♪]

Jean opened the closet, took the gray hoodie down from the very back, hugged it to her chest, buried her face in the collar, and gave it a quick kiss. Then she turned off the big light, leaving only the little spider night-light in the corner.

“Night, Pita.”

Peter lay still and waited for her breathing to slow. After a while, the blanket started rustling.

[b:♪She hid around corners and she hid under beds♪

♪She killed it with kisses and from it she fled♪]

He had to go. He climbed out of his dog bed and, just like last time, crept toward the door as quietly as he could. The bell on his collar pressed against his neck and didn’t make a sound.

He finally made it out the door. The second his mouth touched the doorknob to pull it shut, the tingling shot up through all four paws at once.

Peter froze. Seriously? NOW?

[b:♪ The dog days are over ♪

♪ The dog days are done ♪]

He looked down and watched his front paws change shape in the hallway light: the fur pulling back, the claws stretching out into fingers. His back legs gave out, his knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor. The collar tightened around his neck, then snapped with a crack and fell to the floor with the little bell, which jingled and rolled halfway around.

He was kneeling outside Jean’s door, and the thing on the doorknob was a human hand.

He looked down at himself. Nothing on.

Oh, no.

His first instinct was to run. But run where? Streak naked down an entire hallway of X-Men dorms?

[b:♪ The horses are coming♪

♪ So you better run ♪

♪ Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father ♪

♪ Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers ♪]

While Peter was still hesitating, voices and laughter drifted from around the far corner of the hallway, getting closer.

No time to think. He grabbed the collar off the floor and ducked straight back into the room.

The bed went quiet.

“…Who’s there?”

Peter, who had just shut the door, froze where he stood, his back to the bed, not daring to move.

Behind him came footsteps, very soft, bare feet on the carpet. He heard Jean stop right behind him. He heard her take a breath.

[b:♪ Leave all your love and your longing behind ♪

♪ You can't carry it with you if you want to survive ♪]

“…This dream again,” she said softly, her voice still thick with sleep, a little resigned and a little amused. “Pretty clear this time.”

Peter turned around, wanting to say something. Anything.

Before he could open his mouth, Jean took his face in her hands. “Same as usual, then.” And she kissed him.

Peter’s brain went completely blank.

His golden retriever instincts hadn’t fully worn off yet, and they surged up together with everything he’d been bottling up for seven days, three years, maybe longer, and took over his brain. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her back.

[b:♪ And I never wanted anything from you ♪

♪ Except everything you had ♪

♪ And what was left after that too, oh ♪]

Who knew how long it lasted. When they finally broke apart, they were both gasping for air.

“Wait.” He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “Jean, this isn’t a dream.”

Jean blinked.

Peter felt it. That light feeling, like someone knocking on a door: she was reaching for his mind. And then she hit that familiar wall.

The only person she could never get inside.

Jean took half a step back. The glow of the night-light on her face brought her back to her senses a little.

“…It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

Jean’s eyes flicked down, then darted back up to his face. Two seconds later, she couldn’t help herself and looked again. The warm yellow glow of the night-light fell over him: his shoulders were broader than she remembered, his chest and stomach lean and defined. Guess all that protein powder hadn’t gone to waste. He just stood there with no idea what to do with his hands.

“Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

“…You’re one to talk.”

The oversized T-shirt was long gone from her, too. Her bright red hair spilled over her bare shoulders; a few freckles were scattered across her collarbone like someone had tossed them there; her waist looked small enough to fit in one of his hands; and everything else… He’d always known she was beautiful, but seeing it with his own eyes hit way harder than anything he’d imagined.

Her face went bright red, but she didn’t hide. Instead, she took a step forward and lifted her chin. “Seen enough?”

“What? Yes. No, no, no… No. Never enough.” Peter finally came back to his senses, a grin he couldn’t hold back taking over his whole face.

Jean’s gaze traveled over his muscles, lingering a little longer on a certain not-so-familiar spot, and she confirmed the person in front of her wanted her just as badly.

“Me neither.” The redhead smiled, her face flushed.

[b:♪ Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back ♪

♪ Struck from a great height ♪

♪ By someone who should have known better than that ♪]

The two of them just stood there grinning at each other, like they’d both just been possessed by the One Wish Willow.

The next second, who knows who moved first, they were kissing again, more urgently than before. Peter’s hands slid down her back, her skin burning hot under his palms; Jean’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, until both of their knees bumped the edge of the bed.

With the last scrap of sanity he had left, Peter remembered something important.

“I need to tell you something first,” he said. “Something really important…”

“Tomorrow.”

“But…”

“To. Mor. Row!”

She didn’t give him another chance to talk. Just another kiss.

[b:♪ The dog days are over♪

♪ The dog days are done♪]

Jean reached over and flipped the Spider-Man pillow by the bed face-down, burying its winking eye in the blanket.

“No peeking,” she managed to squeeze out.

Peter burst out laughing. Jean grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the bed.

The night-light went out.

[b:♪ Can you hear the horses?♪

♪ 'Cause here they come♪

♪♪♪♪]