[Why did you not alter your garments? The cinematic archives indicate a courtship ritual requires formal attire. Perhaps a tailored suit. And olfactory enhancements.]
Peter stood in the shadows of a brick alleyway, letting the black symbiote slither beneath the collar of his flannel shirt and seamlessly morph into an ordinary gray undershirt. He patted down his jeans, making sure he looked like a normal teenager and not a heavily armed vigilante.
"I'm not wearing cologne," Peter whispered to the empty alley. "And for the last time, this is just a celebratory meal. Not a date."
[Two adolescents of opposite sexes consuming carbohydrates together in a dimly lit establishment. Your denial is statistically baseless.]
"Let's just keep quiet, okay?" Peter sighed, running a hand through his messy brown hair. "I need to survive an hour of normal human interaction before we swing upstate and see what Kraven the Hunter is hiding in his creepy murder mansion."
Ignoring the alien's persistent romantic gossip, Peter stepped out of the alley and pushed open the heavy glass door of the restaurant.
Surprisingly, Mary Jane hadn't picked an upscale Western bistro or an expensive coffee shop this time. She had chosen a classic, bustling New York pizzeria. The air was thick with the smell of baked dough, melting mozzarella, and crushed garlic.
Peter spotted her immediately. MJ was sitting in a red vinyl booth by the front window, bathed in the neon glow of the street signs, casually flipping through a laminated menu.
"Hey," Peter said, sliding into the booth across from her. He offered an apologetic grimace. "Sorry I'm late. The subway was... well, you know. Have you ordered yet?"
"I actually just got here myself," MJ smiled, pushing the menu across the table. "And I held off on ordering. I wasn't entirely sure if you had any weird dietary restrictions."
"As long as we avoid anchovies, eggplant, and anything unholy like durian, I'm basically a human garbage disposal," Peter joked, scanning the list of toppings.
He confidently ordered a large Hawaiian pizza. MJ gave him a deeply judgmental, classic New Yorker glare for putting pineapple on a pie, but she let it slide.
Once the waiter walked away, Peter leaned back against the vinyl. He didn't look at MJ right away. Instead, his eyes darted out the window, tracking a delivery truck idling at the curb. He listened to the pitch of the sirens echoing two avenues over. He watched the reflection of the other patrons in the glass.
"You seem a little tense," MJ noted, resting her chin on her hand as she watched him. "Is something wrong?"
Peter blinked, forcing his shoulders to drop. He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a dry chuckle. "It's nothing. Just a little on edge. The last time we tried to sit down and have dinner together, a guy in a mechanical rhinoceros suit tore through the asphalt and a taxi came crashing right into our table. Sorry. I shouldn't be bringing that up now."
MJ offered a sympathetic smile, but Peter's internal reality was much darker than he let on.
It wasn't just the Rhino. It was the Wasteland. It was Anansi. During his brutal, reality-bending fight with the Spider God, Anansi had simply reached into Peter's biology and... switched his Spider-Sense off. For months, Peter had relied on that faint electric hum at the base of his skull as an infallible, supernatural radar. Realizing that his ultimate defense mechanism could be bypassed had left a lingering, cold knot of paranoia in his stomach.
If his Spider-Sense could be muted, he couldn't blindly trust it anymore. He had to compensate. He had to keep his five physical senses hyper-tuned to the environment at all times, constantly scanning for threats the old-fashioned way.
"I think you're being a little too sensitive, Peter," MJ said gently, pulling his attention back to the table. "Though I admit, our lives have completely changed since these... superheroes started falling from the sky." She paused, tracing the rim of her water glass. "Have you ever heard of Phil Sheldon?"
Peter thought for a second. The name tickled the back of his brain. "The photographer? The one who shoots for the Daily Bugle?"
"He's the best one they have," MJ nodded, her eyes lighting up with genuine journalistic admiration. "He started photographing the superpowered individuals from the very beginning. The day the Fantastic Four defeated the Mole Man. The X-Men, the Punisher, the Avengers... he shot all of them. Since the Battle of New York, he announced he's taking a sabbatical to write a massive photo-biography about them. He calls them the 'Marvels'."
"I remember seeing his photo credits," Peter said. "Did he write an editorial or something?"
"He did," MJ said softly. "He wrote that we live in an era where the world is fractured. Some people hate the Extraordinary Ones, believing they ruined our quiet lives. Some people choose to outright deny their existence, treating aliens and gods like internet conspiracy theories. And, of course, some people worship them—like the tourists who wait outside Grand Central Station for six hours just hoping to see Iron Man fly out of Avengers Tower."
MJ leaned forward, her red hair catching the neon light from the window. "But Sheldon's main point was this: regardless of how we feel about them, the Extraordinary Ones are a permanent part of our reality now. Acknowledging that, adapting to this new world, and learning how to survive safely within it is what matters. It's infinitely more productive than just constantly looking over our shoulders and complaining about the inconvenience."
Peter let the words sink in. He looked at MJ, truly impressed by the grounded, mature perspective. He slowly nodded. "That's... a really good way to look at it."
"Exactly," MJ grinned, the heavy philosophical atmosphere vanishing in an instant. She propped her elbows on the table. "So. Speaking of adapting to new situations. How are things with you and Gwen?"
Peter practically choked on the sip of soda he had just taken. He coughed, thumping his chest. "What? How are what things?"
"Aren't you guys a couple?" MJ asked, entirely matter-of-fact.
Peter stared at her, his brain rebooting. "Wait. Is that what you think, or is that what the entire school thinks?"
"I can't speak for the rest of Midtown, Tiger. But you two seem incredibly close."
"We are," Peter said quickly, waving a hand to dispel the rumor. "We were in the same classes in junior high, and we've been next-door neighbors for years. We're just really good friends. We are definitely not a couple. At least... not right now."
MJ simply nodded, accepting the answer without pressing further.
The pizza arrived a moment later, entirely breaking the tension. They spent the rest of the hour eating and talking about normal, blessedly boring high school things. MJ talked about her new desk at the Bugle, and Peter complained about his AP Physics workload.
By the time MJ paid the bill and they stepped back out onto the cool New York pavement, he felt lighter than he had in weeks.
He hailed a yellow taxi for MJ. Before she slid into the back seat, she rested her arms on the open window frame.
"Hey, Tiger," MJ smiled. "If I ever need a second shooter to help me with a photography gig next time, would you be up for it?"
"No problem," Peter said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "As long as I'm free."
"Deal. And if your shots are actually in focus, I'll buy more dinner."
Peter watched the taxi merge into the bustling Manhattan traffic until the taillights disappeared. He let out a long, slow breath. The knot of paranoia in his stomach had finally loosened. He had already cleared his curfew with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, telling them he'd be out late for an "internship project."
The night was finally his. It was time to head to upstate New York, scout the Kravinoff Estate, and clear the board of any lethal Russian super-soldiers.
As Peter turned down a dark, empty alleyway to begin his ascent, the symbiote rippled beneath his skin.
[Nothing happened.]
"Yeah," Peter whispered, a genuine smile touching his lips as he placed his hands on the brick wall. "Nothing exploded. Nobody died. It was totally peaceful. That's a good thing, Venom."
The black biomatter surged upward, swallowing his flannel shirt and sealing over his face in a sleek, white-eyed mask.
[I have analyzed the data,] Venom's voice echoed in his skull. [I believe this is what the humans refer to as 'dating'.]
Peter shot a web-line to the fire escape above, launching himself effortlessly into the night sky. "...Whatever you want to think, buddy."