Chapter 90 : Crossroads – Before the Choice
New York, Queens – Alex's POV
I wait until the apartment settles before moving.
My bedroom feels contained, insulated from the rest of the space. I close the door behind me and sit at my desk. The cyberdeck slots into place, interfaces unfolding across the dim room. This isn't urgency. It's maintenance.
I start with what's unfinished. Network residue, partial captures, delayed synchronizations—anything that could have slipped past earlier passes. Most of the damage control was done in real time, but time always creates new intersections. I trace them patiently, pruning connections, corrupting contextual anchors, dissolving chains before they stabilize. Data doesn't disappear. It just becomes unusable.
Then I turn to Gwen.
That part requires precision.
I don't remove her. That would be too clean. Instead, I weaken every possible bridge between Gwen Stacy and Spider Woman—timestamps that drift just enough to stop lining up, biometric overlaps that never cross validation thresholds, social proximity that collapses into coincidence. Anyone digging will find fragments that contradict each other. Questions without convergence.
When I finish, the pattern is gone—not erased, but broken beyond reconstruction. I power the deck down and sit still for a moment, letting the quiet return. There's no aftershock. No emotional recoil. Just confirmation that the work is done.
The message arrives shortly after.
MJ.
Direct. Honest. She says she still wants the conversation. Today, if possible.
I don't answer immediately.
I check the time—late morning. Plenty of margin. I message Gwen, keeping it neutral, asking when she might be free later. Her reply comes quickly. She can this afternoon.
That's enough.
I respond to MJ, telling her I'll coordinate with Gwen and get back to her. A minute later, I send the follow-up: Gwen's place. Four o'clock.
MJ agrees.
The time locks in.
I have hours.
I use them deliberately.
I shower, letting the heat clear the last physical remnants of tension. I change clothes—nothing remarkable, nothing performative. I eat something simple, more routine than appetite. I review what this conversation is and what it isn't. No persuasion. No damage control. Just clarity.
This isn't about convincing anyone.
It's about alignment.
I leave my apartment a few minutes early. The hallway is quiet, familiar in the way places you pass through every day become invisible. Gwen's door is only a few steps away. No commute. No transition. Just a line crossed.
I knock.
The door opens almost immediately.
Gwen stands there in casual clothes—comfortable, unguarded. There's tiredness in her posture, but not hesitation. When she sees me, her shoulders ease slightly, like she'd been bracing without realizing it.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey."
She steps aside to let me in. "Dad's still at work," she adds, matter-of-fact. Then, after half a beat, "MJ's already here."
The implication is clear.
No interruptions. No variables.
Just the three of us.
I nod and step inside, the door closing softly behind me. Gwen's apartment feels the same as always—lived-in, personal, layered with familiarity. But the air is different. Expectant. Not tense. Focused.
MJ is in the living room.
She looks up when she hears the door, her expression shifting as our eyes meet. There's relief there. And resolve. Whatever this conversation is going to be, she's already committed to having it.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi," I reply.
Gwen moves past me, padding toward the kitchen. "I'll make tea," she says, automatically. Not an excuse. Just grounding herself through motion.
MJ watches her for a second, then looks back at me. "Thanks for coming," she says. Not polite. Sincere.
"I said we'd talk," I answer. "I meant it."
I take a seat, posture relaxed but attentive. This isn't a confrontation, and it isn't a confession. It's a recalibration. Three people who know each other too well to pretend this is simple.
Gwen returns with mugs a moment later, setting them down before sitting as well. She positions herself between us—not physically, but socially. Present. Included. Unwilling to be a subject instead of a participant.
Good.
The room settles into a brief silence. Not awkward. Just the last pause before something real begins.
I meet MJ's gaze, then Gwen's.
"Okay," I say calmly. "Let's talk."
We settle into the living room.
No one rushes it. Gwen takes the armchair, folding one leg under herself. MJ sits on the couch, hands wrapped around her mug more for grounding than warmth. I take the other end, close enough to be present, far enough to leave space.
Silence follows.
Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just… slightly uncomfortable. The kind that forms when everyone in the room understands that what comes next matters, and that once it starts, there's no clean way to pause it again. Apprehension sits beside fear, tempered by trust. No one looks away. No one fills the gap.
I don't feel any of it press against me.
I'm calm. Centered. Not detached—just steady.
I look at MJ first. Really look at her. She's holding herself together well, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tighten and release against the ceramic. This isn't panic. It's processing something too large to fit neatly into words.
"How are you?" I ask.
My voice is even. Not clinical. Not soft either. Just honest.
MJ blinks, clearly not expecting the question to be that simple. She exhales through her nose, a short breath that almost turns into a laugh but doesn't quite make it.
"I… don't know," she says. "That's kind of the problem."
Gwen doesn't interrupt. She watches MJ closely, not possessive, not defensive—just present. Giving her room.
I nod once.
"That's fine," I say. "You don't have to have it figured out."
I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on my knees. Open posture. No pressure.
"Tell me what you're thinking," I continue. "What you feel. What you want. Whatever order it comes in." A brief pause. "We'll start from there."
The silence returns, thinner now. More fragile.
MJ looks down at her mug, then back up at me. Her eyes flick briefly to Gwen—checking, maybe, that this really is allowed. Gwen meets her gaze and gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.
MJ swallows.
"I discovered it yesterday afternoon," she says quietly.
There it is.
Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just a fact placed gently on the table between us.
"I wasn't even late enough to worry," she continues. "It was just… a feeling. Something off." Her lips press together. "I took the test because I needed to stop thinking about it. And then I couldn't stop thinking at all."
She breathes in, steadying herself.
"I'm pregnant," MJ says. "With your child."
The words land.
I don't react outwardly. No sharp inhale. No shift in posture. Not because it doesn't matter—but because it does, and panic would only distort it. The Self-Moral Stabilizer holds me exactly where I need to be.
I nod once, acknowledging the reality without flinching.
"Thank you for telling me," I say.
MJ lets out a breath she's clearly been holding, some of the tension in her shoulders easing—not gone, but lighter. Gwen's fingers curl slightly against the armrest, but she stays silent, eyes moving between us.
MJ keeps going, encouraged by the lack of interruption.
"I'm scared," she admits. "Not in a falling-apart way. Just… everything shifted all at once. My body, my future, how I see you." A small, self-aware smile flickers and fades. "How I see myself."
I listen. Fully.
I don't interrupt. I don't redirect. I let MJ lay the weight of it out in her own words, because this isn't something you rush without turning it into pressure.
When she finishes, I stay silent for a beat longer than necessary. Not to dramatize it—just to make sure nothing else needs to surface first.
Then I speak.
"When I asked what you want," I say calmly, "I meant all of it. Including the part you haven't said out loud yet."
MJ stiffens slightly, then relaxes. She knows exactly what I'm pointing at.
"I need to know," I continue, voice steady, "whether you want to keep the child. Or not."
No judgment. No expectation embedded in the question.
Just clarity.
MJ's fingers tighten around the mug. She looks down, then up again, eyes shining but controlled.
"I think… I want to," she admits. "I really do." A short breath. "But wanting something and being ready for it aren't the same."
Gwen doesn't move, but her attention sharpens. This matters to her—not possessively, not defensively, but structurally. She's not an observer here. She never was.
MJ glances at her, hesitation flickering across her face.
"I don't know if I'm ready to be a mother," MJ continues. "To actually live with the consequences. With everything that comes with it." Her jaw tightens. "And I don't know if it's fair to put that on you."
She looks back at me.
"On either of you."
The silence that follows isn't empty. It's careful.
"I don't want to force you into being a father," MJ says quietly. "Especially when—" she hesitates, then pushes through, "—when officially, you're with Gwen. When she's your partner. Your center."
That word matters.
Gwen shifts slightly in her seat—not to interrupt, but to make herself visible. Present. MJ's gaze flicks to her again, searching, measuring.
"And I don't want to put you," MJ adds, now looking directly at Gwen, "in a position where you have to carry something you didn't choose."
Gwen exhales slowly, then speaks—not over MJ, not for her, but into the space she's been given.
"You wouldn't be," Gwen says. Her voice is calm, grounded. "Not by existing. Not by being honest."
MJ looks surprised by that.
Gwen continues, measured. "You're not forcing anything by telling us the truth. And you're not wrong to be scared." A pause. "I pushed Alex to open his world. That doesn't mean I stop being involved when things get real."
That lands.
MJ swallows, emotion flickering closer to the surface now that the ground beneath her hasn't cracked.
I take the thread again.
"You're not trapping me," I say. "And you're not forcing me." I glance briefly at Gwen—not for permission, but acknowledgment—then back to MJ. "If you decide to keep the child, that choice won't be yours alone to carry."
I let that settle before continuing.
"And if you decide you're not ready," I add, just as evenly, "that doesn't make you weak. Or selfish. Or wrong."
MJ's eyes blur slightly. She blinks hard, a breath catching and then steadying.
"I don't want to lose myself," she admits. "And I don't want to take something away from either of you."
"You're not," Gwen says softly.
I nod. "And you won't."
Gwen shifts slightly, then straightens. When she speaks again, it's not rushed, not defensive. It's the voice she uses when she's being honest with herself as much as with others.
"When I pushed Alex to open things up," she says, looking at MJ, not at me, "I knew what that meant." A brief pause. "I knew pregnancy was a possibility. Not in theory—in reality."
MJ's eyes widen a fraction. She hadn't expected that level of clarity.
"It never bothered me," Gwen continues. "The idea that he might have a child with someone else in the harem." She exhales slowly. "What surprised me is the timing."
She lets that settle before adding, almost wryly, "I thought this would happen years from now. Planned. Talked through. Something we'd decide together." Her gaze softens. "Not… this early. And not as a surprise."
MJ's shoulders tense, instinctively bracing for blame that doesn't come.
"But I don't resent you," Gwen says immediately, as if sensing it. "At all." She shakes her head once. "I'm just recalibrating."
MJ lets out a shaky breath, relief and emotion tangling together. "I was afraid you'd hate me," she admits quietly.
Gwen's expression tightens—not with anger, but with something closer to sadness. "For what? Being human?" A faint smile. "No. I don't hate you."
I pick up the thread, grounding it.
"I never really framed it that way," I say. "Not in terms of 'when'." I glance at Gwen, then back to MJ. "I was focused on building something that could last. A future that could support all of us. And… enjoying life while doing it."
MJ studies me, searching for signs of evasion. She doesn't find any.
"I wasn't careless," I add. "But I wasn't planning a timeline either."
Gwen nods at that, unsurprised. "That sounds like you."
MJ huffs out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. "So this wasn't some secret plan?"
"No," I say simply.
"Definitely not," Gwen echoes.
The tension eases another notch. MJ's grip on the mug loosens, her shoulders lowering slightly now that the unspoken accusations have nowhere to land.
"I think part of what scared me," MJ says after a moment, "was feeling like I'd messed up something you'd carefully designed."
I shake my head. "You didn't break anything."
Gwen leans forward a little. "You changed the schedule," she says, not unkindly. "That's not the same thing."
MJ smiles weakly at that, eyes glistening. "You're… a lot calmer than I expected."
Gwen shrugs lightly. "I'm surprised. Not threatened."
I add, evenly, "And I adapt."
That earns a small, real smile from MJ this time.
"I still don't know if I'm ready," she admits. "But hearing this… it helps." She looks between us. "It makes it feel less like a catastrophe and more like a crossroads."
"That's because it is one," Gwen says.
"And crossroads come with options," I add.
The room settles again—not into silence, but into something steadier. A shared understanding forming, piece by piece.