nan4cat
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"Where the hell are you, Peter?" MJ whispered, already irritated, his teeth clenched in a smile that fooled no one. The patient in room 214 continued to sleep peacefully in the corner, enjoying his coma with the dedication of someone who had trained his whole life for it. His vitals were stable. His breathing was rhythmic. He was, at that moment, the luckiest human being in Manhattan, because he didn't have to deal with Peter Parker.
"Home," Peter said, and MJ heard the wind.
MJ closed his eyes. Counted to three in Aramaic — a habit he had developed after watching a documentary on exorcisms during a bout of insomnia and never being able to shake.
Then he said, with the patience of a saint who was about to retire from sainthood:
"Want to try that again?"
There was a pause.
"I'm... almost home?"
MJ sighed.