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PETER PARKER DIDN'T HAVE SO MANY MEMORIES OF HIS PARENTS. He was only six when that fateful night played out like a distasteful movie - one in which main plot revolved solely around the main characters running away from some organisation. But in this cliche-filled movie, Peter was one of the things he left behind, with barely anything to remember them by, other than the fading heart-beat like substance that remained of his mother telling his aunt and uncle little things that were important to him, or the squeeze of his hand from his dad that lasted less than a millisecond but would remain with him forever.
He didn't remember what the house in Forest Hills looked like at the time of his first arrival, he didn't remember how plains the walls looked without the numerous posters he once had, didn't remember how his first breakfast had been too-sweet pancakes with spatterings of newly-bought blueberries, strawberries and a glass of orange juice.
He certainly didn't remember a couple days later, when the evening had fallen and his aunt was pulling a clean jumper over his head when the doorbell rang and she answered it before leading in the family next door, a woman with ginger hair and a man with much darker, a little girl following behind them, clutching a book in her hands. He didn't remember how she had been introduced as 'MJ', greeted him with only a couple of words and then didn't speak for the rest of the evening.
Peter definitely didn't retain any memories of her walking to school with him and timidly introducing him to Gwen Stacy the next day, or the multitude of other friends she had - especially not Flash Thompson who was pushing him around by the end of the day, regardless of whether or not pretty MJ Watson was his friend or not.
