Chapter Text
We don't have to be stars exploding in the night, or electric eels under the covers.
We don't have to be anything quite so unreal, let's just be lovers.
(magnetic fields - a chicken with its head cut off)
***
i.
“Your backpack isn’t zipped.”
Peter whirls around, all sense of momentum lost, as he sees the scooter dashing past him. Michelle lifts her fingers to her forehead as a salutation and disappears in the crowd.
Peter darts in an alley and removes his backpack. Sure enough, one red lycra hand is sticking out from the mouth. In his rush to get back home in time for dinner, he forgot to do his zipper all the way in.
But – she couldn’t have seen much, could she? It's just a hand.
“I saw you on Flushing.”
Peter stares in earnest at his textbook and pops another carrot stick in his mouth. Maybe if he focuses really hard, Michelle will get bored and return to her book on Maya Angelou.
“That’s not your street, right?”
Peter shrugs noncommittally. “I was, uh, doing some shopping.”
“For a Halloween costume?”
His head snaps up in milliseconds. He almost gets a crick in his neck.
Michelle flashes a rare and very confusing smile. It looks more like a smirk.
He opens his mouth to ask her what she means exactly, but she simply burrows her head in her book, as if that marks the end of their non-existent conversation.
It’s tricky, cuz Michelle is the new head of the Decathlon. He really wants to do well on the team this year, so he can’t afford to alienate her. He doesn’t want to alienate her. Despite her antisocial ways, she’s…kind of cool. She vaguely reminds him of Bender from The Breakfast Club, only less violent.
Still, she’s toying with him. She knows something, or she thinks she knows. And that can be dangerous.
Maybe he’s imagining things. Ever since Liz left he’s been a little bit on edge. I mean, sure, he’s accepted that he needs to graduate high-school and take it easy, but that doesn’t mean he can just relax.
He remembers that Michelle is very observant. She was the one who noticed when he quit the school band and the chess club. He has to be extra-careful around her.
“Do you need a ride?”
It’s pouring so hard he can barely see the face underneath the hoodie. He recognized the scooter, though. The paint is slightly chipped in places, but the red is loud and brazen.
Peter shakes his head, ducking under the terrace of the coffee shop. He’s run out of web, and he doesn’t like to use his suit during bad weather.
“Come on. Hop on. It’s not like you weigh much.”
“Hey, I resent that,” he mutters, because he’s quite proud of the muscle mass he’s amassed in the past months.
Michelle rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
She looks like a wet dog with a few stranded curls plastered to her cheek.
Peter isn’t sure he should accept, but the cold has seeped through his cardigan, so he jumps on behind her. There isn’t much room for both of them, actually, so she’s kind of sitting in his lap as she navigates the busy streets. He coughs awkwardly as he wraps his arms around her waist. This is the most he’s ever touched a girl.
“You sure grip hard,” she tells him during a red light.
“Sorry, uh, force of habit.”
He tries to weaken his hold, but it’s probably no good. His spider-strength is not always controllable. If he’s crushing her, he has no idea.
“You know, you should really wear a helmet," he says by way of conversation.
"What for?"
"Safety?"
Michelle scoffs loud enough for him to hear. He doesn’t like that he’s her object of amusement, so he changes tack.
“How come you always know where I am?”
It’s a legitimate question. It was odd running into her twice in a row outside of school.
“I guess I have spider senses.”
Peter grips her so hard that she almost wheels into a fruit-cart.
“What the hell? You want to get us killed?"
They pull to a rough halt. Peter hops out, feeling tendrils of adrenaline shoot out through his whole body. “Uhh, thanks for the ride.”
“We’re not there yet,” she calls after him angrily, but he’s already made a run for it. Classic Peter.
Neither of them mentions the scooter incident at the Decathlon meet-up. Michelle is surprisingly good at leading a group. Her casual air of indifference is balanced with just enough authority to make the team work. Peter would genuinely commend her on that if he were not completely paranoid about her.
“Pete?” she prompts and he tries not to jump at the sound of his name.
They’re doing try-out questions for the biology section and everyone is being handed a card.
He reads his question out loud. “What is the dose of antibiotics used in pediatric patients?”
Okay, so this seems fairly innocent. But pediatric. It feels like a jab at his kid status.
“Err, that should be 10 to 15 mgs every 4 hours.”
Michelle nods sagely. “Cool. You’re not gonna kill any babies then. Your turn, Ned.”
Ned is sitting across from Peter, and he looks a little pale all of a sudden.
“What is the usual lifespan of the Achaearanea tepidariorum, also commonly known as the house spider?” he reads, swallowing thickly.
He’s the one who is following her this time. If she’s aware of it, she doesn’t let it show. It’s not like he’s attempting to hide it. He’s not sneaking up on rooftops or following her from the sides of buildings. He wants her to realize what’s happening.
Michelle picks up the pace at a crossroads, and he does the same. His sneakers splash against a puddle. She's almost doing a light sprint. But Peter has more practice at this, so it’s not hard for him to grab her elbow and pull her into an alley mid-flight.
He doesn’t mean to actually push her up against the grimy wall, but he once again misjudges his strength.
Michelle’s eyes go wide. “I’ve got pepper spray, asshole.”
They’re both panting like crazy and Peter’s a bit too close for comfort, but he won’t remove his hand from her arm because she’ll probably try to get away.
“No, you don’t, or you would’ve used it by now.”
Michelle looks sideways, her lithe body knocking into his. “I can throw a good punch.”
“Why don’t we talk instead, huh?”
“In this smelly alley?” She raises an eyebrow. “Do you have some kind of fetish?”
“You obviously think you know something. So tell me, I’m all ears,” he instigates, hoping that he’s better at intimidation now than he was with Aaron Davis.
Michelle blows air in his face. “If you’re trying to do good cop/bad cop, you suck at it.”
“I’m trying to find out what you know.”
“About?”
“Don’t play dumb. It really doesn’t suit you. You’ve read – what – the whole school library by now?”
Against her better judgment, she seems pleased with the compliment. “It’s not that hard. We don’t have a wide selection.”
“Michelle –” And almost unconsciously he pulls her towards him.
“Yeah, okay, I know your secret! Happy?”
Peter’s mouth is trying to work up a reply, but he just stares haplessly at her for a few seconds.
“You’re obviously a drug peddler,” she mutters obliquely. “I mean the late nights, the skipping, the weak excuses…the blank stares. Look, you’re doing one right now.”
Peter doesn’t know if he should laugh or scowl. He settles for the former. “Seriously, a drug peddler? I look that streetwise to you?”
Michelle shrugs. “That or you’re Spider-Man.”
And there it is.
She lets him into her house through the back door.
“Dad’s probably working late. Come on up and I’ll show you my stuff.”
Peter shuffles through her living room like a ghost. There’s an uncomfortable number of Christmas paraphernalia lying around, even though the holidays are two months away.
Michelle bites her lip. “I promise it's not a cult or anything."
"Um, maybe don't start with that if you want to lighten the mood," he comments, picking up a dry laurel crown.
"It’s for Mom. I’ll explain ...later.”
It sounds like she'll never explain. He's okay with that.
He shouldn’t be here anyway, and he definitely shouldn’t go up to her room, but he has to see this through. He has to decide if he can let her into his covert operation, which is currently helmed by Ned alone.
He’s not exactly surprised to find her room is basically a box full of books. There’s barely room enough for her bed. Her wardrobe door is ajar and he can see book spines stashed between pairs of jeans. The walls, wherever there’s free space, are covered in Tupac posters and there’s one eye-catching banner above her nightstand. It shows a grainy yellow photo of a woman wearing monocles and a bowtie. Next to her he reads, “Ask for work. If they don’t give you work, ask for bread. If they do not give you work or bread, then take the bread.”
“Wow,” Peter muses. “That’s quite a stance.”
Michelle smiles proudly. “Emma Goldman. Badass anarchist.”
“Are you an anarchist?” he queries, making sure to side-step any books on the floor.
“Nah, don’t have the stamina. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
She beckons him to the window that overlooks the weedy garden out front. There’s a gnome with a broken foot lying in the dirt.
“Huh. This place isn’t exactly…”
“Homey?” she offers. “Thank God. Don’t you hate it when the fence is white and they have a dog?”
“Who’s they?”
“Practically everyone.”
“I don’t have a dog,” he protests.
“But you probably want one and your aunt won’t allow it.”
She’s right, of course. She’s obnoxiously wise about these things, like a salt-of-the-earth grandmother. Except there’s something almost vulnerable about her crowded room and this sad little house.
“Here,” she interrupts his line of thinking, shoving an iPad in his arms.
She unlocks the screen and presses on a folder entitled “school project”.
Peter has to stifle a gasp. It’s filled with videos and news articles and sightings of Spider-Man, complete with schedules and exact dates. There’s some audio-recordings too.
“It was really the voice that tipped me off,” she says, looking out the window. “I never forgot that day in DC when I saw him climb the Washington Monument. He talked to me, told me he’d save my friends. I thought it was weird, that he somehow knew my friends were in danger.”
Peter swallows thickly. “Yeah, well, that’s his job…”
“Anyway, I got an audio of you during a Decathlon mock-trial for comparison. After that it was easy to put two and two together. Your sketchy behavior didn’t make sense, seeing as you’re a giant dork. The only other alternative was this.”
Peter turns off the iPad. “Is there any point in me denying any of this?”
“Nope.”
“Right...Looks like you got me all figured out.”
He doesn’t sound upset. He’s oddly relieved. He makes a decent attempt at self-denial, because it’s not the superhero he’s trying to be, the superhero he promised Tony Stark he’d be, but he gets a guilty rush of pleasure when people find out he’s not the ordinary kid down the block.
“How long have you known?” he asks quietly.
“Since DC.”
“That was months ago.”
Michelle folds her arms in a defensive stance. “I had to gather more evidence. You know why this is called a school project? Cuz it started out like one.”
Peter’s mouth falls open. “Are you – are you going to show this to people at school?”
“No, dummy,” she rolls her eyes. “Only to college admission officers.”
“What?”
It comes out after that. This was going to be her college application for Columbia.
“I’m interested in journalism,” she explains, as if that makes everything all right.
Peter paces her room up and down, not bothering to mind the books.
“You’re honestly telling me I was going to be your one-way ticket to an Ivy League school?”
“Was? Who says you’re still not?” she teases, but he’s not in the mood for her little jokes.
“What about Emma whatsername?” he points at the poster. “Anarchism and the voice of the people?”
“Hey, a girl’s gotta eat.”
“Look, I’ll get you all the sandwiches and pizzas this side of Queens –”
“So, Spider-Man’s gonna steal for me now?”
It’s weird, but it’s the first time she’s called him that to his face, and they both stop for a moment to contemplate the absurd situation.
And then she bursts into a fit of giggles, so uncharacteristic of her sober self, that he can’t help but join her a few seconds later.
That’s how her father finds them, laughing like spastics at the window.
Ned is visiting his grandparents in Hawaii for Christmas. Tony’s in Europe; he sent him a brief but not unfeeling text message with an attached photo of the Acropolis. Aunt May has finally started seeing a nice man from the neighborhood – a boring accountant, Peter checked – so she’s out the door most afternoons. He’s glad she’s happy for a change, but that leaves him with almost zero people and nothing to do. Crimes aren’t that hard-going in the holiday season. Just the occasional petty theft and a cat stuck in a tree. More often than not, people need their driveways shoveled. But the friendly Spider-Man has his limits too.
The last Decathlon meeting of the year is cancelled too because too many people are out of state, so Peter shuffles to his locker to gather his stuff and prepare for a pretty uneventful season, when a bunch of Legos fall on him as he opens the door.
Surprise! Build it for me till I come back? N.
Peter grins. Ned left him all the pieces to the Millennium Falcon. It was to be their next masterpiece.
“Nice toys,” Michelle comments as she walks past. They’re on friendlier terms ever since the afternoon spent at her house but they still don’t know exactly where they stand. He’s pretty confident she won’t snitch on him, but she’s the only other person in this place who knows who he really is and…well, with Ned gone…
“Hey, wait up. D’you want to build a starship with me?”
She doesn’t, but she accepts his offer anyway. She says Christmas is pretty bleak at her house anyway. Peter wants to ask why, seeing as her house was bedecked way in advance, but he doesn’t want to pry. Ha. It’s funny how out of the two of them, Michelle’s turning out to be the bigger mystery.
She shows up at his apartment when Aunt May is mercifully out on a date. Peter opens the door and his eyes land immediately on her chest. She’s wearing the loudest, most embarrassing Christmas sweater he’s ever seen. A reindeer and a snowman are holding hands in the middle of an elf-led reel around a Christmas tree. He has a faint suspicion the whole thing lights up too.
“What?” she demands, eyes narrowed to slits. “My dad got it for me.”
“It’s just – it doesn’t really seem your style.”
“Oh, and you know my style?”
“Hard not to notice it,” he replies smoothly, because he’s learned a thing or two about conversing with her. They stare at each other for a moment too long before he lets her pass through.
Twenty minutes later they’re stuffing their faces with chips and soda and watching the beginning of A New Hope, because Peter found out she hasn’t actually seen any Star Wars?
“I was too busy reading college-level literature, okay?”
“Everyone at Columbia’s gonna laugh at you, though. I mean it’s practically part of the curriculum.”
“Fine! Let’s watch the damn things.”
Of course, Peter got too excited about this prospect and forgot that this would mean roughly eight hours or more of film.
But he can’t back out now, and he doesn’t really want to. Michelle is good film company. She doesn’t ask a bunch of inane questions, she has the presence of mind not to talk during the important scenes and she doesn’t hog the snack bowl. Ned has been guilty of all those things in the past.
They’re post Obi-Wan death scene when Michelle hits pause.
“Wait, he just disappears?”
Okay, maybe one inane question.
“No, he returns to the Force. He’s become pure energy, basically,” he explains.
Michelle throws him a look. “That’s how they cover low-budget shoots these days?”
“Look, you have to commit to the mythology –”
“I am, which is why I’m saying they could’ve given him a better death.”
“But the fact that it’s anti-climactic is the point. He is wise enough to accept when his time has come. It doesn’t need to be something epic.”
“I’m not asking for epic,” she counters, nudging him in the ribs. “I’m asking for a bit more effort. They basically cut two frames from the shot and dropped an empty robe on the floor.”
Peter is about to say that they definitely put more effort than that, but he loses track of his argument because Michelle suddenly grabs the hem of her embarrassing sweater and pulls it over her head.
“It’s getting a bit stuffy.”
Underneath she’s wearing a low-cut T-shirt and a tank top. Both of them doing a poor job of hiding her figure. Or maybe he’s the pervert who can’t help noticing her...embellishments. The bra straps are pink. He really has to stop looking.
Look away. Just – look – away. Now. Now!
“So, uh, let’s keep watching this low-budget movie, shall we?”
A bathroom break later, she’s rifling through his drawers.
“Hey!”
“Sorry. Where do you keep the suit?”
“None of your business. Come on, we have Empire to watch.”
Michelle plants her hands on her hips. “Listen, I love this Siskel and Ebert routine, but I’m here for the real entertainment.”
That’s when the door to his room flies open and Aunt May walks in with an excited grin.
“Real entertainment, huh?”
Peter wants to grab Michelle and hide her under the bed but it’s too late, way too late for that. He realizes also that they’re both dressed down and looking suspiciously guilty of something. Just not what his aunt thinks.
“Peter, you’ve never brought a girl home before. Please introduce me.”
“Oh, she’s not,” Peter scoffs, “a girl, I mean she is one, biologically, but –”
Michelle heaves a sigh. “He’s right. I’m only an optical illusion.”
Aunt May can’t help a small laugh. “I like you. You’re staying for dinner.”
“So, Michelle, are you Peter’s girlfriend?”
He chokes on his asparagus. And then wishes he’d actually suffocate and die. This is worse than facing off Liz’s dad on a flying plane.
Michelle pulls a loose curl from her face. “No, I’m afraid Peter doesn’t swing that way.”
“Wh-at?” He spits asparagus all over the table.
“He promised himself to Ned like a year ago, which is really cute, if you ask me,” Michelle continues calmly, dipping some bread into the meatball sauce.
Aunt May smiles coyly. “Well, I did catch them half-naked once. Peter was in his boxers.”
“Really?” Michelle echoes, raising a scandalized eyebrow at him.
He’s going to kill them both.
They’ve still got a movie and a half to watch, so the only obvious solution is that Michelle has to sleep over. It’s never occurred to him or her, but Aunt May insists. It started snowing early that afternoon, the roads are blocked anyway, and he’s even got bunk beds, perfect for the occasion.
Michelle shrugs. “I’ll call my dad.”
But Peter is understandably nervous, even after Aunt May makes her “no fooling around” jokes.
Funny, they don’t actually keep watching more Star Wars. Now that they have a whole night ahead of them, it beats the purpose.
“Can I see it then?”
“Turn around.”
Michelle, who’s taken the bed above, rolls her eyes and sinks her face in the pillow.
Peter undresses quickly, discarding clothes at random, afraid he’ll chicken out.
He’s got the suit pulled halfway through but it’s like his limbs have gone stiff and he’s forgotten how to dress. He’s got a huge lump in his throat. What if she’ll laugh? It was easier with Ned somehow. Why does he care if Michelle laughs?
Suddenly, he feels a pair of hands on his back and he flinches.
“Here, um, let me help.”
It’s the only time she ever sounds unsure.
He lets her pull the flexible material over his bare shoulders. It should normally mold on him like water but it feels like a million unwieldy needles right now. He turns around too quickly and they almost collide.
She looks up at him and her gaze is hooded.
“Wanna see something cool?” he stammers, and he pushes the button that tightens the loose material all around his joints.
Michelle takes a step back to view him properly. Peter feels like an exhibit in a museum, but the sensation isn’t as bad as he expected. Her eyes travel over him with something like surprise. Is she shocked it fits him? Does he look older? He must look older. His work-out routine must be showing too, and okay, he needs to shut up.
She starts circling him, inspecting him from every possible angle. The atmosphere is oddly loaded for something so innocent. Peter swallows thickly.
“Not bad,” she pronounces.
He feels a trickle of warmth in his stomach, something new and alarming. He still carries a small torch for Liz, and he almost feels he’s betraying her but –
“Hold on, let me show you the eyes.”
And he slips the mask over his head because it’s easier not to show his face. Michelle is predictably delighted with the way his spider eyes shrink and grow.
"Wow, Stark technologies did all that?"
"And more."
Before she can make another smart comment, he jumps on the ceiling and crawls up and down the plaster, making sure to really stretch out his back. Then he stands still and looks down at her.
"This is all me, by the way. I can do this with or without the suit."
“Whoa,” she elicits, staring at up him in wonder.
He feels a smug sense of victory that he’s managed to impress the cool rebel girl that never gets fazed…until he realizes that he’s getting a really good view of her pink bra. In fact, this vantage point really gets past fabric and...
He quickly drops down.
“That’s enough for one night.”
“Spoilsport,” she mutters, giving him a soft smile that makes his stomach stir again.
“Hey, Michelle?”
“Mm?”
She doesn’t sound sleepy. He wonders if she ever does sleep. She seems almost otherworldly like that. If a radioactive spider had bitten her, well, the world would be a very different place right now.
“Why did you flip me the bird?”
She laughs. “What?”
She sits up on her elbow and sticks her head over the edge. Peter is in the bed below.
“At homecoming,” he elaborates. “I was at the door, coming in, and you just flipped me.”
“Ooh, that.” She laughs again. “Well, I knew what you were gonna do. I knew you were gonna bail again and leave us dry.”
“How?”
Loose curls fall in her face.
“I don’t know, I just did. You don’t have a great poker face.”
“I guess I have to work on that.” Michelle reads all the time. It’s no surprise she also reads faces.
“I’m sorry,” he adds.
“Not me you gotta apologize to. Poor Liz. She was more upset than she let on.”
“If I could get a second chance, I’d do everything right, I wouldn’t disappoint her again–”
Michelle snorts. “Trust me, you’d do the same thing all over. I think Captain America had a tutorial about that whole putting country over girlfriend.”
Peter should be contradicting her. He should be telling her there's no such tutorial, but maybe there should be. He should also be thinking about the one that got away, Liz, the girl of his dreams. But instead he observes, out of nowhere, that Michelle’s actually really pretty. Maybe it’s the soft moonlight and the way her hair falls in her face but the effect is so startlingly –
“Still, you could’ve stayed for, like, twenty minutes.”
“Huh?”
“At homecoming? You could’ve danced one dance and then run off to save the world. Or downtown Queens, whatever.”
Peter stares at a spot above her forehead, trying not to think about how pretty she is and how she’s technically in his bed. “I’ll make a note for next time.”
She snorts. “You think you’ll ever get another girl to go with you?”
“Hey, Spider-Man has many lady fans,” he jokes, and it feels good to make fun of this with someone.
Michelle fans herself in mock-swoon. She affects a thick Southern accent. “Oh, Spider-Man, how strong and fit you are! Your biceps are the stuff of dreams and those manly buns make me want to –”
“Okay, okay!” he laughs and throws his pillow at her. Michelle throws hers back.
They pillow fight for a few minutes until they both grow tired and the feathers float between them like shards of moonlight.
He really needs to stop feeling warm in his stomach.
They lie back down in their respective beds and there is comfortable silence for a while.
“Hey, Michelle?”
“Yeah?”
“Does that sweater of yours light up?”
There’s a resentful pause. “…yes.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No. Way.”
The ceiling is bathed in soft wintry light, reds and yellows and greens. There’s an iridescent shape of a snowman dancing with a reindeer. She holds up the sweater, her expression mutinous.
“Thanks, Michelle,” Peter says.
“Call me MJ.”
“Hmm?”
“I told you my friends call me MJ.”
“Oh…I, yeah. I’m your friend then? Cool. I’m MJ’s friend. MJ’s bud. MJ's special pal.”
“Okay, I take it back.”
“Na-ah, too late, comrade MJ.”
“I’m serious, don’t ever call me that again.”
They fall asleep in the early hours of dawn. Her hand has fallen off the edge of the bed and Peter knocks it gently as he turns in his sleep.
It's the beginning of something.