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By the time Peter got to his fire escape he thought he might collapse. His entire body felt like bruised Jell-O—not that he was unfamiliar with the sensation. Some days are just worse than others. His binder felt even tighter than usual, probably because of the humidity. Maybe it was the cut that had gotten lodged there, right under the edge of the thing. The suit had seemed like a great idea in the winter. Now that Queens was getting smothered by a heat wave? Not so much. Even Mr. Stark’s ventilation system struggled to keep up with his hormone-induced sweat, and he suspected that the T wasn’t helping on that front.
May was the only one who knew. He thought Ned might’ve gotten suspicious a couple times, but he figured he was probably reading too much into it. Ned wasn’t the kind of guy who would get all hung up over that stuff.
All of the sudden, just as he was about to go inside, the piercing riff from Thunderstruck by ACDC blared from his phone, nearly making him lose his balance on the ledge. He caught himself at the last moment, pulling himself back up onto the balcony and into his room. Ignoring the way that heavy breathing made his binder itch horribly, he yanked his phone out of his suit and punched the green button.
“MJ?” He panted.
“Hey, loser,” she said by way of greeting. She sounded… relieved?
“What’s up?”
“Uh, I saw that there was a robbery close to your place and Spiderman was there and I just wantedtomakesurethatyouewereokay.”
“What?”
“IJUSTWANTEDTOMAKESUREYOUWEREOKAY!”
Peter winced and held the phone further away from his head. The downside of his super-senses was that it was hard to go right back to acting normal after being in a combat situation. Usually he just used his earbuds as protection when he got home.
“…sorry,” she said, like she knew. Then again, maybe she did. After she’d figured out his secret identity without him telling her, he wouldn’t put anything past her.
“Nah, uh, I’m fine. Just a few scrapes.” That was a lie, but she didn't need to know that.
“Peter, you’re a shit liar.” Damnit. “I’m gonna come over—“
“No, no no no. I’m fine, seriously. Okay, I took a little damage, but it’s not like—“
“Shut your mouth, get some aspirin, and lie down, alright, motherfucker? I saw the damn TV report. Six against one, Peter. With alien tech. And one of them was using a fucking machete.”
“I’ve had worse.” Peter mumbled, climbing inside and starting to peel off his suit. Damn he'd have to sew up those holes later.
“Something tells me that’s exactly what Steve Rodgers said after he got dropped off the helicarrier in DC last winter. Those guys are a bad influence.” She chided.
“Mmm,” he said eloquently.
“Anyway. Driving. Don’t do anything stupid.” He heard some shuffling noises, and then she ended the call, as he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror and trying to figure out what to do about the cut risn't below his ribs. He hated staring at his binder—stupid cheap thing it was, and probably too small for him now. Fighting the urge to flee to his room and bury himself under the covers, he wiped it off slightly with a little bit of rubbing alcohol, gave the other machete wounds on his arms and torso similar treatments, and then put on a pair of thin sweats and a hoodie as fast as humanly (well, superhumanly) possible. He knew he should take off his binder, and with all the sweat and blood and exhaustion, he almost wanted to, but with MJ coming over… no way. She already knew his other biggest secret, and he wasn’t about to let her in on this one.
She knocked on the door to his apartment about fifteen minutes later. He gritted his teeth, set his laptop aside, and tried to ignore his protesting muscles as he got up to let her in.
She looked beautiful as always, with the slouchiest cargo pants and Bob Marley shirt imaginable, and her hair a complete mess, tamed only in part by a humongous chip clip. There was a roll of gauze in one of her hands and a giant tube of Neosporin in the other.
“Peter,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “You look like absolute shit.”
“Thanks, Em.” He sighed. “You look stunning, too.”
“Nuh-uh,” she ignored him, grabbing the sleeve of his sweater and tugging him towards the bedroom. “I know what blood stains look like, idiot. Come on. Take that off. Just because you have a healing factor…”
Peter glanced down at his sweatshirt. Damn, she was right. He was still bleeding. The machete cuts must have been deeper than he’d thought.
He froze as he remembered the rest of the instructions. Take that off. He clutched instinctively at the hem of the sweatshirt, remembering all to clearly how much he hated the chill of cold air on his bare stomach, and Flash’s laugh that day in the showers—
“Peter?” The sudden stop to MJ’s usual lecture brought him back. “You good? C’mon, take off the sweater, I brought the biggest band-aids I could find.”
He struggled to find words. “I can't—“
She frowned, putting the first aid supplies down on his dresser and perching next to him on the bed.
“Okay, fine, that’s fine. You don’t have to take off your s— Peter. Peter. Look at me.”
He was shaking. This was stupid. That had been three years ago, and now was now. He was fucking Spider-man.
“Just breathe, Peter,” she murmured, and he couldn’t bear to look up at her and see the concern in her eyes. She slowly reached out, put a hand on his back. It was right below the bottom of his binder. His breath hitched. Eventually, his short gasps evened out, and he let the familiar feel of his bedspread and the carpet between his toes ground him. She smelled like apple trees and rain.
“Listen, I’m sorry I pushed you,” she was saying quietly, “I was just worried. Take the stuff and go do it yourself. I won’t look. I’m sorry.” Silence. “Do you wanna… talk about it?”
He just shook his head, several conflicting voices whirling around in his mind. You could just tell her, said one. No, she’ll laugh, said another. She’ll leave, said a third. He figured this was pretty irrational. Of all people, MJ, with her ever-growing James Baldwin collection and ongoing project to translate Sappho by herself because “you can’t trust old straight white guys with this queer girl shit”, would be the last person to laugh at him. He just really didn’t want her to start looking at him like that, the way May had at first, before she got used to it. First like he was an enigma, and then, later, a kicked puppy. He hated that.
MJ cleared her throat. “Listen, whatever it is, I get it if you don’t want to tell me. Just, if you do, it won't change anything, honest. If we can get past the whole secret superhero thing, it's gonna be a piece of cake.”
Peter snorted. If only. Still, though, it was nagging at him. She had kissed him, for Christ's sake. If they were going to do this— if there was anyone in the world who deserved to know, it was her.
He took a deep breath, fingering the edge of the hoodie. He could do this. He could do this. If he could take on Captain America in a fight, he could do this.
He ripped it off, harsh and fast, like a bandage on an old wound. MJ took a sharp breath in behind him. Fuck, he should’ve known—
“Petey… you’re trans?” she mumbled, in the quietest voice he’d ever heard her use. “That’s it? I thought—Jesus, I thought you were gonna tell me that you were hurt really bad or—I don’t know, something awful—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m babbling, that was really brave of you to come out to me… c’mere.”
Stunned, Peter let himself be engulfed by careful arms. She shifted so that they were facing each other, and her cheeks were wet, but she was smiling. He reflexively lifted his hand to wipe one of the tears off with the pad of his thumb, still not entirely able to process what was happening.
“You don’t… like, care?” He tried, ignoring the awful way his voice broke.
She caught his hand in hers and settled it in her lap, letting their fingers lace together. “Well, uh, I mean, I care in that it must’ve been super hard for you to tell me that, and it’s, like, a big part of your identity and your pride and all that, but, uh, other than that, no. Not really. You’re still the same boy I know who falls asleep in Physics and ditched our Decathlon trip sophomore year to fight illegal arms smugglers.”
At that, he leaned in and kissed her. It was longer than their first kiss, if only by a little, and he couldn’t tell if her lips tasted salty from her tears or his own.
“Now, I’m going to patch up that giant fucking cut on your chest.” she said matter-of-factly as they broke apart, leaving very little room for disagreement.
“Alright,” Peter managed, with a small smile.
It was still kind of uncomfortable, having someone touch his bare ribs so close to the breasts that he really didn’t like to think about, but Michelle was quick and gentle, and the only moment of pause came when she needed to budge the binder up a little bit to get at the edges of the cut.
“I’m just gonna—“ she glanced up at him for permission, and, feeling a warm glow spark in his stomach, he nodded.
As soon as she pushed it up, making him flinchs slightly despite himself, she jerked away a little bit. He looked down. There was a red line of indented skin where the bottom of the binder had been sitting.
“Peter…” she said, “how long have you been wearing this thing?”
“Um, since this morning? Maybe nine hours?”
She let out a huff of breath. “I'm pretty sure you’re not supposed to wear it for more than eight hours at a time, correct?”
He curled into himself a little, and shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna—“
“Peter. You shithead. Just because you have a healing factor doesn't mean you get to hurt yourself. We've discussed this."
He grimaced, and opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off. "Oh! Oh! Nope! Not a word, Spidey. Don't lie to me, does it hurt if you leave it on?"
"I mean, it kinda... yeah, okay. A little."
She crossed her arms stubbornly. "Point."
"Fair enough." Peter admitted defeat.
“Just let me—“ she bandaged the last of his cuts, and grabbed the sweater that had been lying behind him, discarded. “Now go take that thing off. Wear five layers of clothes if you have to, I don’t care.”
He took the sweatshirt and padded gingerly over to the bathroom. True to her word, MJ didn’t peek after him, focused on packing up the first aid kit. He closed the door, and changed with his back to the mirror. He considered getting a shirt to put on under the sweater for better coverage, but it was so damn hot that he thought he might suffocate if he did, dysphoria be damned.
He emerged from the bathroom to find MJ tapping away at his laptop. Either she knew his password, or she had hacked it. Either way he wouldn't put it past her.
“Uh…”
“Come on, nerd, sit down. We’re going to watch Supergirl.”
“You like Supergirl.” Peter said, raising his eyebrows.
“Sure, she’s cute.” MJ winked as they settled down on the bed.
“Way to make a guy jealous,” he muttered, before he could think better of it. Inexplicably, she blushed, and bumped their shoulders together.
“Ow!” he whined, cradling his shoulder.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry, are you bruised? I didn’t mean—“
Peter cracked up. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I was just messing with you.”
“You prick!” she cried, actually punching him in the arm, but she was laughing too. Before he knew it, a haze of exhaustion fell over him, and he felt his eyes drooping. The smell of rain and apple trees surrounded him, and he dozed off.
His eyes fluttered open some time later, and he realized that MJ’s chest was rising and falling in a slow rhythm, still asleep. The laptop screen was still playing something, but his earbuds had long since fallen out. He was just about to close his eyes again when he saw Aunt May standing in the doorway to his room, taking her hair down like she’d just gotten home from work. There was a little smile playing at her lips.
“Young love,” she murmured, and then turned around and headed towards the kitchen, closing the door most of the way behind her. Peter laughed a little to himself, feeling a flush creep up his cheeks. Maybe he would be so lucky.