Archive of Our Own ^beta

Michelle Jones is not obsessed with Peter Parker, and if you think so, then fuck you.

Sure, she notices when he drops out of his extra curricular activities, and she notices when his grades drop, and she notices that he spends more time watching Youtube videos on his iPad than actually doing work in class, but this is simply because she is an observant person.

And, well, it's no secret that she has no friends. So, it makes sense that, instead of spending time with people, she spends time watching them.

And Peter Parker just happens to be an interesting subject.

That's all.

For example, he is currently sitting down at his and Ned's end of their lunch table, staring at the opposite wall with such intensity it is as though he is trying to see through it. The funniest thing about this, though, is the fact that only a few minutes beforehand, he had been gazing at that same spot with his gaze completely blank. And Michelle, who is pretending to read, had had the delight of watching his forehead slowly cave downwards, the narrowing of his eyes causing his brow to furrow. Expression shifting from empty, to suddenly deep in very powerful thought.

There is no Ned chattering on beside him - he has gone away on a family holiday (see? she knows things about other people too) - so this sudden shift in demeanour is seemingly unprompted. Which is incredibly amusing, and makes Michelle wonder what on earth it is, exactly, that Peter is thinking about.

"Hey," she calls out to him. "Loser."

Peter startles so severely one would think she had slapped him across the face.

"H-hey," he greets, tearing his gaze from the wall to look at her. He seems skitterish. "What's, um. What's up?"

"Just making sure you hadn't fallen into the Sunken Place," Michelle says.

Peter blinks, appearing lost, and it's obvious that reference had gone whistling past his head.

"Get Out," Michelle explains. His expression remains vacant. "The well renowned movie." He lifts one shoulder in a puzzled, but apologetic, shrug. "How the hell have you not heard of it?"

"I've been busy."

"For two years?"

She can see his attention slipping away, thoughts delving back into, perhaps, what had occupied him so greatly before. That's one of the most interesting things about Peter; he wears everything so clearly on his face. Though, right now, it is more frustrating than interesting.

He replies, distractedly, "Yeah."

Then the thoughts seem to consume him, and he falls back into himself. Any more attempt at conversation is most likely futile; Michelle opens up her book and pretends to read it once more.

The thing is, Peter Parker has been in a perpetual state of 'lost in thought' since early last year. The severity of it fluctuates over time, but this is definitely the worst Michelle has ever seen him. A few theories have been floating around her head recently. Some of them seem ludicrous. She wonders if Ned's absence has anything to do with it, but also doubts that Ned being gone for a couple of weeks would be enough to cause the dark rings under Peter's eyes.

It's bad enough that Michelle's surprised no one besides herself has noticed. Well, besides herself and Flash.

"Is there a reason you're here, Parker?"

They're in the library after school, the decathlon team seated around one of the long, rectangular tables for one of their regular meetings. Flash is seated at the head of table, swinging casually back in his chair. His gaze is sharp where it has come to rest on Peter. Peter flinches as though it cuts him.

"Um," Peter says, blinking rapidly. He has been zoned out since the meeting began, and it's a wonder he heard Flash at all. "I'm...part of the team?"

"Doesn't seem like it," Flash replies, sticking the end of his pen in his mouth. "You haven't said a word since you got here."

Peter fiddles with the zipper of his jacket, his gaze darting around nervously. It finds Michelle - who is sitting across him - and lingers for a moment, as though asking for help. Michelle keeps her expression blank.

"What do you want me to say?" Peter asks finally.

Flash snorts. "It kinda defeats the point if I tell you," he says. "I'm not gonna spoon-feed you, idiot."

"We're wasting time," Michelle interjects irritably. She sends Flash a dark look, and he looks back, gnawing on his pen. Usually, a scowl is enough to shut Flash up for a bit; he's either scared of her or has no idea how to deal with her, (which is exactly the way Michelle likes it) but it seems today he has decided to be brave.

"You're lucky you've got your girlfriend sticking up for you," Flash tells Peter. "Since you're never doing it yourself."

Peter splutters in surprise. Michelle tries to school her expression into something neutral, but she feels her stomach drop to her toes.

"She's not my... I mean we're..." Peter stammers.

"Let's just get back to the meeting," Michelle grumbles. She can see Peter looking at her with wide eyes in her peripheral vision, but she very purposefully does not look at him. Instead, she keeps her eyes trained on Flash, grateful for that fact that no one can tell she's suddenly burning red. "Be an asshole on your own time."

Flash just shrugs, smug. Peter settles back into his chair, looking the most awake he's been in weeks. Michelle lets her hair fall over her face.

And it's not like she wants to be Peter's girlfriend, or has ever even considered the possibility. They're hardly even friends. In fact, now that she really thinks about it, the whole idea is laughable.

She just wishes Peter hadn't appeared so alarmed at the thought.

They finish the meeting up soon after that. Peter slings his bag over his shoulder and ducks out of the library without so much as a "see ya." The rest of the team filters out slowly.

"Hey, Michelle," Flash calls, as she steps outside. It's a grey sort of day, with cloudy skies and a cold edge to the air. A depressing sort of day. Dampened with the presence of Flash Thompson beside her.

"What do you want?" she asks, not bothering to keep the "fuck off" out of her tone. She stops in front of the library and Flash jogs a little to get to her.

"Peter's acting weird, yeah?" Flash says. "It's really fucking with the team."

"Yes. I noticed before. When you called him out in front of everyone," Michelle replies drily.

"Yeah, well, could you do something about it? Get him to sort his shit out? Or quit, preferably?"

There are very few times that Michelle finds herself face to face with Flash. They have the type of relationship where, if he's walking one way down the hall, she'll turn around and walk the other way; and, if he speaks, she lets her eyes gloss over and returns only once his mouth is shut. Standing here now, with the full brunt of Flash's cocky I-come-from-money smirk, and obnoxiously styled I-want-to-look-like-the-men-in-the-advertisements hair, Michelle comes to terms with the fact that he has one of the most punch-able faces in the world.

"Why me?" she asks grumpily.

"Ned isn't here, and you're friends with him, aren't you? You both like weird, nerd shit..." he stumbles a bit at the dark look she gives him, tries to compose himself. "He'll probably listen to you."

Michelle isn't very sure about that. Not only is Peter stubborn, he is a currently a walking zombie, staggering around with glassy eyes and his brain somewhere else. She doesn't think he'll listen to anyone.

And he doesn't really pay any attention to her.

"Ask someone else," Michelle says. She bumps into his shoulder as she begins to walk away.

"There's no one else to ask," Flash says, hurrying to keep up with her. "Come on. He's a problem. We gotta do something."

"Why don't you do it yourself?" She knows it's dumb as soon as she says it, considering she had seen Flash try to deal with it about ten minutes ago. His ideal solution was obviously just to kick Peter off the team. And she doesn't want that. She hates that she doesn't want that.

Flash just looks like at her like he knows she's recounting the exact same thing he is.

"Fine," Michelle grumbles. "I'm not doing shit for you. But...if an opportunity arises, I might talk to him. For the team's sake."

"Alright," Flash says, grinning obnoxiously. "Make sure you tell him that quitting is always a viable option."

Michelle just fixes the strap of her bag and walks off.

An opportunity arises the next day.

Fortunately? Unfortunately? Michelle isn't sure.

All she knows is that it's ten minutes until class ends and until she can go home and nap for two or six hours, and they have just had another assignment dumped onto them.

An oral presentation. Otherwise known as hell.

The real kicker, though: you must work in pairs. That you choose yourself.

Complete and utter fucking hell.

The class erupts immediately, people twisting around in their seats to pair up with their friends, jumping from their seats to wave at people across the room. Chaos.

Michelle's eyes travel involuntary to where Peter is sitting. Or, rather, to where Peter is asleep with his head on the desk.

Usually, she would work alone - has no one to partner up with - and Peter would pair up with Ned. It's an unspoken agreement between him and Ned, they work together on everything. Come as a pair. But Ned isn't here.

And she is.

She hesitates a moment, still staring at the back of Peter's head, then she tears a page from her notebook and crumbles it up in her hand.

"Hey." She throws the paper ball directly at Peter's head. "Loser."

He doesn't respond. She huffs, blows a strand of hair from her face, then picks up a pencil.

"Hey." She lobs the pencil at the nape of his neck. "Loser."

Peter jolts upright and spins in his seat to face her, looking dazed. There's a red mark on his forehead, from where it was resting on his arms, and his mouth droops a little. Michelle throws another pencil at him, just for the sheer joy of it this time, but his hand comes up and catches it before it can strike his face.

"You're my partner," Michelle states.

"What?"

"For the assignment," Michelle sighs, tone the audial equivalent of an eye roll. "Figure the details out later. We're partners though, okay?"

Peter wipes his mouth with his sleeve (had he been drooling? Gross) and spins the pencil between his fingers.

"Okay."

He is looking at her; for the first time in a long time, she has almost his full attention. She should bring up decathlon, ask him whether he's gonna be able to pull his head out of the clouds long enough to actually contribute to the team.

But then the corner of his mouth lifts, eyes sliding down to the pencil he's twiddling between his fingers, like he's only just realised that she threw it at him. He doesn't say anything, just smiles to himself in amusement, and Michelle really doesn't feel like chewing him out on whatever the fuck Flash had said. She feels sketching his smile or something, or just talking to him...normally.

And then she feels like kicking herself in the face.

Your place or mine? My place or yours?

The cafeteria buzzes loudly behind their backs. The left overs of their lunches scattered in front of them. A tired look shared between their eyes. Outside is dark and cold, inside is dim and cool. Peter traces his fingers absently along the table.

"Not mine," he says. There's no explanation why.

"Neither," Michelle says.

Peter's gaze lifts. A curve to his lips. "That's a bit of a problem, isn't it?"

They won't be given any class time to work on their history assignment, and the thought of having Peter Parker over is not one that Michelle enjoys.

"A bit," she agrees. She watches the patterns his fingers trace.

"Where are we gonna work?" Peter asks, gaze also trained on his hand. "The library?"

"Everyone will be there," Michelle says.

"Where else could we go?"

"There's a place..." Michelle catches herself hesitating before it can linger for too long. "A coffee place. Not too far from here. The coffee's really good, and it's open late."

"Okay," Peter says with a nod. "Coffee place. Sounds good."

His attention is slipping, always slipping. Even with her here, sitting right across from him, trying to hold his gaze. Smothering down a look of annoyance, Michelle scribbles down an address in her notebook, tears the page and stuffs it into his hand.

"Meet me there tomorrow. Around 4:30," she says. Then she grabs her things and leaves, can feel the weight of Peter blinking quizzically at her back.

"How about this," Peter says, kicking off his shoes. "You come home early."

A pause. "Is that all? I feel like there should be more to that sentence."

"Yeah, there was, but I cut all the unimportant stuff out."

"Aw, that's kinda sweet, dude."

Sliding in his socks across the floorboards, Peter barrels into the fridge and tears it open. Balances the phone between his cheek and shoulder, shakes away the kinks that school leaves in his legs.

"I'm just a really caring guy," he says, scooping as many different kinds of cheeses he can find into his arms. Bottles rattle against the shelves when he shuts the door with his foot. "How much cheese is too much cheese?"

"I don't know, man," Ned replies, the sounds of his extended family babbling on his side of the line. "Maybe, like, five..."

"It was a trick question," Peter interrupts, letting the cheeses topple on the kitchen bench. "Because there's no such thing as too much cheese."

It's Friday, and Aunt May isn't home, Ned has just chattered on about his first day at Disneyland long enough that it lasted from Peter leaving his last class, to Peter entering his front door. Time for a grilled cheese and five hour nap.

"What have you been up to?" Ned asks. "Stopped any robberys? Oh, you haven't opened those Pokemon packs yet, have you?"

"Nah, man, I'm waiting for you." Peter grabs bread from the pantry, shifts the phone to his other ear. What has he been up to? If he's honest, he can't remember. The lack of sleep, the anxiety...he's been thinking so much...too much, he's barely been present. The whole week's been a blur. The whole year's been a blur.

"Oh," he says, hit with a thought. "I'm doing a history assignment with Michelle. So that's pretty interesting."

"What? With Michelle Michelle?"

"Yeah. There's only one Michelle, dude."

Ned seems to consider this for a moment. Peter begins covering his bread with cheese.

"Okay," Ned says finally, slowly. "Well...how's that going? She hasn't tried to kill you yet, has she?"

"Nah," Peter says. "We've only just started so...oh shit."

A slice of cheese slips from Peter's fingers, lands on the floor. Ned asks, "What? Peter?" as Peter scrambles frantically around the apartment in search for his phone until he realises it's pressed against his cheek. Checks the time.

4:15

Oh shit.

"Dude," he says, hurrying to his bedroom. "I just remembered...I'm supposed to meet up with Michelle in fifteen minutes. Shit I... I'm an idiot. I'll call you back."

The phone lands with a thud by his feet, Ned's "Wait what?" interrupted by a loud beep. Peter tips the contents of his school bag onto the floor, picks his suit up from amongst the mess. Be faster to swing there than anything else.

A well and good plan until he realises that it's raining.

By the time Peter - dressed as Spider-Man - arrives outside the cafe, he is soaked through to his bones. He activates the suit's heating system as he swings into a nearby alleyway, but it is short lived as he changes quickly into his regular clothes. A very damp and very cold Peter Parker enters that cafe.

Michelle is already there - of course she is, he is almost thirty minutes late - seated in one of the booths that line the middle of the room. Peter hurries past small, round metal tables, knocks into a couple chairs, to get to her.

"Michelle," he says, a little out of breath. She startles, looking up from her phone. "I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to be so late...I...lost track of the time, I guess. I'm..."

Her hair is down. Peter doesn't know why he notices that, but he does. Curls around her shoulders, curves along her face. She wears her usual look of disapproval, deepening as she watches him ramble. Guilt weighs heavily in Peter's stomach.

"Let me buy you something," he blurts. "A coffee?" There's an empty mug on the table in front of her, next to her school books and some loose sheets of paper -right, she waited for him long enough to order and finish a coffee. "Uh...what about a cake or something? A muffin? You like chocolate?"

"Peter," she interrupts, as he continues to list off delicious deserts. He's suddenly starving. "You don't have to get me anything."

"But I feel bad..."

"I'd rather just get started on this assignment and go home," she says. "You've kept me waiting long enough."

Peter slides into the booth, sheepish.

Michelle begins shuffling the papers on the table, goes through the assignment for him, like she knows that he knows nothing about it.

And Peter feels bad, so bad, but he can't sit still, or stay in one place, without slipping. He can see her, lips tugged in concentration, reading through her notes, pointing out important facts, but the image tips sideways and he can also see rubble, feel a weight on his chest. Throat tight, he's stuck, he's a failure, he's under water, under concrete, buried alive, he's...

"You can do that bit by yourself," Michelle is saying, sliding a sheet of paper towards him. "If we split it, then we won't have to meet up as much. Which'll be better, I think."

She glances over at him then away quickly. Peter stares at her. In a way that is probably a little creepy. But...if he focuses on her...then maybe he won't slip.

So he focuses on the little crease in her brow, the warmth of the cafe light catching in her brown eyes. He watches her tuck a strand of her behind her ear, the way it falls right back over her face. He watches the way her mouth moves, reads the words as he hears her speak them.

It pulls him out of his head, out of the dark parts of his thoughts. He's not really sure what he's thinking now. But he knows he likes the stubbornness of her hair, the way it always falls over her eyes. His fingers twitch, almost like he wants to brush her hair away himself.

"You gonna add anything or are you just gonna sit there?" Michelle asks with a raise of her brow.

"Oh, um. I mean..."

"Right, you were all in your head again, weren't you?" Michelle says. She almost looks amused, but she mostly looks tired.

Peter stutters. What should he say to that? Actually, I was looking at you?

"I was listening," he says. "I just couldn't think of anything to add. You were pretty thorough."

"I don't want to do all the work here, Peter."

"You won't," he says quickly. "I promise. I'll get my shit together. I'll do some of your work too, if you want. Are you still sure you don't want a muffin?"

She laughs, but it doesn't feel like she's laughing with him.

"You can't just buy your way around things," she snorts. "Have you been hanging around Flash?"

Peter huffs out an embarrassed laugh but Michelle's amused expression crumbles, weighed down by a sudden thought.

She leans forwards, rests her arms on the table, and studies him. Peter blinks back, a little surprised under the sudden heaviness of her gaze. The seconds stretch on. She looks like she wants to say something. Well, if he's honest, it looks like she wants to interrogate him.

But then she pulls back and looks away and says nothing.

"I guess that's all we need to do today," she says finally, packing away her things. She slides out of the booth and hooks her bag over her shoulder before Peter has a chance to say anything. "See you Monday."

"Oh, okay," Peter says. She gives him a little wave, he watches her turn away. "See you then."

The rain eases up and Peter does a quick patrol of the neighbourhood before heading back home. He trudges through the front door, still thinking over his time with Michelle, over the anxieties that have been plaguing him all year. Aunt May is home, eating a grilled cheese with her hip against the kitchen counter, socked feet tapping against the tiled floors. She gives him a smile, presses a kiss to his temple.

You look tired, sweetheart. Fingers brush hair away for his forehead. Is everything okay?

Warmth blooms under his skin wherever she touches him, thaws him out. He loves May. So much. But he hasn't told her, about the fact that he can't sleep, can't concentrate. He doesn't want to worry her. And what if she tells him to stop, that being Spider-man is too much for him, that he can't handle it?

What if she says nothing and they stand in a heavy silence long enough that he begins to think those things himself?

Peter? What's wrong?

He hasn't told Ned either. They're supposed to tell each other everything. But what will happen when Ned realises that Spider-Man isn't as cool as he thinks he is? That Spider-Man sometimes takes the long way around the lake because the sight of the water makes his chest feel tight? That the feeling of the ground rumbling beneath his feet sends a spike through his heart? He doesn't think that Ned will judge him, but he doesn't want to the lose the way Ned looks at him, light in his eyes, grin on his face, every time he sees Peter in the suit.

"It's just been a long day," is what he tells May. It's not really a lie, but it's also not what he wants to say.

He wishes he could tell someone. He wishes he had someone to tell.

On Monday, Flash catches Michelle's gaze in the hall and Michelle catches his, turns it into something dark and scathing, and throws it back. The incline of his eyebrow is asking, have you sorted Peter's shit out yet? Michelle doesn't even bother schooling into her features into an expression that could read as an answer. He's not worth her time.

And, plus, the answer is no.

She's given up all her recent opportunities to question Peter. She doesn't want to interrogate him about his life. She doesn't want him to think she cares.

Because she doesn't. Not really. The thought of caring, of being actively involved in someone else's life seems messy. Complicated. Especially if that someone is Peter Parker.

This is why she sticks to observing people quietly from the sidelines.

Peter isn't there at lunch, Michelle reads quietly at the table by herself. But he turns up to their last lesson of the day, looking rumpled and inevitably exhausted. There are streaks of dirt across his cheek bones, he absently rubs them against his shoulders, but it does nothing to clean his skin. Michelle, bored at the back of the class, is struck by wild theories of how he ended up in that state in the first place. Then, she scribbles a hasty sketch of him, dirty and dishevelled.

He glances back, as though he can feel her looking, and she holds up her notepad. He frowns, then lifts his lips in a tired smile at her drawing. But when he turns back around, he scrubs a little more furiously at the dirt on his cheeks. Michelle maybe exaggerated how dirty his face was. But it's amusing to watch him anyway.

He catches up to her after class.

"Hey, are you free?" he asks. Michelle steps out of the way of the crowd of people in the hall, backs up against the wall.

"No. I'm not for sale either."

He snorts, leaning a shoulder against the wall. There's still dirt on his face. "Dad joke," he says. Then, "Are you doing anything after school?"

She squints an eye at him. "Why?"

"I still feel bad about Friday," he replies. He looks a little embarrassed. "I want to try again."

Michelle mulls this over.

"I won't be late this time, because...well I was thinking that we could just go to that cafe now. Together," Peter adds.

"Hm," Michelle hums, thoughtful. "Okay. You still don't have to buy me a muffin, though, you know."

"But what if I want to?"

The way he tips his head against the wall, smiles at her, lights something in her chest, a spark, and she averts her gaze, swallows harshly, puts it out.

The walk to the cafe is cold, dreary. Michelle hugs her jacket tightly around her, head ducked against the wind, and listens to Peter ramble on beside her. He's talking about the rise and fall of Pokemon Go. Michelle can't even remember how they got onto the topic.

"It's all about variety," he is saying as they pause at a stop light. He scrubs a hand against one tired eye. "Simply catching Pokemon and conquering gyms just wasn't enough. They needed more frequent updates to..."

His sentence drops to his feet and suddenly he has a hand around her arm and is pulling her towards him, doesn't stop until they are almost nose-to-nose. Michelle stares, wide eyed, into his own wide eyes, feels the warmth of his body pressed against her own. Behind her, there's the sound of tires tearing through water, and then the sound of water hitting the pavement. A car had sped through a large puddle on the road, drenching the people walking by. If she had been standing two steps back, she would've been in the splash zone.

"I, uh, didn't want you getting wet," Peter mumbles, breath brushing against her cheek.

For a moment she can't think of what to say. His other hand is on her waist.

Then, she gets a hand up between them, pushes against his shoulder. They step away from each other, her body feels unusually cold wherever he had been touching her. Like he took all her warmth with him. And she needs to be close to him to get it back.

No. What is she thinking. Fuck that.

"Thanks," she says, shuffles a little further away, gives him a curt nod. His reflexes were incredible, he had known what was going to happen before it happened. Michelle's thoughts run wild. Peter scratches the back of his neck a little awkwardly, returns the nod.

They fall into an odd silence.

"So, Pokemon Go..." Michelle says. The sooner they forget about what just happened, the better.

"Oh, right," Peter says, his awkwardness slowly melting away. "Yeah, so, we needed battles, they're pivotal to the entire game..."

The inside of the cafe is warm, cozy. Michelle and Peter sit in the same booth as Friday, their books spread out on the table in front of them. They go halves on a large, gooey slice of warm brownie, the comforting buzz of chatter, clink of glasses, shuffling footsteps surrounding them. Sometimes, Michelle thinks she catches Peter gazing at her, but she tries not to look at him too much, so she doesn't know for sure.

It's so much better than Friday. Peter talks more. They get more work done.

If she's honest, though she feels quite content, the fact that Peter even wanted to do this is a little confusing. He usually doesn't pay much attention to her. And he's been so in his head recently...she thought he wouldn't particularly care. At least not enough to want to re-do their terrible first meet up.

She remembers sitting here on Friday, alone. Debating whether or not to call him. He wasn't coming, she told herself. He had fallen into his head and couldn't get out. There was no point in calling him. She'd get some work done by herself and then leave.

Of course, he had stumbled into the cafe soaking wet and extremely apologetic a mere few minutes before she was planning to go.

Peter's nice. That's the thing. Even when he's a zoned out zombie with only one foot in this reality. He's talking more this time because he's trying. He wanted a re-do of their meet up because he felt so guilty about their last one, because he can't handle the thought of upsetting someone.

(It's not personal) is what Michelle is really saying (he would do this for anyone).

"Oooh, we should add this picture to our PowerPoint," says Peter, pointing out an old black and white photo he's found in their textbook. "You'll probably be better at doing that. You know, making the PowerPoint look nice since you're all artistic and everything."

"I'm not that artistic," Michelle says dismissively, cheeks warm.

"Yeah you are. Your drawings are always amazing. Even when they make me look like drug addict," Peter replies, grinning.

Michelle grins back. "I'm just drawing what I see."

Peter laughs, a clear, bright laugh that makes Michelle's chest ache in a way that is strangely...nice. She doesn't want to dwell on it.

"Yeah," he says. "I guess I've been pretty tired recently. And I did have dirt on my face."

"What was with that, anyway?" Michelle asks. "Were you wrestling out on the grass or something?"

Peter's smile slips sideways, falling in on himself.

"I, uh...I was um..."

"Whatever," Michelle backpedals, too quickly to be cool. "I don't care. Do you whatever you want."

Peter blinks, a little taken back by her sudden change in attitude, but then nods. His expression, for once, is unreadable.

"I'll walk you home," Peter says once they've packed away their books, slinging their bags on their shoulders. He places a hand, just gently behind her shoulder in a friendly gesture, but pulls away quickly.

The rest of their study session had gone well, and an echo of laughter surrounds them, ghosts of smiles on their lips.

Michelle tucks her hair behind her ear, looks at him as he looks at her. She thinks about standing flush against him, with his hand on her waist, on the side of road. Then she stubbornly tries to think about anything else.

(He would do this for anyone).

"I'm good," she says.

"It's not too much trouble," Peter says. "Plus, I still have more to tell you about Pokemon Go."

"I'm really good."

He grins, nudges her with his shoulder. "Come on."

"How about I walk you home?" Michelle asks with a lift of her eyebrow, the corner of her mouth.

"How about we walk each other home?" Peter says.

"How would that even work?"

Peter seems to consider this for a moment. "How about we walk to a spot exactly halfway between our houses and then split up there?"

"That's so dumb," Michelle snorts. Peter has a goofy smile on his face. "But okay."

He looks quite happy with his success.

They use Google maps on Michelle's phone to find a spot (their houses aren't actually that far away from each other, but Michelle knew that) (because she's observant, okay), and navigate their way hunched over the phone she holds out in front of them. Sometimes their shoulders bump together, but it's better to just not acknowledge it.

Around them, the streets are dark, sky clouded, air cold. It smells like it's about to rain, the roads still wet. They travel by the glow of the street lights and the bright screen in front of them.

"We should stop here," Peter says, face lit by the blue gleam of the phone.

"This is closer to my place than yours'," Michelle points out.

"Yeah, but..." Peter cuts off, mouth slack. Fear widens his eyes, roots him to spot. Michelle's heart lurches to her throat, and she looks around wildly. There's nothing. Just cars on the road, a few loud trucks rumbling past, a couple people walking quietly on the other side. But Peter trembles.

"Peter?" Michelle asks, gazing back at him worriedly. "Are you okay?"

He swallows thickly, presses his lips together.

"Peter," Michelle says, firmer this time.

There's a loud honk of a horn and Peter jumps, reaches out and grabs the fabric of jacket by her waist to pull her closer to him. It's almost an instinctual movement...protective. Michelle stumbles a little. There's no water to avoid this time.

She's not pressed up against him like when he grabbed her before, there's still a considerable gap between them, but she can clearly see the anxiety on his face.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"I..." he blinks, looks at her, down at where his hand in twisted in the fabric of her jacket. The air feels clearer, quieter, the loud trucks now gone. "I...thought I saw something."

It's a lie. Peter is a terrible liar.

"Sorry," he adds. "I was...that was kinda...dumb."

He lets go of her jacket and his hand hangs limply by his side. Michelle studies him, should she question him? Push him for answers? Ask if he's really okay?

Peter studies her, a softness to his eyes, like he hopes she will.

"Sorry," he whispers again.

And then neither of them say anything. And the silence stretches on. And Michelle isn't quite sure what she's thinking. Her thoughts have become a mess. Peter seems to have that effect.

She just knows that whatever just happened wasn't dumb. She just knows that she can't get the terrified look on Peter's face out of her head. She just knows that that scared look still lingers there, as he looks at her. She just knows that she doesn't know what to say.

Eventually, without much concise thought, she leans forwards and cups his face, swiping her thumb gently below one slightly sad eye. His skin is soft, his eyes are glued to her, body still. Michelle watches only her hand, the way her thumb travels from near the bridge of his nose, down beneath the tired bags, purple bruises below his eyes, to his cheek bone.

Pulling away she says, "you still had dirt on your face."

It's a lie.

Peter's face softens. The fear is gone. No traces left behind.

"Oh," he says. He touches his face with his fingertips, grazes over the places she had touched him. "Thanks."

Michelle nods, presses her hand into the back of her thigh. It burns. Why the fuck had she just done that?

"I guess I better go," she says. "Um." I hope you're okay. "Thanks for walking me halfway home."

"Thanks for walking me halfway home," Peter says

Michelle manages a smile, then offers him a wave, turns around, and leaves. Moving quickly. Cold air biting her face, sneakers slapping against puddles on the pavement. She gets home without once looking back.

Her mom greets her when she pushes open the front door, greeted with warm air and the inviting smell of dinner cooking.

"How was your study date?" her mom asks. Michelle is confused for a moment, before she remembers she texted her mom before she left school. Her head really is all over the place.

"Fine," she says. "I'm really tired. I might head up to bed."

"What about dinner?"

"I might have it later, if that's okay. Thanks, mom."

Michelle hurries up the stairs before her mother has a chance to say much more. She kicks her shoes off once she enters her room, dropping her bag to the the floor, and collapses on the bed.

"What the fuck," she whispers up at the ceiling.

The ceiling just gazes blankly back.

"I don't like Peter Parker," she tells it, then rolls over and stuffs her face into her pillow before the ceiling has a chance to call her out on her bullshit.

Earlier that day, Peter had found himself at a construction site, surrounded by people in hard hats. They were gaping up at the clouded sky, shouts echoed around him, fingers pointing. A crane was malfunctioning, and it swung around wildly, the man inside doing his best to pull back on the controls. Peter shouted at everyone to leave, could see what was going to happen before it happened. But they couldn't hear him, or maybe they just didn't want to listen to a kid in spandex. And the crane swung into the half-built building, and it collapsed, and Peter dodged falling pieces of concrete as he webbed people to safety.

It was absolutely terrifying.

The urge to go home and cry afterwards was a strong one. Peter had been struck by many pieces of debris, his mask and suit torn, his breathing accelerated. He climbed to the roof of a nearby building and lay on his back, mask off, trying to steady his wild heart.

Anxiety dug it's claws into his throat and wouldn't let go.

But at some point, as he lay there, tears pricking his eyes, he thought of Michelle. It wasn't anything weird, he just thought about sitting with her at the cafe, and the way he had watched her to pull himself out of his head, and how that had worked.

So he went to school. He was tired and a little shaky and there was probably still dirt on his face but there was only a couple lessons left and he was only there for Michelle.

And being with her helped. Again.

Now, Peter shoves his hands in his pockets, kicks at loose stones on the pavement. The night is cold, colder now that he's alone. Now that Michelle has hurried off. But the feeling of her hand on his face lingers. Warm.

The trucks. It had been the trucks. The rumble of them on the road, the way they shook the ground beneath his feet. Suddenly, he was being hit by blocks of falling concrete, he was stuck under rubble and couldn't move.

But Michelle. Looking at her. Feeling her fingers against his skin. Calmed him.

Peter's not quite sure what that means.

They spend quite a lot of time together after that, studying at that little cafe together almost everyday after school. It's nice, and surprisingly easy being with Michelle. They don't mention that night, where he'd frozen up on the sidewalk. Maybe it's better that way. Peter's not sure. But he knows that Michelle is funny, that she always has something interesting to say, but is also content to just sit in silence, or listen to Peter ramble on about nothing. And Peter likes how present he feels when he's around her. There are still times when his eyes glaze over, thoughts dark, and she has to click her fingers in front of his face, say his name until he comes hurtling back.

("Sorry," he had said once. "I guess I fell into the sunken place."

Michelle raised an eyebrow. "You remember that reference?"

"I saw the movie," Peter replied. "I remembered you telling me about so I thought I'd check it out. It was really good. I...actually watched it twice."

And Michelle had smiled, a rare sight, and then turned her head and squashed it down into her shoulder).

But it's better. He likes being with her.

And their presentation is going to get an A for sure.

They're two smartest students in the class, after all. 

Thing is, they agree on most things, but when they don't, their arguments are thought-provoking, stimulating. And sometimes their study sessions don't involve much studying, as the days stretch on, as they make that booth their own. Table cluttered with notebooks and coffee cups, pens lost to the floor. Some days they rush inside with their shoulders soaked with rain, hair dripping on the tiles, laughs aimed at each other. Some days they trudge inside, shoulders weighed down by exhaustion, tired smiles shared between them. Some days they are daring and order the nicest cakes on the menu, some days they bring their own snacks in with them and share them secretly under the table. And they chat idly about school work, or make jokes at Flash's expense, and Peter tells Michelle funny stories about Ned and Michelle shows him her sketches. He gazes over her notepad, takes in the drawings of their classmates, teachers, all looking irritable, distressed. In crisis. There are a fair few of Peter, he supposes he is in crisis fairly often. They are the nicest sketches out of all of them, but maybe he's biased.

He realises, though, that this is his first time seeing them up close. Usually they're held up to him on the other side of a classroom, accompanied with one of Michelle's satisfied grins. Michelle looks slightly shy, as she watches him, as he turns the pages, like maybe she realises that too.

("Do you show many people these?" he asks, pausing at a sketch of Ned. "Up close?"

"No," Michelle replies. "I've only shown you."

"You should," Peter says, "Show more people, that is."

Michelle makes a sound like a short laugh, turns her head. "I'd have to find more people worth showing.")

"We could probably take a break from this, you know," Peter says on Friday, resting back against the booth. It had rained on them on their walk here, Michelle's hair is even frizzier than usual and she irritably tucks it behind her ears for the umpteenth time. Eventually she pulls all her hair back and stuffs it, with angered force, into bun on the crown of her head. A few curls escape, brush against her now-bare neck. Peter's gaze lingers once or twice.

"Men," she sighs. "Always slacking off while women do all the work."

"We're the worst," Peter agrees. He nudges her leg under the table. "Come on, there's gotta be something fun to do around here."

Michelle looks up without moving her head, studies him through her lashes.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. You knew this cafe was here, do you any other places we could go to?"

Michelle's expressions are usually hard to read, but she appears a little confused. And yeah, maybe it's a little weird that Peter's suggesting they hang out somewhere else, considering their friendship is almost completely school-based. But, he's tired of this assignment, and of sitting still for so long, and why is he explaining this to himself?

"There's this...book store nearby," Michelle says. "I don't know if you..."

"Sounds cool," Peter says. For a moment, Michelle's face softens, gentle eyes studying his face. Then she rolls her shoulders back, and falls into her usual aloofness.

"Really?" she snorts. "Since when was 'Peter Parker: Paper Eater' fond of books?"

"That was one time." Peter points out. "And I didn't even eat the paper, I just licked it. Plus I was like, eleven. How do you even remember that?"

"It happened last year, Peter."

Peter opens his mouth, closes it. It's probably better to not tell her that those were two separate incidents.

They pack up their things and leave the cafe. Thankfully, the rain has stopped, and the skies have cleared up, gleaming a shade of pale blue. The book store isn't very far, but they see two dogs on their way over and stop to pet both of them, and Michelle pauses outside a little old movie theatre and studies the posters (They're mostly showing old silent movies and foreign films and Peter watches the little thoughtful look on her face until she's ready to leave).

The book store is fairly empty by the time they arrive. Quiet, but warm, lit with soft orange lights. Old wooden bookshelves line the walls, a few bins filled with second hand books scattered around the room, along with squishy arm chairs. It's small and cozy. Michelle's face softens into something relaxed. Content.

"I like it here," Peter says, but he's not sure whether it's because of the books or her gentle expression.

She grins. "Don't get too excited. They won't be very happy if you start licking the books."

Peter nudges her playfully with his shoulder.

They separate, spend time looking through books on their own. Peter finds some Star Wars novels and a couple beaten up copies of old Batman comics. Michelle, on the other hand, appears to be on a mission to clear out the entire store. She piles book after book into her arms, and eventually Peter wanders over to help her hold some.

"Are you really gonna read all of these?" he asks, as she tips a copy of Beloved by Toni Morrison into his arms.

"Yeah? I probably have another good sixty years left in me, if I'm being generous, and if I don't step in front of a bus in the next few years because the crippling stress of school has made me a shell of my former self, so I think I'll find the time to read them," she replies, as though that should be obvious. "Also, I usually sit down here and spend some time skimming through them to decide which ones I really want, but I won't waste time doing that with you here. Might as well just buy them all."

"You can still do that," Peter says, following her as she makes a beeline towards another shelf and squints at the many coloured spines. She throws him a sceptical look.

"You really wanna sit here while I read through all these books? It'll take a while."

Peter lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "I don't mind. There's a lot of good books here. I'll just sit down with you. And read."

"Oh yeah, I forgot you could do that," Michelle teases.

"That I could read?" Peter scoffs. "Please, I read Shakespeare Sonnets in my sleep."

Michelle looks like she's about reply, but she tips another book into Peter's arms at the same moment, and it seems too much for him to hold, because suddenly all the books are on the floor.

Peter winces as they all go crashing down by his feet, throws Michelle an apologetic look. But, to his surprise, she laughs. A proper laugh, loud and clear, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle it.

"Your face," she says through her fingers, eyes bright. "You looked like such a dork."

For a moment, Peter is at a complete loss for words. But, he thinks, he'll look like a dork more often if it'll make her laugh like that again. Then he gives her a grin and bends over to scoop up the books.

They settle into some beanbags near the centre of the room. Michelle, reading the works of Charlotte Smith; Peter, reading vintage Batman comics.

Eventually, Peter peeks over and curiously grabs a couple books from Michelle's pile. He skims through the pages, finds himself getting caught up in a few of them. When he hands them back to her, he tells her which ones he'd enjoyed, and he sees her put those into her 'To Buy' pile without checking them herself. Like she values his judgement, despite all her teasing. Peter smiles into a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird.

As they walk home, shoulder-to-shoulder, the night dark and cool, Michelle's hand comes up between them and curls around his bicep. She pulls him aside, facing the bright lights of a shop front.

"Look," she says.

Light rain dusts their skin, catches in their eyelashes; they study posters of a cartoon Spider-Man hung outside the shop window. Michelle doesn't loosen her grip on his arm, her side pressed into his, as she leans in for a better look.

The moment is quiet. Michelle is warm against him.

"I like the artist's style," she explains, gesturing to the posters.

Peter watches her, her chin tilted upwards, furrow in her brows, hair ever escaping from her tousled bun, and he thinks, suddenly, about telling her everything. Not just about Spider-Man, but about the anxiety attacks, his inability to sleep at night.

The word leaves him before he can think it. "Michelle," he says, though there's no need, because she is already looking at him. Her skin shines gold in the shop light, her eyes a rich brown, face close.

He takes a deep breath in; what should he say? I'm Spider-Man and being a superhero really fucking sucks sometimes? I can't remember the last time I had a full night's sleep? I'm so riddled with anxiety I hardly know what it's like to feel normal anymore? I only feel like myself when I'm with you?

Hair curls over Michelle's eye, Peter's fingers twitch. He wants to brush it away.

He says, "You should draw Spider-Man sometime, too."

Michelle smiles. "Maybe I already have."

Then she jolts, because the rain has begun to pour.

They make a run for it, yelping as cold water soaks into their socks, laughing as they bump into each other. They stop at a red light, and Peter realises Michelle's jacket doesn't have a hood, rain drops spilling over her face. He tugs off his own jacket and holds it above their heads.

"You'll get cold, loser," Michelle points out, but she huddles in closer to him anyway.

"I didn't want you getting wet," he replies, and it's a reference to that day, a couple weeks ago, when he had saved her from a car's splash zone, had said the same thing.

He doesn't know why he thinks of it but he does. And Michelle is obviously thinking of it too. But her eyes get a little distant, and her smile caves downwards, and for some reason she says nothing.

Monday after school finds Peter in a decathlon meeting, staring blankly at a wall and wondering how he even ended up here in the first place. It's hard to keep focused, because he's too busy thinking about the fact that Ned finally comes home tomorrow, and Michelle isn't here. She'd stayed back to talk over an assignment with a teacher, and Peter now glares at her empty seat like that'll make her appear there.

"Hey, Pussy Parker, you on drugs or something?"

A wave of nausea rolls over in Peter's stomach, which means Flash is talking.

"No," he replies, eyes darting to where Flash is smirking at him.

"Then you gotta act like a normal human, man. I mean, what's the point of having you on the team if you're just gonna act like a drugged-out stoner the entire time? We really should replace you with someone with a functioning brain."

"I'm not..."

Flash taps his pen against the table obnoxiously and Peter's words fall flat.

"Hasn't Michelle tried to kick you out yet?" Flash asks.

Peter blinks. "Hasn't Michelle...what?"

"She really doesn't say true to her word, huh?" 

Peter gazes at him in bewilderment.

"Never mind all that," interjects Cindy. "There's no time to replace anyone. We just need to know that you're definitely going to Washington next week, Peter."

That was next week? Peter had completely forgotten about it.

He has half a mind to say no. He can't just leave. He has a job to do here, as Spider-Man. Plus his last trip to D.C had been an anxiety-fest. But he looks at the expectant faces turned towards him, glances at Michelle's empty seat.

"Yeah," he says, and it's more of a sigh than anything. "I'll be there."

Michelle turns up a few minutes later, slipping into her seat looking disgruntled (even more so when Flash makes a smartass comment about her being late. She tells him to shut up).

Peter watches her from the corner of his eye, and his mind stubbornly locks onto Flash's words and refuses to let go. Maybe it's because he's tired, probably it's because of his ever gnawing anxiety but...she didn't really want to kick him out, he thinks, did she?

They were friends, good friends, after all. Have spent so much time together. Flash was probably just being stupid. Because it's stupid. It's stupid. 

But, for some reason, he finds himself over analysing their interactions anyway. He knows he wants to tell her...everything. But, now that he really thinks about it, Michelle never seemed to care about his personal life. And in a way that was both a relief, and a little disappointing. What about that night that he had freaked out on the side of the road? She had booked it out of there as soon as she had the chance. She had also stroked his face which had been...really nice. But that was because he dirt on his cheek.

And she'd gone quiet, on Friday night. Was she embarrassed about that day, when he'd pulled her out of the way? Peter gets a little embarrassed about it too, sometimes. Just, thinking about them so close, bodies pressed together...everywhere...makes his cheeks a little warm. But she had looked...almost...uncomfortable.

Maybe Michelle didn't like him as much as he thought she did.

Michelle likes Peter more than she thought she did. 

It's becoming a bit of a problem.

Because she's been thinking about him all weekend, and it's disrupting her reading of all things. Do you know how hard it is to fully absorb the beautifully melancholic works of Charlotte Smith when your thoughts are distracted by a boy's dumb smile and kind eyes and wavy hair...even the way he sips his coffee? (He always holds his pinky up and it's annoyingly endearing). It's hard, okay. And she's fucked.

Michelle's not quite sure when she let all her feelings spill, but she knows that their little excursion to the book store had been a considerable tipping point. Peter had genuinely enjoyed it, hadn't minded sitting in silence while they read through her pile of books, had smiled at her and showed her particular passages he liked.

That store had always been a place she went to on her own. Her only company being the worn pages beneath her fingertips, the comforting words she read. But it wasn't because she wanted to be alone, as she had always thought. It was because there wasn't anybody she knew who would also want to be there.

But now she has Peter, who likes so many things she likes, or, at least, is open to the things she likes, who holds his jacket over her head in the rain to keep her dry, who makes her feel a thousand things at once. Confused and scared, because her feelings have been squashed down for so long that they feel bent and misshaped now that they're out in the open. 

But also gentle and fond. And like her fucking Christmas's have come at once. 

And she's screwed. He's such a storm in her head.

Now, Michelle sits on her bed and stares at her phone and contemplates calling him. They hadn't really had a chance to speak all day, both being busy at lunch (and he'd ducked out quickly after the decathlon meeting, which had been a little weird), which means they haven't properly spoken since Friday. And Michelle misses talking to him. A bit.

But, God, would it be weird to call him?

She used to do it all the time, and she cringes at the thought. Of course, she never called him just to speak to him, like she wants to do now. Instead, she'd find little excuses to ring him up and leave a voicemail. Something about chemistry tests and Liz and whether or not he was dead because his accidental butt dial had been full of sirens and stricken voices. He was terrible at calling back or replying to her, and Michelle was beginning to find it difficult to lie to herself about why she was really calling, so she had stopped.

But they hadn't been friends back then, like they are now. So surely it won't be that weird to call him. She knows he and Ned talk on the phone all the time.

Michelle chews her lip, finger hovering over his name on the screen. She can just tell him she's calling about their assignment or something. She can just...

Her finger slips. The phone begins to ring.

Fuck.

Peter answers on the third ring. "Hello?"

Michelle slaps the phone to her ear, heart pounding. "Hey." A short silence. Michelle realises that Peter is waiting for her to explain herself.

But her mind has gone blank.

"Um," she says. The room feels too hot. "I...accidentally called you. Sorry."

"Oh."

"Yeah." What is she doing? "I meant to call Pizza Hut. I have it saved in my contacts. But...my finger slipped."

More silence. Michelle has never felt so incredibly uncomfortable in her entire life, and it's all her fault. She should say something. Anything. But all she can think of is asking Peter to forget her existence so she can go live in isolation in Fiji or someplace and erase this horrible experience from her mind completely.

"Michelle," Peter says suddenly, voice uncertain. "Do you...hate me?"

The question feels like a punch in the gut. "What?"

"Flash said something...at the meeting today..." Peter hesitates. "That you wanted to kick me out of the team or something."

"Flash holds a world record for having the largest head with nothing in it," Michelle replies. "To believe anything he says is to listen to the sound of air being released from a deflating balloon and act like that noise has any meaning at all." She adds, "Don't fact check that."

Peter huffs a laugh. "I trust you as a source."

Michelle shifts on her bed, settles against the headboard. She tugs at a curl of her hair.

"Flash asked me to talk to you," she explains. "Because...you've been kind of out of it lately. You know, like, always in your head and stuff. He wanted to kick you out of the team. I was just supposed to tell you get your shit together."

"Oh." His voice lifts in relief. A speculative pause. His voice lowers. "Why...didn't you? I mean, did you not really care or..."

"I care," Michelle interrupts. And it's not really fair for her to be so offended at the thought of him thinking the opposite, considering she had purposely pretended not to care for so long. "I care about...you. I just didn't really know what to say. And it would've felt weird to, like, interrogate you. Plus, you've been a lot better these past couple weeks."

She drops her gaze to her knees, picks at the fabric of her jeans. "I would never want to kick you out of the team, Peter, you're one of the best things about it."

Nerves strike her, clamps her lips together. But Peter replies, voice soft, "so are you," and she finds herself with a smile half squished against the phone.

There's a sudden bit of noise from Peter's end, rustling, heavy breathing, as though he is moving about.

"Hey," he says, "can I come over?"

Michelle frowns. "What? Now?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" she asks. She has already thought of a hundred answers. 

"I'll explain when I get there. Please, Michelle."

"My parent's won't..."

"They don't need to know," Peter says. "I'll sneak in through your window."

The frown deepens, though her heart is fluttering in her chest.

"My bedroom's on the second floor, how will you get up?"

"I'll climb, it'll be easy. Don't worry."

"Okay, Peter Parkour," Michelle snorts.

Even more rustling, the opening and closing of a door.

"That's good, I'm stealing that," Peter says, a grin in his tone. "See you in a few minutes."

Michelle tidies her room frantically - it mostly involves kicking discarded clothes under the bed - then gazes in her bedroom mirror and frets over how she should wear her hair.

"This is so dumb," she mutters to herself, because she shouldn't be so worried. Peter sees her with frizzy hair almost everyday. And beauty standards are fucked. She leaves her hair down.

Peter gets there faster than she thought he would, and climbs through her window with surprising control. Once again, Michelle is struck by wild thoughts, theories; a turmoil in her head.

Peter gives her a nervous smile - his hair is ruffled, cheeks tinted pink - then immediately starts pacing around her room. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, then holds them out in front of him, like he's unsure of what to do with himself. Michelle sits cross-legged on her bed, watches him walk back and forth.

"Okay," Peter breathes. "This is gonna be weird. But, I mean, we were already saying all this stuff so I just figured now would the perfect time to tell you and I wanted to you before but..." he runs his fingers through his hair, "I don't know how to say it. I mean, I haven't really told anyone."

"What is it?" Michelle asks.

"Okay," Peter says again. He stills, turns to face her, breathes in. "Okay. It's just that...I'm...gah why is this so hard to say. It'll explain a lot, I promise. I just need to..."

Michelle gets to feet, stands before him. She places a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Peter, I think I already know."

His eyes widen. "You do?"

"Yeah. And you're right, it does explain a lot. Why you're always tired, the dirt on your face..." Peter nods along frantically. "You're in a Fight Club."

The nodding stops. Peter jolts, splutters, then makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a protest. Michelle smothers down a smile. It's just a joke. All her wild theories, observations, have led to her a single conclusion. And Peter himself had inadvertently confirmed it while they were looking at posters through a shop window.

"I'm not," he says. "Though, that would be really cool. Do you think there are any Fight Clubs nearby..." he babbles on, giving Michelle time to slide over to her bedside table. She pulls a scroll from her drawer, lets it unravel.

"Peter," she says, and he looks at her.

She holds a poster of Spider-Man, one of the cartoon ones they had been looking at on Friday. Peter gapes at it.

"Whoa, you got one."

"Yeah, I went back to that shop on Saturday." She looks at the poster, grins. "He's my favourite Super-Hero."

A smile fights the goofy gaping of his mouth. "He is?"

Michelle nods. She waits for Peter to piece together what she's getting at, but he just continues gazing at the poster like he's never seen anything quite like it before.

"Peter," she says finally. "I know it's you."

"You do?"

"Yes, idiot. I'm very observant. And you're very obvious." She throws the poster on the bed, steps closer to him. "I mean, you just climbed in through my second storey window. There's nothing to climb on out there."

He ducks his head, raises his shoulders, smiles sheepishly. "I'm Peter Parkour."

It's perhaps the lamest thing he could've said but, god, it makes her want to kiss him all over his stupid cute face.

The air feels open now. Peter breathes out. And Michelle's emotions are still a whirlwind, but she knows she feels daring.

"So, that's all you came here to tell me, isn't it?" She looks at him through her lashes, steps even closer, slowly. "That you're Spider-Man?"

His eyes follow her as she moves, stills right in front of him. The smile fades, he swallows. "That's not all."

"No?" she says. Her voice is quiet.

"No," he echoes. His voice is quieter.

They look at each other, something heavy between them.

"What do you want to tell me, Peter?" Michelle whispers.

But he doesn't say anything. And the light catches in his eyes as they travel from her own, to a point near her temple. And he lifts his hand. And she goes still.

He brushes her hair from her face, tucks it gently behind her ear. And everywhere his fingers touch her skin she feels fire.

"I want to tell you everything," he says.

She wants to kiss him. She's going to kiss him. Over and over. She's going to kiss him until she's dizzy and his name is the only thing she knows.

He drops his hand but she lifts hers. Brushes her thumb along his cheek, just under his eye. There's no dirt, and she's not going to lie this time. She's touching him because she wants to. She steps closer because she wants to. She wants to, she wants to.

"Tell me everything," she breathes, and then she leans in.

"Michelle."

Their lips don't touch. Michelle pulls back as though she's been burnt. Peter stares at her with wide eyes. Her name is called from downstairs.

"Michelle! Dinner's ready!"

Peter looks...bewildered. Almost like she had slapped him across the face. And Michelle is dragged to her senses.

She had almost kissed him.

There's the sound of footsteps thudding up the stairs.

"Oh, shit," she whispers. "My mom's coming up here."

Peter is still gazing at her, as though in a trance. Michelle grabs the sleeve of his jacket and shoves him towards the window.

"You need to get out of here," she hisses, and he finally comes to. He scrabbles with the window, pushes it open. Only half his body is through it when he turns back to her.

Though it looks like he wants to speak, no words leave his open mouth.

"Just go," Michelle says, giving his shoulder a push. He nods, and disappears out into the night just as her mother opens the door.

Michelle doesn't move, looks out at the shadows cast over the street by the moon.

She had almost kissed him.

Fuck.

Being with Ned again after so long is like coming home after a particular arduous day and slipping into your favourite pair of sweatpants.

Peter hooks an arm around Ned's neck when he sees him at school that morning, goes for a half-hug that Ned turns into a complete one. There's lots of hey, buddy! missed you, man! and then they delve into a conversation about Pokemon cards. It feels like a long, deep breath in after being underwater. It's exactly what Peter needs.

Especially after last night.

Peter's not exactly sure what happened. He'd gone to Michelle's to tell her about Spider-man, about all the anxiety that comes with it. But it'd ended with - and he may be wrong about this - her almost kissing him.

He thinks back to the moment leading up to it. He'd been about to tell her about the anxiety, about his lack of sleep. Finally get it all off his chest. To the one person he truly wanted to tell.

But she'd been so close and there had been a curl of hair over her face and his fingers twitched and he hadn't been able to help himself this time. He'd tucked it behind her ear.

And then she had almost kissed him.

And he thinks he...wanted her to.

But he doesn't know for sure. His head's a mess. Right now, he just wants to talk to Ned about Pokemon.

Peter tells Ned that Michelle's been hanging out with him, that she will probably hang out with them all the time now. And Ned is a little surprised but cool with it. And at lunch they wait for her to join them. And she doesn't.

Somehow, in the next few days, their paths never seem to cross. She is out the classroom before he is out of his seat. She no longer sits in the cafeteria. Their assignment is almost done, and there's no need for them to go to the coffee shop. He hardly sees her.

It's weird. Now that Ned is back, it should feel like everything has returned to normal. But sometimes, Peter makes a joke that Ned doesn't get, and references something that Ned doesn't remember, and turns his head and finds himself gazing into an empty space, and there's a Michelle shaped hole in everything he touches.

And his thoughts drift again. As badly as before. He gazes blankly at nothing, unable to focus, everything tips sideways. He is trapped. Lost. Under rubble.

And, above everything else, he just really misses her.

The trip to Washington seems to comes quickly, though the days now pass slowly (and Peter hasn't thought about it much, except for the occasional moment of dread). All too suddenly does he find himself standing in a hotel lobby in DC with the rest of the decathlon team, bags set down by their feet, kinks in their legs, cramps in their legs from the bus ride over. Mr Harrington is checking in (there seems to be some kind of trouble, because he's been over there a while), cold air blows in every time someone walks through the door, Flash brags about his upcoming vacation, Michelle gets bored and finds a place to sit and read.

Peter and Ned stand a little way away from the group. 

"You think his parent's ever look at him and just think...'what the fuck have we done?'" Ned asks, watching Flash blather on about his huge and expensive beach house.

"Every day," Peter replies.

Mr Harrington finally joins them, looking frazzled.

"Okay," he says. "They messed up our rooms. So, one of the rooms has been split into two rooms that only have a double bed..."

Everyone interrupts him at once. They all want one of the rooms for themselves. Flash, of course, is the loudest. Peter says nothing.

Mr Harrington holds up his hands, begs for silence. He looks about five seconds from jumping out a window.

"Look, you can't all have them. I mean, you could share them if you really want, I don't care. The bed's aren't that big. But we needa make sure it's fair." In lowered voice he adds, "so you don't all murder each other."

"How?" someone asks.

"We'll draw straws," says Mr Harrington. "Well, we don't have any straws. We'll draw sticks." He looks around him. "Someone...go outside and get me a stick."

No one moves. Mr Harrington sighs so deeply it's a wonder he doesn't collapse on the floor. Eventually, Michelle snaps a few twigs off of one of the pot plants in the lobby and hands them over.

"Right," Mr Harrington says, breaking the twigs up into different sizes and grasping them in a closed fist. "The two people who pull the longest sticks can have the rooms. And then...we just get this weekend over with."

Flash pushes his way forward and goes first. He pulls one of the shortest sticks. Seymour goes next. Then Cindy, who pulls one of the longest sticks (she bounces on the spot excitedly). Abe has his turn. Then Michelle. Then Ned. Then Peter.

"Oh, come on, really? Parker gets a room to himself?" Flash groans, as Peter holds up the second longest stick.

"He had just as much chance getting it as you did," Mr Harrington replies, tiredly. He discards of the rest of the twigs.

Peter still holds his in his hand, turning it over. He doesn't really want the room, doesn't mind sleeping in a single bed in a room shared with Ned. Enjoys it, actually.

He hesitates, eyes sliding over to Michelle. 

"Hey," he says. Everyone else begins moving around them, grabbing their bags, heading towards the elevators. Peter clears his throat a little nervously. "Do you want this?"

Michelle cocks her brow. "I've got my own twig, thanks."

Peter huffs a laugh. "The room. Do you want it? I don't mind sharing with Ned."

"That was my way of saying, 'I already know what you're going ask and my answer is going to be no'," Michelle says. She reaches out and pushes his hand - which he holds out towards her - gently into his chest. Heat blooms under Peter's skin wherever she touches him, creeps up along his neck. "Keep the room, Peter."

He stares at her. He misses her. "Are you sure?" he asks, and maybe he's just pushing to keep the conversation going. "It'll mean you won't have to share..."

"I won't have to share anyway," Michelle interrupts. "The other girls always pick a room and have a big sleepover in it. I don't even know if it's allowed, but they do it anyway. It leaves me with a room to myself."

Peter's expression appears as the equivalent of a little sad 'oh'. 

"I like it," Michelle says, noting the look on his face. "It means I can read in peace. Honestly, Peter, just keep the room."

"But I..."

"You deserve it," Michelle adds, the words tumbling from her mouth. She composes herself. "I mean, you do so much as...in your Fight Club."

Peter grins at that, and she slowly smiles back. 

Behind him, Ned says, "I didn't know you were in a Fight Club."

The night is a quiet night. They eat dinner at the hotel, swim in the pool before bed. They don't do any sightseeing the next day - not after what happened the last time they were here - so they sleep in, spend the late morning lazing around in the pool. Michelle isn't around much, off reading somewhere, alone. (The amount of times Peter catches himself looking for her is too many to count).  

And later that afternoon, they dress up, fix each other's blazers, and practise on each other as they make their way towards the bus. 

Peter dodges around the rest of the team, catches up with Michelle, because he doesn't want to pass up any opportunity to talk to her.

"Nervous?" he asks, falling into step beside her. She doesn't look surprised to see him. 

"That you're gonna fuck it up for us?" she asks, teasing. "Yeah."

It feels so...normal, in the best way. Peter smiles stupidly. 

"I'm not gonna fuck it up," he says. "But I think I've forgotten everything I've ever learned. And..." he looks around in faux horror. "Oh, shit, Michelle, I've forgotten how to read." 

Michelle grins, then mirrors his expression, not missing a beat. "Peter?" she says. "Are you trying to communicate with me right now? I can't...it's all gibberish." Her eyes widen. "Have you forgotten how to speak?"

Peter clamps his hands on either side of his head. "My brain cells. I'm losing them."

"Well, to be fair, you didn't have that many to begin with."

"Can you two stop flirting and let us get on the bus?" Flash interrupts, tearing the lively smiles from Peter and Michelle's faces. He pushes past them roughly. Peter stumbles back, feels his cheeks grow hot.

"Fuck off, Flash," Michelle grumbles. Her eyes meet Peter's briefly and he gives her a sheepish smile.

And he doesn't fuck it up.

They win.

And in the celebration, in the chaos of cheers and triumphant hollering and exciting jumping, in the crowd of bodies that embrace each other, hands gripping shoulders, arms hooked around each other's necks, Peter finds Michelle. And in his own excitement, in his own chaos, he wraps his arms around her and hugs her tight. And she hugs him right back.

They choose a fancy restaurant for dinner, to celebrate, the team rowdy as they crowd around the table. The night buzzes, warm and light, full of laughter. Even Mr Harrington cracks a smile (though it may just be because he's had some wine), and Michelle grins every time Peter looks at her. It's the kind of night that you would wish has no end.

But they head back to the hotel that evening, chattering finally starting to quieten down, the air cool around them.

And they are right in front of the lobby doors when Peter hears the sirens.

They send a jolt through his body. You would think he'd be used to them, and he is, but he's still getting used to what comes with them. And as he freezes up, body turned towards the noise, he thinks, please...no more collapsing buildings, nothing involving water, no rubble...let it just be a robbery...please.

But he smells smoke. The sirens belong to fire engines.

Ned and Michelle have noticed that he's come to a halt, have stopped a few steps in front of him.

"There's...I need to..." he gestures helplessly. Fire. What if...an entire building has gone up in flames? Is crumbling to the ground as he speaks? His throat goes dry.

Michelle studies him, her expression flitting between blank and concerned. For a selfish moment, Peter lets himself just...look at her. Like those days in the coffee shop. Like that night on the side of the road. Drinks it in all in. To steady his restless heart.

"Peter," she says.

"We'll cover for you," Ned says, catching on. He always catches on. "Go, dude. Save the day."

One last look at Michelle. The way her hair curls behind her ear. Then he runs.

In the dark, stillness of her hotel room, the buzz of her phone against the bedside table jolts Michelle awake.

She hadn't been sleeping long, had stayed up thinking of the decathlon finals and the bad joke Ned had told her as they said goodnight to each other, and Peter. Mostly Peter.

No surprise. He's found himself a place in her mind, dug his feet in, and made it a home. Most nights she thinks about their almost-kiss and wants to smother herself with her pillow. She'd avoided him for so long because of it, and it was stupid, but she was embarrassed and she's allowed to be stupid sometimes, okay? (Of course that stupidity had ended as soon as he talked to her in the lobby yesterday, but it was only replaced with a deeper kind of stupidity that made her want to talk to him, be with him, at every chance she had). But tonight she had thought of hugging him and his scared face outside the lobby and whether he got back safe.

And now it's almost midnight and he is calling her.

"Hello?" she asks, groggily, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Michelle," Peter says, sounding breathless. "Can you...I need..." 

His voice trembles. Michelle sits up, wide awake.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Can you come to my room?" A shaky breath. "Please."

There's something in his tone that silences all the questions in her throat.

"Okay," she whispers.

She hurries, bare-foot and pyjama clad, out into the hall and towards his room, careful to keep her footsteps light. His door has been left open a crack, and she pushes it with caution.

"Peter?" she asks.

The room is dark, shadowy, and cold. The almost-rhythmic thud of curtains against the windowsill tells her the windows are open, rigid night air streaming into the room.

Around her, everything is a mess. The sheets torn from the bed, clothes strewn across the floor. The little round table and chairs that sit in the corner of the room have been turned over. Like a storm has blown through here, left chaos in it's wake.

Her eyes find Peter, standing in the middle of it all. His chest rises and falls in his Spider-Man suit, his gloved hands tugging at his hair. He is the storm, the chaos.

Michelle says his name again.

When he looks at her, his face is ashen, covered in dust. Vertical streaks along his cheeks, where his tears have cleansed his skin.

Despite everything, he offers her a small smile.

"I got my ass kicked in Fight Club."

She doesn't laugh, because she can see that his whole body is shaking. Instead, she crosses the room and stands before him, eyes studying his face, eyes studying hers. A silence stretches on in the small gap between them. She doesn't know what to say, what to do. God, why does she never know?

"Peter," she whispers again, like his name is the only thing she does know, like saying it softly is she only comfort she can give him.

The smile falls, it was a shallow smile anyway, and his lips tremble, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. And he pulls her close, wraps his arms tightly around her, buries his face into her shoulder, and cries into her hair.

Michelle wishes this came naturally to her, this vulnerability, these feelings. Wishes she could do more to console him. She rubs little circles into his back, his suit silky beneath her fingers.

He pulls away with a sniff, strands of her hair stuck against his damp cheeks.

"Sorry," he mumbles, a crease forming between his brows. He tugs at one of his gloves. "I need to..." it doesn't come off, he tries again, hands shaking. "I can't...why isn't it coming off? Fuck, I just want it..." Tears well in his eyes, his movements become desperate. Breaths shallow. "I'm stuck, I can't get my gloves off, I can't..."

"Hey, I'll do it," Michelle says quickly, keeps her tone soft. She takes his hand, carefully rolls his glove off of his fingers. Does the same for the other. He is already tugging anxiously at his suit, pressing down his chest. The fabric sags and he shrugs it off hastily, kicks it away from his feet. Breathes in, out, so quickly it's a wonder any air is going to his lungs at all.

"It felt claustrophobic," Peter explains, voice tight. "I felt trapped. I felt trapped in my own suit, Michelle."

"Hey," she says. He looks at her, eyes wide. Wild. "You need to breathe, okay? Look, follow me. In..." She inhales deeply. "Out..." Exhales.

She does it again, and again, and he copies her, eyes glued to her face. In. Out. Sometimes his breath hitches and she reassures him gently and they start again. In. Out. Sometimes his eyes become panicked and she touches his face and they start again. In. Out. Sometimes his body begins to shake and he places a hand over hers, where it still rests on his cheek. And they start again.

In. Out. Until finally his breathing slows, until his body stops trembling.

It feels like they stand like that for hours, and her legs begin to ache, but she doesn't move until he's calmed, until the storm has passed. She pulls her hand away but his hand goes with it, he holds it, gives it a careful squeeze. And he thanks her, softly, in the new silence, loosens his shoulders, un-clenches his fist. Then he cleans his face in the bathroom, tugs on a soft pair of clothes, and she closes the windows to keep out the cold, and they make up the bed together. 

"Should I leave?" Michelle asks. 

"It's a long walk back to your room," Peter replies. 

And it's not. But they both pretend it is. 

They pull back the covers, slide into bed together. Lay on their sides, face each other in the middle. Their knees touch. Faces covered in shadows as they look at each other. 

Peter says quietly into the dark, "Remember when I said I wanted to tell you everything?" and Michelle nods and he tells her everything. All of it. From the beginning, the day he realised he was Spider-Man; the middle, when he was stuck under rubble, when he thought he couldn't get out, that maybe he would die there, alone; the end, where a burning building was collapsing around him and he couldn't breathe. He tells her about the anxiety, about how it keeps him up at night, about how he felt he couldn't tell anyone, about how he only wanted to tell her.

The words are heavy, would threaten to drag a person back under, but Peter just looks...relieved. Like he's unhooked a weight from his chest.

"Sometimes I wonder what people would say," Peter says. "If they knew that Spider-Man was freaking out half the time."

"Spider-Man's allowed to freak out," Michelle says adamantly. "You're allowed to be scared."

He rolls over and stares up at the ceiling.

"You're human, Peter," Michelle adds. "It's okay."

"Yeah." He goes silent for a moment, like he's thinking that over. And Michelle wonders if he's never considered that before.

"And you can always talk me to me if you need to," she continues. "I...well, to be honest, I don't always know what to say but. I'm happy to listen."

Peter turns his head, looks at her.

"You know," he says slowly, rolling back onto his side, "Since I'm telling you everything...you should know that you're one of the only things that can calm me down. Like, I don't know, you don't even have to do anything. I just...look at you...and things don't seem so bad, you know?"

The words startle her, the last thing she expected, and Michelle's entire body flushes with warmth. The surprise must show clearly on her face - a break in her usual remote expression - because Peter appears bashful.

"Is that weird?" he asks.

"No," she says. "Well...I mean, yeah. My face isn't a therapist." She smiles at him, he grins back. "You know...I thought I caught you looking at me a couple times. But...I also thought that maybe it was... wishful thinking."

"Wishful thinking," Peter echoes. The words are weighted, but she doesn't regret them. 

She nods.

He studies her, silver moonlight catches in his eyes, and a gold smile stretches across his lips. It's a smile she's never seen before.

A smile made just for her.

"You were hoping that I was looking at you," he says.

This doesn't seem like the right time for this, like maybe they should keep the night quiet, serious, after what had just happened. But their legs are touching under the blanket, and their bodies have shifted closer together, and Peter has a look on his face that is alight, eager, happy. And maybe this is the right time for this, as Michelle smiles back, as her fingers itch with an urge to draw the expression on his face, to keep it forever.

"Yeah," she whispers. "And you were." 

Their hands brush, where they rest between them. 

"I was," Peter says. 

"Can I tell you something?" Michelle asks. His lips part, answer on his tongue, but she continues before he can speak, words spilling from her mouth. "I was looking at you too." 

The smile widens even further. His cheeks must hurt, his eyes crinkled at the eyes. It sends her heart racing in her chest, swallows down her own storm.

She asks, before she can really think, "Can I tell you something else?"

Peter hooks his pinky over hers.

"Tell me everything."

She leans closer, only a few inches between them. Everything is chaos inside her. 

"That night, in my bedroom," she says. "I wish I had kissed you."

Her eyelids are heavy, gazes at him through her lashes, and his gaze is heavy, drops from her eyes to her lips. 

And nothing stops her this time.

The kiss starts soft, the gentle brush of her mouth against his. His hand rests on her hip, and she places a hand on the sturdiness of his shoulder, and they burn wherever they touch each other. But she is daring, like that night in her bedroom, she wants. And she hooks her fingers into the fabric of his shirt and pulls him closer, kisses him deeply. And he rolls over, lifts himself up and places a hand by the side of her head. On top of her now, the angle better, the kiss fiercer. He lifts the hem of her shirt and places his hand on her bare skin of her waist, and she tangles her fingers into hair curling over the back of his neck. 

And she's been lying to herself this whole time. She's wanted this since the days they spent together in the coffee shop, when he would walk in with his hair dripping wet, she's wanted this since she threw a pencil at his face and asked him to be her history partner. She's wanted this before all of that, when she would sketch pictures of him quietly and not talk to him at all. 

When they break away, they are breathless, and their lips are swollen, and they laugh into each other's mouths. 

"Does this mean you're my girlfriend now?" Peter asks, once they're lying on their sides again, facing each other. He brushes a strand of her hair from her face, tucks it behind her ear.

"Mm, I think you should take me on a date, first," she says, twining her legs with his. 

"I know the perfect place," Peter replies. "It's really cozy, and sells the best coffee. And I heard they have really great muffins." 

"I prefer the brownies." 

He furrows his brows. "Yeah, well, I'm sure you'd like the muffins if you actually let me buy you one."

Michelle laughs, and kisses the frown from his mouth, and then kisses him all over the rest of his stupid cute face. 

And they fall asleep together, in that mess of a room, with their arms wrapped each other, and their skin warm, and the feeling of each other still on their lips. 

 It's the best sleep Peter has had in a very long time. 

(Ned sees them holding hands the day after that, and he gapes at them in a very immense form of surprise, words failing him. Flash also sees them, as he climbs onto the bus, and he shrugs, like he had figured from the start). 

(And two days later, once they're back home, they finally present their project to history their class. They meet beforehand at Peter's locker, gather their notes. Peter breathes out heavily through his mouth, like he's nervous. And Michelle kisses his cheek, for good luck, pretends she isn't nervous too. And they get an A. But, of course they do. They're the two smartest students in the class, after all).