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Peter will probably never get used to having MJ in his bed. Not even in a just-had-sex way. In a chilling-on-top-of-the-covers way. She’s lying down on her stomach, laptop open in front of her, feet in the hair. A rebel strand of hair falls in front of her eyes, no matter how many times she blows it away. She’s beautiful. Peter has always known that she is. He has eyes and a brain, after all, and MJ is super attractive, no doubt. But like this, soft and unguarded, a pencil stuck between her teeth, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. On earth or otherwise. And he’s been in space. He knows his shit.
“Michelle Jones is taken,” she tells him, not looking up from her screen.
He’s sitting in the floor, working on his suit and pretending like he isn’t distracted every five seconds by her long legs. It’s the middle of summer and she’s only wearing shorts. He’s so distracted.
“Maybe add an initial, Michael B. Jordan style? Michelle J. Jones?”
She wrinkles her nose, unconvinced. Too deep in her thoughts to insult him about his dumb idea, though, which shows how much she cares about the thing. Her first proper job as an actress, paid and everything, one-way ticket to the actors guild. Except some white actress from the 70s stole her name. The drama.
“Don’t like the alliteration,” she answers. “It won’t roll on the tongue of whoever will announce my Oscar.”
Peter can’t help but laugh,and he gives up on fixing this minor problem on his suit just so he can go and sit next to MJ on his bed. She doesn’t look up at him but she does let him pet her hair, which is even better. Her hair is the softest thing he’s ever touched, even softer than Rocket’s fur. And that’s saying something.
“Your Oscar? Got it all figured out and stuff?”
“Well, yeah,” she grins. She does look up at him this time, eyes shining. Yep, definitely the most beautiful like, ever. “Get a few good roles, climb my way to more interesting projects. Meet Taika Waititi, he casts me in his movie. We spend time together in New Zealand and I become his muse. I’m in all his movies now. He introduces me to Ava DuVernay. She takes me under her wing and she teaches me everything, because we need more black women as directors. My first movie is a success. Everyone loves me. I keep writing on the side. I become the youngest PEGOT in history. Lin-Manuel Miranda isn’t even mad I beat him to it. He writes the music for the biopic about me they eventually make. He wins his Oscar for the score. All is well in the world.”
She’s grinning now, one of her rare not-sarcastic smiles. Peter can’t help but grin back. It’s the most she’s ever spoken in one go, probably. He wasn’t so sure at first, when she started acting, because it didn’t exactly sound like a MJ thing to do. But she loves it, as much as she loves social justice and him, and her happiness is his favourite thing in the world.
“Of course, I meet John Boyega and he falls in love with me,” she adds, shit-eating grin and everything. Peter groans, and she laughs. “But I let him down nicely because that ass already belongs to a nerdy white dude.”
It always makes his heart do a weird flip-flop thing in his chest, when she says she belongs to him. He would never say it, out loud or otherwise, because she’s MJ and she doesn’t belong to anyone, let alone him. But sometimes she will grab him by his neck and whispers furiously against his lips. Something about how he’s hers and she’s his and all those lines you only find in cheesy movies. Or she will introduce him as her boyfriend, and his heart will burst in his chest.
When they first started dating, she did that weird thing where she would describe their relationship in the weirdest way possible. ‘That’s Peter, my human puppy’ or ‘Have you met Peter, he thinks movie dates are overrated’ or ‘Yeah, Peter and I share saliva, why do you care?’ Which he quickly learnt was her way to show she cared without actually showing she cared, because she was still MJ and cheesy bullshit was not her thing. (Her words, not his.)
But then there was this one time at Flash’s birthday party, where a drunk girl kept throwing herself at him and he had no idea what to do or how to react or how to push her away without touching any sensitive parts. The nightmare. And MJ has shown up out of nowhere, in her fierce Amazon glory, and pulled the girl away from him, shoved a glass of water in her hands. “Sorry, honey but he already has a girlfriend. Did you come with someone? Do you want me to call you a Uber?” and Peter knew he was in love with her, had known for a while. But this was her first time claiming him, and he never forgot it.
He’s into that cheesy bullshit, after all.
So he grabs her chin and leans down to kiss her, all weird angles and stuff. It’s too uncomfortable to linger, and he plops down by her side instead, staring up at the ceiling. She rub her nose against his cheek, just once, like a cat who caught itself in a moment of weakness. Damn, but he loves her.
“I would dump me for John Boyega,” he comments.
“Glad you’ve got your priorities straight,” she replies with a grin. He snorts a laugh at the joke. She’s always had to most wicked sense of humour about his sexuality, and her pun is on point as always. “But sadly I’m attached to you so…”
“No other weirdo would bother learning your impossible coffee order,” he agrees.
She rolls her eyes with a huff, before she focuses back on her laptop. But there’s still the ghost of a smile on her lips, like she’s charmed by his nerdiness but can’t believe she is. Years of this, and it’s like she’s still not used to it. He finds it hilarious as hell.
“Can’t marry John Boyega if I don’t have a new name, though.”
You can have mine , he wants to tell her, but his brain shortcuts at the thought. They’re still young. She’d probably say marriage is a heterocentric tradition based on patriarchal values. They’re so fucking young. He’d be Peter Jones and not the other way around anyway, and he’d fucking love it. He loves it already. Gosh it does sound nice. He’s so fucked.
Peter purses his lips, staring up at the ceiling. He’s never been good with names, and he’s pretty sure MJ is waiting for the right moment to call him out on it. “What are we studying in English right now? Conan Doyle?”
She hums. “Michelle Holmes is a little on the nose, even coming from you, Spider Boy.”
(See?)
“No, but. Like. Michelle Watson.”
She types on the computer. “Taken.”
“MJ Watson?”
She doesn’t say anything for a very long times, eyes fixed on her screen but not moving. Her hair falls in front of her face once more but she doesn’t push it away, proof that she’s deep in thought about it. Which is scary, sometimes, because she can spend more than ten minutes like this, still as a statue. Peter used to wonder if she was falling asleep with her eyes open, but no.
He raises a hand to tug the hair behind her ear once more, and brushes his knuckles against her cheek. She blinks, just once, which makes him smile. “It’s very important to you, isn’t it?”
When she finally looks at him, vulnerability flashes through her eyes. She will probably deny it ever happening if he asks, but Peter knows. He knows he’s one of the few people allowed to see that side of her, and what it means. That she trusts him, completely, with her thoughts and her feelings and her everything. He has no idea why, because he feels like he doesn’t deserve this, or her, half of the time but. He’s honoured. Really.
“It is,” she admits at last.
Peter offers her a grin, sitting up just long enough to kiss her before he plops back on the bed. “I know only friends can call you MJ, but. Like. MJ Watson and MMJ Jones are not the same. She’s just actress you. Not real you. Like, I’m Peter and I’m Spider Man, and you can be MJ Jones and MJ Watson. And it’s the same but, also. It isn’t. Does it make sense? It doesn’t make sense.”
She’s smiling now, one of those secret half-smiles she always tries to keep hidden until they reach her eyes. When she kisses him again, it’s longer, more meaningful, until Peter can’t breath anymore because his lungs are filled with her and his mind is racing to the beating of her heart.
“John Boyega has nothing on you,” she whispers against his lips.
“Let’s not go that far.”
She laughs, and kisses him again. “Yeah, almost nothing.”
“Better.”