Work Text:
i. sushi
Peter takes a deep, deep breath before asking the question on his mind for the past month: “Wanna go out for sushi?”
Ten points for not stuttering, Ned thinks, continuing his homework and lifting a spoonful of food to his lips. The cafeteria chatter continues as usual around them, rising and falling with the number of students entering and exiting.
Michelle could ignore that. Could ignore his face full of hope, and that adorable, blinding smile of his.
She could, but he’s an idiot, so she can’t.
“Vegetarian,” she says, lowering her book, and Ned turns his head ever so slightly to watch the world go down in flames.
“Uh,” Peter answers.
Ned turns briefly to Michelle, who is seated beside him, then nods to himself. Minus fifteen for forgetting basic information.
Michelle attempts to show that she doesn’t care by raising her book. Ned still has sights on her, but that’s fine, he’s her wingman as much as Peter’s. “Me. I’m vegetarian.”
You know this, Peter, she adds in her head. You’ve cooked dinner for me multiple times.
“Oh,” Peter responds, eyes widening. “You—right—sorry. I’ll. Um. I knew—sorry.”
She nods. Ned says nothing about the twitch in her lips, nor her ducking lower under the book.
Peter sits back down across her, and spends the rest of lunch mentally hitting himself with Mjölnir.
You knew that, Peter, he yells to himself. You make her dinner every other day.
Ned silently passes him a brownie, for pity.
ii. books
Junior year, second semester. Fresh start.
...Or a bad end, but Peter’s trying to be extra-positive today.
Ned’s out of town this week; something about snorkeling in the fringes of the West Philippine Sea with his cousins. Spring Break is upon the student body, but Peter’s stuck—happily—on Spidey-duty, and he knows Michelle’s got a week of AcaDec reorganizing planned.
AKA she’s still in town.
AKA she’s still in town while he’s in town.
AKA he has time to make up for the sorry excuse for a smooth date invitation he made two months ago.
You the man, he whispers to himself in the mirror, suit on but mask off. You the Spider-Man.
(May caught him chanting it out loud before and he’s not proud of it, but it works to calm his nerves as much as they’d allow.
...That is, not really all that much.)
He smooths his hair—habit, but ultimately useless. The mask will destroy his grooming immediately, like a good supersuit ought to.
Swinging through Queens is never quite as fun as swinging through Manhattan, but he’s a man on a mission today, and the short swings are making his heartbeat drum to an intensifying rhythm.
Like the Jaws theme, but more romantic.
He helps a would-be mugger make good choices in an alleyway, then swings on over to a lady in a wheelchair trying to board a bus. By the time he reaches Michelle’s house, it’s almost sundown and he’s rescued at least three cats and helped burp a baby.
A good day. About to be a great day.
Michelle doesn’t like it when he shows up as Spider-Man, because that usually means he got stabbed, so he ducks into one of the few alleys nearby (five blocks away), and walks to her home as regular ol’ Peter Parker, Physics-Answer-Guy.
Ding-dong.
“For the nth time, the guy next door ordered the pizz—Peter?” Michelle’s got her Captain America shirt on, but he spies the red Spider-Man socks on her feet and grins.
“Hey!”
“It’s called a phone,” she says, opening the door further. “And calling ahead.”
He shrugs. “Took my chances.”
She hmphs, moving aside from the door frame. “You may enter, loser.”
He does, heading straight for his usual spot the couch. “Your sister’s out?”
“Upstairs,” she replies, grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen. “I wouldn’t let you in otherwise.”
Peter raises a brow at her, because she’s done that. A lot.
She frowns at him. “You know what I mean.”
Not in your suit.
Not when you’re perfectly fine instead of bleeding all over my notebooks.
Michelle plops down beside him with her phone out, sending a text to her sister about their current guest. She takes up the sketchbook on the coffee table. “So, what’s up, loser?”
Does he look like he’s in crisis? He probably looks like he’s in crisis. She’s sketching him very quickly, and the pencil-to-paper sound he has come to love is suddenly his greatest enemy.
“T-the bookstore on First,” he sputters out.
Michelle mhms. It was an old spot she liked, but got replaced by a hole-in-the-wall fusion place.
“It’s uh, it’s back.” Peter’s hands keep moving.
“Yeah, on Third and Twelfth,” Michelle confirms. “I saw the post.”
“Wanna go?” She’s still sketching him. It’s probably the overlapping artistic mess she makes when she draws him while he’s all bouncy like right now.
She laughs. “What, like a date?”
Scribble, scribble.
“Uh,” Peter replies.
Scribble. “Kidding, dude. Don’t have a stroke,” she says, leaning back on the armrest and nudging Peter’s legs with her sock-covered feet. “Check it—Dad got them for me yesterday.”
“Sweet.” It’s not nearly as enthusiastic as it should’ve been.
“Peter, seriously, don’t have a stroke,” she repeats, and suddenly her hand (and pencil) are at his shoulder. “I heard one of the kids that graduated two years ago had one from stress. Calm down. I was joking.”
I wish you weren’t, he wants to say.
“I—yeah, haha. You got me.”
She smiles at him. “Good man. Besides, I’ve already been going. Did you think I stayed home today?” She points with her foot towards a bookshelf at the back of the room. “Just filled up the top row.”
Peter whistles in recognition.
Because she looks so happy. And proud.
The sides of her eyes crinkle as she beams at him, hair loose and wild in the setting sun. There's an extra pencil stuck behind her ear—the one for shading. He wonders if she knows how open she’s being right now.
“Pretty,” he breathes involuntarily.
Goodbye, smile. “Um, what?”
“The.” Oh no. “The books.” Stupid, Parker. “Pretty.” Run, run, RUN.
Peter jumps up. “Hey, seven o'clock, wow, time flies! Um, you have to kick me out now, right?”
Michelle’s face scrunches up. “It’s only si—”
“Bye,MJ.Seeyounextweek,MJ.”
Would that he’d looked behind him before hurrying out the door—sadness was not always an emotion Michelle wore, and it took many a fiber in her being to not rack up long distance charges to ask Ned if he was actually sure Peter liked her.
iii. fireworks
“You can practice on me! I do a great MJ,” Ned says, then squints his eyes and tightens his frown. “Sup, loser.”
“Nope,” Peter retreats, shaking his head. “That’s weird.”
“Good, huh?” his friend replies, waggling his eyebrows. “My acting lessons are going well.”
“Yeah, still not. Doing. That.”
“Fair,” Ned relaxes. “But what’s your game plan?”
I don’t have one, he thinks, and the awkward smile he’s giving Ned relays the thought.
“For starters, don’t use that smile. She’ll think you’re creepy.”
“Low blow.”
“Maybe…” Ned stares at the back wall. “Nothing fancy.”
Peter flops down on the floor. “So no to flowers?”
“Definitely not roses, she’s allergic. Don’t forget that.” Like how you forgot she’s vegetarian goes unsaid.
“I was thinking a sunflower,” Peter says dreamily.
Ned coughs. “Whipped.”
Peter spins on the floor and shoves him lightly. “I’m serious!”
“So am I!” Ned grins, laughing. “Even May thinks so!”
“Even I think what?” May asks on cue, opening Peter’s door and delivering pizza.
Ned takes the box. “That he’s whipped for MJ.”
“Dude.”
“It’s true, sweetie,” May says, ruffling his hair. “But what’s this about?”
“Pe’er wants to take ‘er to the firewor’s show in the ci’y for Four’ of July,” Ned replies between mouthfuls.
“Chew, Ned.”
“Yes, May. Sorry, May.”
She smiles fondly, then refocuses on her nephew, a tilt of her head betraying confusion. “Won’t she be out of town that day?”
Uh, no—MJ has a nest and never leaves it.
Peter bites his tongue. “Uh, no.”
“You sure?” May asks, scrolling through her phone. “I remember asking her about coming over after your little city trip—ah, here it is: ‘love to, cant. we’re visiting family in maryland.’”
“She didn’t tell me that,” Peter frowns. He turns to his favorite guy, sitting in his favorite chair. “Did she tell you that?”
Ned shakes his head in disbelief, onto his second slice. “Nuh’.”
Peter looks between him and May, then pulls out his phone and calls.
“This better be good, Joe’s about to give Mia cryptic life advice.”
“...Are you watching The Princess Diaries?”
“I would personally love Volthair,” she replies, ignoring his question. “Barbershop aesthetic. Seems fitting with all of his tirades.”
“Why—nevermind,” Peter cuts himself off, “Are you leaving for the Fourth?”
Silence.
“MJ?” he asks, brows knitting.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I—um,” she stumbles, and he’s wondering why the sounds of family and television speakers have receded. “...I don’t really have an excuse.”
“You said we could all go together,” Peter frowns, confused. His feet move automatically, and he’s up and out of his room in three strides. “It’s next week. When were you gonna tell us?”
Me. Tell me.
“Preferably right before, honestly.” She laughs. It’s shaky. “I know you were looking forward to it. Sorry, Peter.”
“I’m—I’m cool.”
“You’re really not.”
He laughs. Stops. There was no kick to that comment. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s, uh.” A pause. Her contemplative pause. He imagines her tucking a strand behind her ear—a nervous tick. “My cousin. He’s sick. Might be his last Fourth of July.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Don’t tell Ned. He’s gonna be all sulky when you go. I’ll talk to him when I get back.”
“I won’t.”
And he doesn’t.
But he does drop off a badly-drawn sunflower on her windowsill the morning she leaves. The back of the paper has equally badly-drawn fireworks on it, clearly made with the limited colors of highlighters and note-taking equipment.
There’s a park at the bottom—or she assumes it’s a park, because there’s a bench, trees, and two people sitting on a sheet, backs to the viewer.
(I didn’t draw Ned because drawing is hard.)
(Half-lie.)
I know we were supposed to go to Central Park, but the fireworks are nicer in LIC.
(Truth.)
I don’t know how to end letters? Hope everything turns out okay. We’ll miss you.
(“I’ll” is scratched out beside “We’ll”.)
Maybe join us next time? New Year’s?
(“me” is barely recognizable under all the pen marks beside “us”.)
She smiles, tucking it into her new sketchpad. She texts Ned a single line:
dont let him try to ride a firework
He replies:
i wont tell him u love him ;) have fun being bored in maryland
(She does. Her cousin gets approved for a new procedure. For once, she draws happy people.
She likes the change.)
iv. upstate
“You should bring a date,” Tony says offhandedly. “That tall friend of yours.”
The Avengers, it turns out, are always in dire need of chill parties where they can eat, be merry, and try not to die. So of course, with Peter’s high school graduation now in the background, they formally (re?)invite the mutant-not-mutant to both the team and the team mixer.
“Michelle?” Peter blinks.
Tony quirks a brow. “How many tall female friends do you have?”
...Touché.
Peter follows him down the hall, keeping in step. “Think she’ll want to come?”
“If I put you in a snazzy three-piece and get you a haircut there’s no way she’ll say no,” the billionaire replies, checking the holograms FRIDAY’s flashing them as he speedwalks through the compound.
“She’s not big on looks.”
Tony smirks. “Tell her I’ll grant her that interview she’s been bugging me for.”
Peter should probably be more insulted that he didn’t argue back by encouraging his protégé, but he’s more surprised by the fact that his best friend has apparently been hounding his boss for something.
Wait.
Ha-ha.
No he’s not.
It’s MJ.
He doesn’t bring up the three-piece suit when he asks her to “come with me so I don’t have to be awkward by myself, please.”
“Sure, why not,” she replies.
Ned does that weird squint thing again, where he looks at her before nodding to himself. Peter still doesn’t know what that’s about, but he has other matters to attend to.
“Tony said he’ll do the interview if you—wait, what?”
“I said I’ll go with you, nerd,” she says, eyes tied to the couple ahead of them in the middle of a breakup. This is to fill up a page she’d found empty in an old sketchbook, so it’s still uniformly People in Crisis. Her hand makes short work of her latest piece, moving swiftly and confidently.
Peter blinks. “Just like that?”
She raises a brow, but keeps her gaze. The girl’s about to down copious amounts of fro-yo, which is always a mood. “I could make it a little harder on you, if that’s what you prefer. I just had a passing sense of generosity because of the scholarship grant. ‘Pay it forward', yatta-yatta.”
He beams. There’s loud thumping all around him and for once it’s calming to hear his heart beat this loud.
(They show up together in semi-formal attire, but nothing too out of the ordinary.
Michelle may or may not have looped her arm in his whenever they walked together.
Peter may or may not have kissed her hand, as if on instinct, when he left her to go to the bathroom. Both times.
The both may or may not have almost blown up Ned’s phone that night with—separate—threads of excited-afraid-wired texts.
Ned definitely threw his phone onto the kitchen counter and ignored them both in favor of sleep.)
v. nyu
Not a date. Not a date. Not a date.
“Can class visits be a date?”
Ned flicks the basketball currently spinning on his pointer. “I wanna say no, but I know you’re talking about MJ, so…”
Peter throws a pillow, knocking the ball back onto the bed. “C’mon, man!”
Ned giggles. Giggles. A straight-up giggle fit in their room. The audacity.
“Ned.”
“Heh, sorry, it’s just—how many times has she visited our dorm?”
“I dunno,” Peter replies honestly. There’s a stash under their bunk bed with extra clothes and snacks for her, which gives him a close approximation. “A lot?”
Ned channels his inner Obi-Wan by nodding sagely. “And how many times have you asked if you could walk her home after that class she TAs?”
Think. Blink. “Um, once.”
“And did she say yes?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Knowing you two,” Ned concludes, returning to his basketball, “it’s at least a habit, probably a date.”
Well, y’know what? Ned was wrong.
It was definitely a habit.
Especially after Peter finds out that she has this post-class energy he never thought would be possible outside of receiving a radioactive spider bite, and solidified by his sudden need to see that smile on her face as many days as possible so he can find a way to preserve it for all eternity.
What a lovely smile.
What a lovely girl.
vi. home
“Hey, can you swing by and drop me off at home?”
“...I’m not a taxi service.”
He can hear her smirking on the other end. “No, but the other guy is.”
“Spider-Man’s not a party trick!”
“He is when the party is me and the trick is I missed the last QM bus for the day.”
“I thought you were the responsible one,” Peter mutters into the phone, already changing out of his pajamas.
“Some of us are overachievers and fall asleep involuntarily in the editing room.” A yawn.
“Why are you taking a film class, anyway?” The wind is like whiplash, and he’s glad to have a built-in heater.
“I like the creative control afforded me by learning how to make documentaries myself.”
“So you’re still trying to sneak ‘interviews’ with the Avengers outside of the facility and onto Netflix.”
“Tell me you don’t want to watch yourself on Netflix. I’ll wait.”
“I don’t want to watch myself on Netflix.” He’s got YouTube. He’s content.
He hears Michelle crunch down on something; likely a granola bar. “Uh-huh.”
I’d prefer to watch you take down some criminal ring from an 8mp camera with questionable sound quality so I can show off how smart and brave you are to random strangers on the street, he thinks.
A breath.
“...Wow, that was actually kinda smooth, loser.”
Swing. “Oh. Uh.”
“You may continue praising me.”
He laughs. “Shut up.”
“It seemed to make you happy,” she says softly.
“Well, yeah. You make me happy,” he replies, just as soft.
They don’t say anything for fifteen minutes, not until Peter’s already crossing the Queensboro and she’s struggling to stay awake. He’s pretty sure the FBI agent assigned to this call is either bored or full of suspense, ‘cause he’s 100% the latter.
“Be there in a bit.”
“Mmkay.”
“Hey, don’t fall asleep. Your dead weight is heavy.”
“When we start dating you’re not allowed to boss me around.”
He misses the ledge of a building, almost dropping his phone. “Wh—when we—?”
“You heard me.”
“Am I asleep?”
“That would be reckless and irresponsible and I wouldn’t have a ride home, so I hope not.”
He stumbles into the alley beside her weeknight dorm. She’s already waiting for him.
“I also hate repeating myself,” she says, ignoring his dazed posture and removing his mask. She hands him a set of clothes from her backpack. “C’mon. We’re taking the subway.”
The mask drops into his hands and he quirks a brow. “I thought you wanted Spider-Man?”
Michelle gives him a look that says That’s Stupid. “Good joke. I always want Peter over Weird-Dude-In-A-Mask. I’ve just learned that it would be easier to trick you than to ask you out.”
Peter.exe errors out. “What.”
“I really did miss the bus, though,” she says, turning so he could change. “By two minutes. Those bus trackers made them heartless, stupid MTA.”
He takes her hand.
She laughs. “Ooh thirty seconds, new record. Did you speed drill with Ned or something?”
“No, I just really wanted to start this date,” he says breathlessly. His shirt’s more thrown over than worn, he’s only tied one of his shoes, and his hair is a mess. He grins lopsidedly at her. “‘s fine, I always look like a bad science experiment, anyway.”
She kisses his cheek. “You’re dumb.”
“Thank you. You’re brilliant.” I love you.
She winks. “I know.”
(He never really knew if he said the last bit out loud.)