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Michelle Jones has undergone a frightening and unexpected transformation.

Not a teen movie transformation, understand. She hasn’t suddenly decided to straighten her hair and lather on makeup and become the epitome of every Instagram model ever. Michelle doesn’t do that. She wouldn’t want to do that. Peter’s positive she’d rather die than do that.

But a transformation has occurred anyhow. Not a physical one. But it’s happened, and alarming.

Michelle ‘the intimidating loner’ Jones has become MJ ‘the kinda mean but caring friend’ and Peter is bowled over that it happened at all.

What? How? Why?

What?

He’s totally in the fog about it. He barely even realised it was happening until he looked back one day and saw that this new friendship-in-progress was like a super-long path: he’s walking down it normally, but a look over his shoulder reveals that MJ is steadily following him with no inclination of turning back or giving up despite his very best bullshit. She’s a goddamned persistence predator and he’s – jeez, something big and dumb and slow and definitely going to murdered by her. He’s gonna end up a half-eaten carcass in attractive African-savannah-looking grass. A semi-masticated corpse slowly oozing and attracting the very largest and very grossest of flies while she walks away –

Mm, actually, maybe not. It’s not like MJ to be wasteful. It’s far more likely she’ll stake out a claim than leave a viable food source for just anything to eat. No, Peter Parker’s dead body is not becoming friends with anybody else: it’s going straight into a freezer for later. Hamburger patties? Yiros? Stirfry?

Anyway.

Eminent death notwithstanding, there are plenty of advantages to becoming friends with possibly (definitely) the most frightening person in the school. Ned insists they’ll never be beat up again, which is downright untrue for a number of reasons. Even if Peter didn’t spend his free time wrestling himself into his bugsona suit (Ned’s words, not his: Peter swore their friendship would be over if Ned ever said those words again) and getting the crap kicked out of him by Minor Villain of the Day, MJ has made it her solemn duty to plant at least one punch on him a day. There isn’t a lot of force behind them and they very, very rarely leave bruises, but Peter would argue he still gets assaulted more by MJ than any actual criminal.

Besides, being beaten up was never a worry before. The only bully Peter dealt with was Flash, and the most Flash has ever done is verbally humiliate him at a party, and in gym class, and at decathlon, and –

Actually, Ned might be on to something.

Peter’s a liar if he says the image of MJ kneeing Flash in the balls doesn’t put a stupid smile on his face. Michelle Jones would do that without hesitation. Although it tragically isn’t Flash getting kicked in his soft spot that makes Peter turn around on the friendship path and realise that someone, against their better judgement, has decided to take a stroll down the mangled fork he’s currently panicking on.

(He needs to come up with a better name than ‘friendship path’.)

The thing that makes him turn around, squint, and say ‘wow my vision must be terrible ‘cause I could swear that’s Michelle’ is not the threat of bodily harm. It’s not even the fact that she was one who dragged him off to puke just after he got bitten at Oscorp.

It’s the very strong smell of coffee.

It’s first period Wednesday following a very active night of patrol and Peter is just about ready to put a pencil through his eye socket if it means he won’t be conscious. Grievous personal body harm is heavily discouraged at Midtown, particularly if it’s only to get out of class, so all his pencils remain in his case and out of his facial orifices.

His facial orifices on the other hand – and the face they’re connected to, and the head that the face in turn is attached to – are pillowed in his arms. Napping before class is another discouraged activity, but it’s either that or napping during class, so he figures he’s actually doing Mr Cowell a favour. Plenty of students who don’t regularly fight crime in the early hours of the morning fall asleep in his monotonous lectures, and Peter doesn’t intend to be one of them.

Not because Mr Cowell is a good or enthusiastic teacher … not at all. But he knows that if he falls asleep he’ll miss all the important historical dates and events. If he misses them, he’ll have to borrow someone’s notes. And if he borrows someone’s notes, he’ll have to find time to read them. And that time will definitely be after patrol, so instead of collapsing into bed at 2am he’ll be reading history notes with drooping eyelids, and then he’ll fall asleep in class the next day and drool a bit because he spent the night trying to catch up on the work, and then the whole hideous vicious circle will go on and on.

This all ticks over in the back of his mind as he tries to catch a few Zs, so his consciousness – oh that beautiful, hopelessly anxious consciousness – continually resurfaces to alert his pituitary gland that hey, maybe it is a good idea to fuck with his cortisol and adrenaline levels, and that yes, repeating junior year is very likely.

The end result is that pencil looking real friendly. His healing factor covers eyeballs, right? It definitely unfucked his astigmatism. So a pencil would only put him out of commission for, like, a day or two, right? So then –

A plastic-sounding thud draws him blearily from his arms and back into the blinding light of the 40W bulb lit classroom. There’s a blue KeepCup sitting in front of him that wasn’t there when he first started napping.

Michelle looms over him with her best and scariest squint.

Peter freezes like an animal that’s just realised it’s being hunted by a persistence predator and can't quite remember how the leg running thing works. Michelle just raises an eyebrow and rolls her eyes in one movement and sits down next to him, which would be enough to make him stare anyway. History is the only class he doesn’t share with Ned this semester, and no one sits with Peter unless their name is Ned Leeds.

“Chug chug, bitch,” she says, shoving his pencil case away with her elbow and opening up her very battered copy of Orlando. “I’m testing you on what we learn today in decathlon tomorrow. Be awake.”

And then she ignores him.

He sits there, stunned.

Not over her ignoring him, which is reassuring and expected behaviour. It’s giving him this unknown beverage that’s mind-blowing. And for what reason? Why? Out of the goodness of her heart? Michelle Jones is famously documented to be no longer in possession of one: she’s assured the decathlon team that it’s currently in Europe being used in some corpse reanimation experiment by an emo college dropout.

Is she doing a Gina Linetti, and the cup is full of cement? Poison? Straight-up sulfuric acid?

Surely the spider-sense would warn him if it was dangerous, so he picks up the cup and, when the back of his brain doesn’t buzz with super-anxiety, takes a swig and narrowly escapes spitting it back out again.

It’s not cement.

There are still a large number of other things it could be, but it’s what most people would expect to find in a KeepCup: coffee.

He doesn’t like coffee. Too bitter, too beany, too adulty. If he needs caffeine he’ll have an energy drink like the Gen Z he is. And he needs caffeine very, very much. He’s had enough energy drinks in the last month to make every elephant on the planet go into cardiac arrest.

He does, however, like this coffee.

Mostly because the vast quantity of condensed milk in it has entirely obliterated the horrible beany flavour. It’s so goddamn sweet. The sugar content is exorbitant. It’s so sweet the most sweet-toothed of children would recoil in disgust, that Dolores Umbridge herself would be kind of bummed to find it that saccharine, and that there’s a zero percent chance of it decomposing naturally. A team of archaeologists in the third millennium would taste it on a drunken dare and conclude the person who consumed the beverage died on the spot from instantaneous diabetic shock.

It’s the best thing he’s ever drank in his life. Just one sip makes him feel awake.

He savours another mouthful before he turns to thank Michelle. Predictably she’s not paying him any attention, nose two inches from the pages of her book and the notes of some indie song floating from her headphones.

Thanking her at this moment seems an already lost battle. But when she sits silently at their lunch table much, much later Peter, starting to feel the caffeine wane, passes back the washed KeepCup, now filled with tea. He had to break into the home economics room to do it.

“Thanks,” he says. “I really needed it.”

Ned gives him a quizzical look, but says nothing.

Michelle just shrugs. “All good, nerd. You better know what date Louis XVI died by 4pm Thursday or I’m kicking you out of the team.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re very welcome.” She picks up the cup, and frowns when she feels it still warm. “What the hell’s this?”

“Tea,” he replies.

Michelle opens the lid and peers in, as if she expects him to be lying. “Huh. Why?”

He shrugs. “You gave me coffee. It seemed fair.”

“Huh. Well. Thanks.”

And she returns to her book, absently poking a pencil into her hair bun.

))8((

The coffee’s effect is totally gone when the last bell of the day goes, and the trek to Delmar’s feels even harder than usual. The bodega’s nearly fixed up now, a little donation from a mysterious benefactor who may or may not have been Mr Stark. The wall behind the counter isn’t quite painted yet and there are a few floor tiles missing by the door, but that’s made up for by having a weird, three-inch-deep square indentation next to the cash register that holds Murph the cat’s pillow.

He orders his normal sandwich and slams three Red Bulls on the counter.

Mr Delmar raises an eyebrow. He says something that Peter forgets as soon as he hears it, and he replies with something that seems to be a reasonable answer. He doesn’t know what he said. But he finds himself outside, twenty bucks poorer and in possession of three cans of energy drink and a squashed sandwich.

It’s a quieter afternoon, thank God. Ned keeps up a steady stream of chatter in his ear; nothing much to report from the news or police scanner, so Peter is treated to May and Ned’s wry commentary on The Bachelorette that has eight pedestrians and a bus driver asking if he’s okay when he laughs himself sick, misses a ledge with his webs and crashes into the window of a McDonalds.

 “Did you faceplant?” Ned demands.

“No,” Peter lies. A small child inside the building lets a chicken nugget fall out of her mouth as she gapes at him.

“That sounded like a faceplant.”

“Yeah it sounded like it, but it wasn’t.”

“Karen, did Peter faceplant?”

Spectacularly, Karen says cheerfully.

“Traitor.”

“Can I see the footage - ?”

“No, you cannot!”

He might’ve survived the day without the coffee and energy drinks anyway. It’s so dead crime-wise that Peter’s back home by five, finished all his homework by seven-thirty, and just waiting for May to finish whatever monstrosity she decided to make today. He smelled tuna when he walked into the apartment, so he prepares for something almost completely inedible.

“I forgot to ask,” Ned says, not looking away from his phone, “what was that at lunch with Michelle? Did she buy you a coffee?”

 “I guess so?” Peter’s dangling off the top bunk by his knees, deleting incriminating footage from the suit. Ned hasn’t noticed what he’s doing yet, and he hopes he doesn’t realise anytime soon. He’s purging all embarrassing material from the last three months.

Hopefully it’s enough.

“I dunno, she might’ve made it?” he continues. “There was like. So much sugar in it I don’t think any self-respecting barista would’ve agreed to make it.”

“Michelle’s a barista.”

“What? Serious?”

“Uh huh.” Ned flicks through Facebook. “At Madelatte on Forty-Seventh.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

Ned turns his phone around. Peter squints. Filling the screen is a staff photo for a small café: Michelle and another girl stand behind the coffee machine in flowery aprons; the rest of the employees are lined up behind the counter. Their expressions are of varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“Are you Facebook stalking her?”

“No! It was just in my feed at an incredibly convenient time.”

“Huh. Well, anyway, it was nice, y’know? To get me coffee. I really needed it.”

He returns to deleting footage, and Ned doesn’t notice what he’s doing for another five minutes, and by then it’s too late.

On Thursday morning there’s another drink on his desk, and he does remember what date Louis XVI died that afternoon in decathlon. And for that, Michelle gives him something that looks suspiciously like a smile.

))8((

Coffee from Michelle Jones becomes a daily event. Peter gets up, turns his room upside down to find some clean clothes, eats breakfast, brushes his teeth, leaves the apartment, realises he forgot lunch, runs back to get it, arrives at school and finds a KeepCup (never the same one, always a different colour) of some atrociously caffeinated, unspeakably sugary drink that manages to keep him awake all the way up to lunch. If first period is a class he and Michelle share, she puts it down on his desk and ignores him after a brusque nod. Shared class drinks are always hot. If they don’t share first period (Tuesday mornings), he finds an iced drink in his locker.

Should he be worried that she knows his locker combination? He decides he doesn’t particularly care if she keeps bringing him coffee, choosing instead to sag with relief and annoy the teachers by chewing ice in class.

Then he arrives to the cafeteria late after sneaking into the home economics classroom to thoroughly wash the cup, and – instead of just returning it to her – fill it with tea.

Even if she’s not talkative some lunches, she always drinks the tea.

He’ll take what he can get.

This year there are three weekly practices for Academic Decathlon. One on Tuesday after school, another on Thursday, and the last on Friday before homeroom.

He doesn’t attend all three practices.

He consistently makes two practices a week (Thursday and Friday), which is already two better than last year. Tuesday afternoon, however, is exclusively for patrol and he won’t budge on it. No one believes it's the Stark internship, and he doesn’t bother trying to convince them it is. But no one challenges him on it anymore; it’s a fact of life: water is wet, fire is hot, Peter Parker is a weirdo who skips Tuesday practice and you shouldn’t bother asking why. He hasn’t rejoined robotics lab – and doesn’t plan to – and his clarinet won’t be emerging from its case anytime soon, but his shit has been pulled together sufficiently to convince his teammates and a fair few teachers that ‘the Flake’ is no longer an accurate middle name.

It’s a Thursday afternoon session. Peter’s up on the stage, seated with Cindy and Abe at one table. Ned’s on the other table with Lacy and, to his consternation, Flash. The rest of the team are lounging around rereading their notes, Mr Harrington is dissociating in the corner, and Michelle stands before a wheeled whiteboard divided in two, team names written across the top.

(Team Flash, as predictably chosen by Flash, and Team 2.)

“Who is the author of the 1867 poem Dover Beach?” Michelle asks, twiddling her marker restlessly.

Flash hits the buzzer immediately. “Percy Shelley,” he says with undeserved confidence.

Peter and Cindy exchange a Look, and smirk as Michelle’s left eyebrow tracks up towards her hairline.

“Care to explain your reasoning?” Michelle asks sweetly.

Flash, to his credit, now looks doubtful. He explains uneasily that it was written twenty years after Frankenstein (incorrect), and that he knows this because the author Percy Shelley (incorrect) was married to the author of Frankenstein, Mary Shelley (shockingly, correct).

“So when,” she asks, “do you think Frankenstein was published?”

“1848?”

Peter takes the utmost pleasure in listening to Michelle inform Flash that Percy Shelley had been eaten by fish when the author of Dover Beach was barely a foetus, and that not knowing when Frankenstein was written is a crime punishable by vicious mockery.

After she has Flash squirming in his seat, Michelle shouts, “Can someone who actually read the literary packet answer the questions, preferably correctly?”

“Matthew Arnold,” Cindy says, slamming the buzzer three times.

“Correct. And the second? Frankenstein?”

“1818,” Peter pipes up.

“Correct.” She puts another two points on their side of the whiteboard.

Flash scowls.

“Here, I’ll give you an easy one to soothe your injured dick; thirteenth letter of the alphabet.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry, Mr Harrington.”

“N,” says Flash.

“Flash is wrong.”

“Abe, shut up – ”

Mr Harrington sighs through his nose, and Peter can’t help but grin.

Practice ends early – something about Mr Harrington acquiring a stress ulcer, which would come as a surprise to no one were it true – and Peter is just shoving his last few pages of notes into his bag when Michelle says, “You’re staying behind, Parker.”

“What? But I answered all the questions right!”

She doesn’t look concerned by his miniature panic attack. She leans against her elbow on his desk and says, “Jesus, relax. It’ll take three minutes.”

He turns to Ned. Whether this is to seek support or to share his fear, he doesn’t know. Ned, ever helpful, just shrugs. “I’ll wait outside,” he promises. Then he disappears, and it’s just Peter and Michelle.

It’s nerve-wracking being alone in a room with someone who exudes the aura one would expect to find around people with concealed weapons. It’s even more terrifying because she’s not looking at him, thoroughly occupied with something in her bag.

In sophomore year, a rumour started circulation. It was one the teachers, for once, blatantly rolled their eyes at, but underclassmen and sophomores and even a few juniors went wild over. The subject, Courtney Lee, was one of those seniors with the dead eyes, permanent bags under her eyes, and perpetually blank expressions. The rumour was partially based in truth, and this component was well-known.

The facts: Courtney Lee had, on her way home from school, been accosted by two men in an alley. The two men found themselves in hospital less than two hours after they first pulled her into an alleyway.

These facts, which circulated Midtown Science and Technology within the week, gave birth to the full rumour: Courtney Lee had a taser in her schoolbag which she used to incapacitate her attackers.

A few days after Courtney was made aware of the rumour, she dispelled it by announcing she used her black belt Tae Kwon Do training to put them in the ER, which was objectively way cooler.

But.

A taser.

Peter fidgets. Michelle looks up from the bag and squints at him.

Observation ascertains that Michelle has bags under her eyes and the stare of a serial killer. And Peter knows for a fact Michelle is deceptively strong: for someone who spends every gym session bench-pressing her latest novel (if even that!), she sure clears the rope quickly.

He would not be surprised if Michelle had a taser. Oy gevalt, please let her not have a taser –

She tilts her head. “What are you doing, Peter?”

“Sorry?”

“I mean, what are you doing? You’ve been reliable – well, I mean I wouldn’t actually go that far; less reliable is probably closer to the mark.” She says it all like she plans to continue, but wants to continue only after confirmation that he’s taking it all in.

“Uh. Yeah, I guess I have.”

Her eyes manage to narrow even more. “My question is, can I count on you?”

“For - ?”

“Decathlon, dipshit.” There’s something in her voice that says it’s not just for decathlon. “Can I count on you? Are you gonna keep this up? Be at two practices a week, read all the prep material, do the practice rounds, actually learn what you don’t know? Are you in this a hundred percent?”

“Yeah,” he says immediately.

She raises an eyebrow. It’s much less fun to watch when he’s the one on the receiving end.

“Yes,” he repeats. “I mean it.”

She has an amazing poker face.

“I really mean it! I was going through a bunch of stuff and I – I didn’t handle it well. I thought pulling out of everything would be better for me, but it wasn’t. It made things way worse. “

She doesn’t even twitch. Is she blinking? Is she breathing? Does she have a heartbeat?

So he soldiers on. “I want to be part of decathlon. I like decathlon. And I know I was so flaky last year that you probably don’t believe me when I say it, but anyway. It’s true.” He heaves in a deep breath. “I will be there for the competitions, I will practice the material, I will learn what I don’t know and I will be at practice every week.”

She stares at him for a little longer, and then shrugs, as if he’s passed a test. She withdraws a thick sheaf of paper from her bag. “New material,” she says bluntly. “You learn faster than the others, so you’re getting accelerated. Congratulations. Don’t let it get to your head.”

He flicks through it. It’s almost all chemistry and physics; much harder stuff than they learn at school. It looks like it was photocopied from a college textbook.

And then, because he’s suddenly feeling bolder:

“Oh, I can’t afford a swollen head. Flash has the monopoly on the market.”

He’s rewarded with a ‘ha!’ that doesn’t sound anything like a real laugh but, from MJ, is as good as. He takes it as a victory.

“Everything else is pretty much rote learning, so I want you to tackle all the harder science and maths concepts now. There’s a booklist at the back of things you need to read.” She looks at him hard. “You’re the best at physics we have. Liz can’t cover for you anymore. If you pull out, we’ll only have Flash and I’d personally rather die than have Flash anywhere but on the bench.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you down, Michelle.” The words feel heavy. But not because they’re untrue, but because he finds he really, really means them.

She studies him for a few more seconds.

“My friends call me MJ,” she says for the second time, and shoves his shoulder. He makes himself rock on his heels with the force, a little too late for it to look natural.

“Okay, MJ.”

And that’s that.

))8((

Miche- MJ said to call her MJ, which means she considers them friends, which means that they are friends.

Maybe that’s why she keeps giving him coffee? Because they’re friends, and she’s not trying to lull him into a false sense of security, but just does it because that’s what friends do when they notice someone looking tired. Because it’s the nice thing to do. Their friendship is further established by MJ spontaneously deciding to sit opposite them on the lunch table instead of at the very end.

So naturally the nice thing to do is for Peter to try harder at involving her in conversations at lunch. It’s what friends do and, as previously stated and repeated to monotonous quantities, they are friends.

“What are you reading now?”

He doesn’t really expect a satisfying answer. He expects MJ to completely ignore him, or maybe grunt an answer without looking at him. After all, the only times she’s talked to them in the cafeteria was to remark that they were creeps or losers, or to accept her KeepCup and then go back to reading after a failed conversation attempt on Peter’s part. Maybe that’s what she classifies as being friends?

Instead of doing any of that, she closes the book over her fingers and shows him the cover. It’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. Beside her arm is another battered-looking book with a bloody guillotine enthusiastically illustrated on the cover, and a bunch of red flowers. He gives up trying to read the title upside-down, and looks back at the one in her hand.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s the one by Oscar Wilde, yeah?”

“You’ve read Oscar Wilde?”

“Nope. But I did see that movie about him with Stephen Fry and like. Super-young Jude Law. May thinks he’s really hot.”

It’s not a matter of opinion. Past, present, and future Jude Law is hot, honestly, but Peter’s not sure where MJ stands on people like him. He can’t imagine she’d be homophobic or biphobic, but this is a better safe than sorry situation.

The corner of her mouth quirks in a sarcastic smile. The smile of a serial killer. “Ah, Jude Law. A real slice of ass.”

“Jude Law,” Ned repeats solemnly, as if the phrase said directly after that weren’t possibly the weirdest and most hilarious thing Peter’s ever heard in his life.

Peter tentatively asks if she’s seen that Sherlock Holmes movie with Jude Law in it, and she actually puts a real, honest-to-God bookmark between the pages and replies.

The conversation devolves after that into bickering about whether or not the guy who played Sherlock opposite Jude Law looks like Tony Stark, and then into other Sherlock Holmes adaptations, then into a rant about how apparently smart people all have to be assholes in media, then a total topic change when a senior, in a fit of sleep-deprived rage, throws his burrito on the ground, and Ned mentions The Lonely Island.

This simple reference makes MJ’s eyes bulge as she tries to prevent her wry smile from becoming a genuine one.

“What the hell does that face mean?”

“It means nothing.”

“It means something,” Peter retorts, and he’s correct.

It turns out she loves Andy Samberg, and the rest of lunch is basically the three of them talking about Brooklyn Nine Nine and laughing themselves sick. Or at least in Ned and Peter’s case. MJ’s smile just gets wider and a little less feral.

“I’m just saying,” MJ says, “you are exactly like Boyle.”

“I am not,” Ned argues.

“Oh yeah? Amazing cook, always makes unintentional innuendoes, and is like super obsessed with his best friend?”

“Those innuendos are intentional I’ll have you know – ”

“Does that make me Jake?” Peter asks.

She tilts her head and considers him. It feels like staring into a laser. “I used to think you were an Amy.”

“What? How?”

“Yeah, back when you cared about schoolwork. In freshman year I remember watching you have a panic attack just before a Spanish quiz because you couldn’t find your blue pen.”

Peter remembers that incident. He tries not to.

(He stands by the panic attack.)

(It was a really good pen.)

“But now …” she squints, and points her fork at him. “You’re a dork, weirdly obsessed with fictional characters and celebrities, deceptively smart – ”

“Deceptively?”

“Want me to downgrade you? Grade-A dumbass? As I was saying, deceptively smart, you’re Jewish, you’re totally disorganised, and you have no idea how to talk to women.”

He can’t even argue with the last part, but he tries. MJ tells him the more he argues, the more likely it is she’ll redesignate him as either Hitchcock or Scully, and he doesn’t want to risk that. He gives up, and tells MJ that she’s clearly their resident Rosa Diaz.

She looks inordinately pleased by this.

When the bell rings (did lunch really go by that quickly?) MJ sticks with them as they walk to calculus. She sits at a different desk in class and they don’t talk to her for the rest of the day, but that night she sends him a link through Messenger, and a single word: Flash.

Aunt May stomps into his room to demand an explanation as to why he’s lying on the floor laughing himself sick at two in the morning. Instead of answering he flaps his arms silently like a seal and thrusts the phone in her direction.

She watches it and laughs too, and things don’t seem weird and tense for a few moments.

They’ve been on thin ice ever since she found out. When she first found it was awful. When May gets really, really angry she cries, and seeing May cry makes Peter cry, so the whole night was spent in angry, frustrated, distressed and scared tears as they tried to shout and demand and explain to each other but couldn’t over their own tearful hyperventilating.

They still haven’t even really come to an agreement yet, even after all that yelling and crying. They adamantly pretend everything is as it was before, and when they have to address his extracurriculars the most they ever say is what time will you get home tonight and its response. When he gets injured he tells her. Only the small injuries, though. The bruised knuckles. The little cuts. He got a papercut at school he didn’t tell her about and he saw how still her face got when she watched him put on a bandaid.

He stays out later and later just so he doesn’t have to go and pretend to May like everything’s fine, and she doesn’t have to pretend right back at him.

But tonight Peter and May end up sitting on the carpet and watching the entirety of Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping on his phone and the apartment block Wi-Fi. And things are good for a little while, and they don’t have to pretend.

))8((

A week later Peter’s back to pretending.

At one in the morning he’s nursing a stab wound in his thigh. The knife missed the major arteries, but it’s still bleeding a fair amount and hurts enough that his re-entry into the apartment is not as quiet as it should be. His scuttling on the wall knocks a lamp, his pencil case, and a book MJ lent him onto the ground, and the pencils decide to skitter around for an excruciatingly long time.

It’s only divine intervention that ensures May doesn’t wake up and run in to see him lying on the ground, bleeding into the floorboards. He crawls into the bathroom with his first aid kit (the one May had silently and tearfully provided him with a few days after her discovery) and wakes up at five still in the shower stall. 

He soaks an old towel and wipes away the crusty little chunks of dried blood. The skin he clears them from is red and raw-looking, and his stitches aren’t up to his usual standard. Irregular, messy, and about as parallel as a reverse-parallel park: not at all. The black thread is horribly visible against his skin, so terribly stark that he just stares at it, dazed, for a minute.

This is an injury that will make May cry should she find out about it. So she can’t know. Dressing’s a pain in more ways than just the metaphorical, but he emerges into the kitchen half an hour later with his darkest pair of pants and a red flannel shirt. If it starts bleeding again, at least it won’t be too visible.

May’s hunched over the kitchen table in her pyjamas, idling flicking through the news app on her phone, because May has a chronic aversion to sleeping in after 6am. Her bowl of cereal is soggy and forgotten by her elbow.

“I’ve got a Spanish quiz today, so I’m heading in early to study with Ned,” he lies, and turns to make lunch before May can see how awful he looks.

There’s nothing much in the fridge, so he just grabs the browning lettuce and old chicken (still smells edible) and stuffs it between two slices of bread. Getting a bit stale, of course. He’ll have to stop by a supermarket on the way home.

May raises her eyebrows over her coffee (stone cold, probably). “At six?” she asks.

She’s not wearing her glasses. Her distance vision is shit. There’s no way she can see how bad he looks.

Thank God.

He’s prepared for questioning. “It’s just on compound tenses, no big deal. But you know how he’s doing French too, yeah?”

She hums in confirmation.

“Well, apparently it’s like the same deal in French, and he keeps getting them mixed up.”

This convinces her. Maybe it’s the same with Italian too? Ugh. Maybe he should ask at some point. “Go! Go save Ned!”

“I’ll drop by the supermarket after decathlon practice,” he promises.

She waves him off and he goes, pretending not to see the relief on her face that today’s afterschool activity is not of the life-threatening variety, and pretending it doesn’t hurt to walk.

Today’s ‘coffee’ tastes like Red Bull with an entire can of condensed milk. It probably is. MJ threw a crushed Red Bull can into the bin just after he arrived. He drinks the whole thing in one go, swallowing about nine ibuprofen capsules with it, and tells himself that he can make it through the day.

The wound throbs right down to the bone, and the pulse of pain spikes up to his hip. The painkillers kick in a few minutes after swallowing them, but nothing gets rid of the hot, hazy burn sitting behind his eye sockets. At least he’s awake, even though Miss Niewiarowski’s voice is coming from miles away, the algebra classroom is tinged red, and his organs feels overheated; a sure sign he’s had too many painkillers and his healing factor is frantically keeping his liver from shutting down.

))8((

“You look especially shitty today,” MJ remarks as she drops her pile of novels on the lunch table. Peter’s still not sure why she still brings books to lunch … or why she brings so many, since she now spends the hour snarking off at them. She reaches a hand over the table to Peter, and retracts it with the yellow KeepCup and the vegetarian contents of Peter’s sandwich.

“Dude.”

MJ ignores him. “You may wanna keep the drug trafficking as a weekend-only thing,” she says through the lettuce. “Drawing way too much attention. Unless it’s intentional, and you’re trying to lure Flash in to sell him a sixty-buck bag of oregano. In which case I’ll end you if I’m not there for that transaction.”

Ned snorts into his thermos of bulalo, and is rewarded with a cautious, pleased, close-mouthed smile.

Maybe MJ needs reassurance that she’s funny just as much as Peter and Ned do.

The caffeine and ibuprofen are wearing off and the bone-tiredness settling in, so it takes a few extra moments for his brain to process the translation. From MJ-speak to English: you look like crap, and it’s concerning.

The only appropriate response to this is a witty comeback; a while back he made the mistake of answering a concern with an earnest response. MJ mimed vomiting into KeepCup, and he gave up.

Ned beats him to the comment.

“He can’t be a dealer, MJ. Weed’s not kosher.”

Peter has a vivid flashback to youth group and the debate inflicted upon poor Rabbi Garfield. This is a discussion he will enjoy observing. He plants his chin against his arms and his arms against the table and watches with a tired smile.

“Of course weed’s kosher, dumbass. It’s a plant.”

“Medical cannabis is kosher, weed isn’t,” Ned corrects.

“Medical cannabis is kosher because all weed is kosher.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“It’s not!”

“Parker, you’re the Jewish authority at this table. Tell Ned he’s wrong.”

“As the Jewish authority at this table, I’m gonna sit back and wait to tell the survivor if they’re right or not.”

MJ turns back to Ned. “I bet if I google it right now – ”

“ – it’ll say I’m right? So brave of you to admit it, MJ.”

“ – Wikipedia will say it’s kosher.”

“You’re wrong.”

Peter grins.

“’If smoked,’” MJ reads from her phone, clearly ignoring Ned, “’under normal circumstances there is no reason cannabis would not be kosher – ”

Ned lunges for the phone and, after a brief scrabble in which the contents of Ned’s thermos nearly end up in Peter’s lap, emerges victorious. MJ dives for him and Peter, who has the misfortune of being seated between them, ends up sprawled on his back along the bench, winded, with MJ’s elbow in his stomach while Ned runs to the other side of the table.

“You’re censoring information!” Ned yells as he scrolls upwards. “It says right here that, like, three rabbis and the Orthodox union say medical cannabis – ”

“They say nothing about weed!” MJ shouts back. “And journalists censor information because a third are in the government’s employ, a third are cowards, and the other third have been assassinated, none of which I plan to be! Gimme my phone, dickwad.”

“No.”

“Give it.”

Ned throws the phone to Peter. He fumbles with it for a second, and then it’s snatched back into MJ’s keeping.

“For the record,” Peter says, “MJ’s right.”

The glint in her eyes makes him feel like he’s achieved something today, and he hasn’t done anything significant besides get stabbed.

“My point, before Ned so rudely interjected his wrong opinion,” MJ says, sitting up straight and commencing a thorough bag search, “is that you look like shit, so you should keep the drug trafficking – which you could definitely do since it’s kosher and even if it wasn't  it doesn’t matter if you’re not the one smoking it – to the weekends.”

“I always look like this.”

“It was an encompassing statement. I just mean that, on this particular day in this classy locale – ” she gestures towards a pair of seniors engaged in a fierce game of tonsil hockey, “ – you look shitty and so, by extension, do so ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s a concern.”

Ned cackles, as if the weed argument is long forgotten.

“Ninety-nine percent? That means there’s one percent where I don’t.”

“There sure is,” she says, apparently having succeeded in tracking down her lunch from her bag. She hauls out an enormous packet of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and nothing else. “Gym class, obviously. I’m aware of those muscles, even if no one else is. Damn boy. Ten outta ten.” She pats the place on his torso she’d just elbowed him.

A piece of chicken falls from his open mouth.

“Classy,” she says. “And Jesus Christ, are you made of rocks?” She pokes him in the side a few more times.

Ned laughs again as Peter squirms to avoid her offending finger. Ned could just leave this part of the conversation and be replaced by an intermittently-screaming hyaena and there would be no discernible difference. MJ takes advantage of Peter’s gaping mouth, magma-hot face, and diverted attention to reach over and –

“Hey.” He swats her hand away from his sandwich. She retracts her hand, squinting in that jokey-yet-potentially-serious way that used to give him anxiety. Now it makes him feel bolder. “Honestly, you have a whole bag of Reeses, leave my sandwich alone. What kind of monster are you to go after a piece of lettuce over a bag of peanut butter cups? Weirdo.” And there’s that familiar fizz in his stomach, the one he gets when he can’t quite believe he’s sassing Michelle Jones (or trying to) and getting away with it (with all limbs intact). It’s not the one from his liver loudly complaining about the ibuprofen dosage. He doesn’t even feel as tired anymore.

 “I’m perpetually hungry. I have a greater caloric need due to my superior height. I’m five foot ten, you’re – what are you? A flat five oh, yeah?”

“Oof,” Ned says helpfully.

“Ha ha. I’m five seven and you know it.”

“Sure you are,” MJ says with the tone of someone talking to an adorably wrong child. “And anyway, who says the Reeses are for me?”

She reaches into the bag and takes a huge handful that she deposits in the pocket of her hoodie, and then dumps the rest of the bag in front of Peter. She pulls apart his sandwich (that he hadn’t noticed she’d swiped), puts a still-wrapped peanut butter cup in it and returns it to him.

 “They’re not a substitute for a proper meal, Parker,” she warns. “But they’re better than the lettuce. And you’re coming with me to McDonald’s after decathlon anyway, aren’t you?”

They’re friends. It’s not weird to hang out after school on a Friday night. But MJ has never asked them to hang out with her before. They ask her, and she readily accepts. Not the other way around.

And there’s that strange look on her face. Tense. A bit unsure. Expressions he never thought to see on her, but this is the second time now.

“Yeah,” Peter decides. “We are.”

))8((

“God, maybe you do need the calories,” MJ remarks. They’re wedged into a booth at McDonald’s. Ned left after they first ate their burgers, and while the idea of being alone with MJ is a bit frightening, he’s now finding the reality isn’t a problem.

She pushes over the last of her fries and gives him a warning glare when he tries to refuse.

“I guess?” he says weakly.

“I suppose with your deal you’ve got a faster metabolism.”

Peter freezes, fry halfway to his mouth. “Come again?”

“Your drug problem, man. You need to eat more.”

“Uh – yeah. That’s right. Snorting weed makes me hungrier.”

MJ stares at him for a good ten seconds. It takes the same amount of time to realise his mistake.

“Did you just say snorting weed?”

“No!”

“Snorting!”

“Okay, I’m tired! I meant to say smoking! Obviously, obviously I meant smoking! I smoke weed all the time!”

An elderly man gives him a look from across the McDonald’s, but a weird noise distracts him.

He realises the noise is coming from MJ, a snorty-kinda noise that makes him stare. It takes a few seconds to work out what she’s doing: a bad job of holding back her laughter.

It’s objectively a terrible laugh, but it’s nice. Makes her more human, and as though she actually likes him.

Of course she likes him. They’re friends, aren’t they? She lent him a book! One of her precious books!

“Who’s snorting now, MJ?”

She throws her cup at him.

))8((

The bathroom is totally empty, which he’s grateful for because he’s smiling like an idiot as he sticks his shirt under the tap and wrings Dr Pepper out of it.

There was only a little bit left in the cup, but it really did get everywhere. His jeans are going straight into the laundry pile when he gets back to the apartment; they’re drying slowly and stickily to his thighs. The bandage hidden beneath them is wet too.

It’s possible that it’s started bleeding again but, after tucking himself into a stall, a look concludes that the horrible wound doesn’t look like quite so lethal anymore. The stitches fell out when he unwrapped it, a sure sign his body is sick of this external aid bullshit and is fine to heal by itself, thank you very much. Sure, there’s a lot of bruising, but it’s yellow and old-looking. The actual scene of the crime is a pinkish scar, not a gaping injury. It hurts. Like the growing pains he got when he was small. In a day or two it won’t even be a scar. It’ll be gone completely.

He’d almost forgotten he’d been stabbed. Whether it was intentional or not, MJ totally distracted him from it. From the pain and tiredness.

‘Whether it was intention or not’. Who is he kidding? Of course it was on purpose. MJ doesn’t do things by mistake. Every action she makes is carefully planned and performed. She did this on purpose. She on purpose decided he needed to be cheered up and distracted. She doesn’t even know he’s Spider-Man. She doesn’t even know.

He wonders if it really would be such a bad thing if she knew, and realises that he’s not smiling anymore. The lightness of the past few hours has disappeared, and the day – and life – bear down heavily on his shoulders. He’s tired now. He’s so tired.

He throws the bandage in the bin for paper towels and immediately takes it out when he remembers it's a biohazard, screws it up into a ball and stuffs it in his soggy pocket. Then he stares at his reflection.

It’s even more unimpressive than usual.

He’s unimpressive to look at on the best of days. Too short. Too pasty. There’s no correct length to his hair. It’s either a level of short that makes his eyes look bulgy, or it just looks grubby and in desperate need of a trim. One of his eyebrows is always trying to tear itself in half, and his cheeks always puff out a little bit like he’s holding his breath, or holding a frog in his mouth.

In addition, today he’s even paler. A horrible greyish shade that any doctor would take one look at and declare a hospital case. The bags that perpetually reside beneath his eyes are way past that now; they look permanently blackened, and maybe they are. He chews his lip until it bleeds sometimes. There are reddened lines on his lips that reappear as soon as they’ve healed.

He doesn’t look like a superhero. He looks like a nerd in a sweater who got beaten up and is trying not to cry about it in a bathroom.

If he told MJ, she would never believe him. She would laugh. Or, even worse, she’d think he was an attention-seeking chronic liar and wouldn’t want to be friends with him anymore.

But she’s his friend, she deserves to know.

But what if it ends up like with May?

But what if he doesn’t tell her, and she finds out and is furious at him for not telling her?

What if everything becomes tense and awful and they’re tiptoeing around each other?

MJ finding out about Spider-Man would be just the same as May finding out. He can’t risk it happening. Can’t risk it ruining anything.

He stares into his own eyes, and wishes he didn’t have powers.

Can’t he pretend? Can’t he be normal for a while? Can’t he just hang out with his normal friends and do normal teenager things and worry about normal teenager things and just –

Can’t he have that? Shouldn’t he have that?

Maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

He sighs, puts his dripping shirt back on, and waits for his eyes to stop burning.

))8((

When he returns to the table MJ’s talking to someone on the phone. She makes a gesture for him to stay quiet.

“Yeah, we were just about to head off,” she says. Peter takes this as a cue to start clearing the table of their wrappers and napkins. “Sorry to make you worry. I’ll tell him. Definitely. Of course. It was nice to meet – well, I haven’t really met you. But my point still stands. Yeah. Sure! Ha, yeah! Uh-huh. Okay. Bye, Mrs Parker!”

Peter startles at his aunt’s name and knocks the soda cup onto the floor. He was meant to get groceries. That was what he said he was doing after decathlon. He had a chore to do after decathlon and he totally forgot about it –

The cheap IKEA clock on the wall reads 7:45.

Oh my God.

He didn’t even think they’d been there that long –

“Oh my God, I’m so late – ”

“Relax,” MJ says as she tosses his phone back to him. “She just wanted to know where you were. And she asked me to tell you she’s already eaten, so you don’t have to worry about groceries until tomorrow.”

Despite the promise that they don’t have to rush, they powerwalk to the subway station. Then they talk on the train for ages, and they’re so into it that when MJ gets off a few stops before Peter he almost gets off with her.

(She doesn’t notice.)

(Thankfully.)

(He’s not sure if she’d let him live it down. She already got the ‘snorting’ material today. He can’t let her have more.)

He’s only on the subway for another ten minutes, idly opening another of the borrowed books, but he sends her a photo of a dude that gets on who looks weirdly like Tom Cruise, and they’re still texting about how bad the reboot of The Mummy looks when Peter enters the apartment.

May’s waiting for him. She’s pulled a chair up to face the front door, so she’s the first thing he sees when he enters the apartment. For a horrible moment he thinks they’re going to have The Conversation and they’ll be crying and shouting again, but she’s –

She’s grinning.

What?

“Did you have a good day at school?”

“Uh …” He closes the front door and leans back onto it. This is suspicious. This is very, very suspicious. “It was okay.”

“How was decathlon practice?”

Her smile has not faltered. It’s not her fake smile. It’s her biggest, most shit-eating grin.

“… Fine.”

“How was dinner?”

“… Better.”

May leans forwards.

“Who’s Michelle?” She wrinkles her nose. “And why’s your shirt wet?”

))8((

Words cannot describe how ecstatic May is that Peter is friends with a real, live, breathing human girl.

“I can’t believe it!” She gushes the next morning unprompted. They’re just sitting there drowsily, spooning cereal into their mouths while the TV drones in the background.

Peter looks up bleary-eyed from MJ’s copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel. “What?”

“You should bring her here sometime!”

“Who?”

He knows who.

“Michelle!”

Words also cannot describe how embarrassed May makes him. Peter stares into his cereal bowl and tries not to flush.

“Is that a blush? That’s a blush! Oh, Peter. Peter! I can’t believe you’ve got a girlfriend!”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

May gives him The Look. Peter doesn’t smile.

“Are you going to ask her to be your girlfriend?”

He opens his mouth to instinctively say no, May, I’m not gonna ask out my friends cause I don’t like them like that and – 

And he stops, and thinks.

It’s not an idea he’s ever considered before. He wouldn’t have thought of it for a while longer if May hadn’t brought it up.

A year ago, the idea of asking Liz out was the most nausea-inducing, anxiety-accelerating concept he could put to mind. Nothing was more terrifying. Not being killed by aliens. Not Flash pantsing him in gym class. The choice between asking her out and serving as a Xenomorph incubator was a no-brainer. It wasn’t terrifying because she’d probably say no. It was because there was a possibility, however slim, that she’d say yes.

And then he’d spend the rest of his life carefully picking his actions. Is he being too embarrassing? Too nerdy? Dumb? Awkward? Casual? Over-the-top? Shy? Overconfident?

Even thinking about it in the present stresses him.

But thinking about dating MJ (as May so kindly put the idea in his head) doesn’t do that. It’s about as frightening as the prospect of asking out Ned: not at all.

Too embarrassing? MJ embarrasses him on purpose. He wouldn’t have tone it down. Too nerdy? MJ already knows he’s a loser; she tells him so at least once a day. It hasn’t scared her off yet. Sure, she makes fun of him for pretending to like Star Wars on Ned’s behalf, but then she’ll talk to him about Star Trek when Ned’s not there. Dumb? He’s always dumb. Awkward? He’s way less awkward around MJ than he ever was with Liz.

If he went out with MJ he wouldn’t really have to worry about he acted. As long as he wasn’t offensive (and he likes to think he’s on the other nicer end of the White Dude Scale), nothing would change.

He chews on it, and his cereal, quite methodically. Like it’s a math problem, and not a potential relationship. 

So to Aunt May’s question, he replies, “I haven’t really thought about it.”

And there must be something in his face, because May doesn’t make fun of him. In fact she grows serious and sits up straighter. “So this isn’t another Liz thing?”

“What do you mean a Liz thing – ”

“I mean it’s not a gigantic huge crush – ”

And she’s back to teasing.

“May!”

“What! I’m serious! I thought that maybe you had a crush on her and so that was why you were hanging out with her alone at fast-food places and – ”

“We’re friends, May.”

But his track record isn’t so good. First grade: Harry Osborn. Third grade: Gwen Stacy. Seventh: Sam Alexander. The Venn diagram of his crushes is pretty much a circle: cute, clever, and way taller than him.

It’s almost inevitable he’ll fall ass-over-tits for MJ sooner or later.

Probably sooner.

Shit.

“I’d like to meet her anyway,” she says, directing her attention back to her now-soggy cocoa puffs and acting as if Peter isn’t having a quiet crisis across the table. “I’d like to meet the person who distracts you from risking your goddamn life …”

He looks hastily up. May’s expression isn’t the tight, worried expression he expected. A little frustrated, sure, but not as fearful as he’s come to expect.

“I’ll ask her if she wants to come over and watch movies with me and Ned,” Peter promises.

May smiles, and what’s left of the fearfulness goes.

))8((

The sticker MJ sends in response to the invitation is the squintiest, most suspicious-looking thing he’s ever seen that he’s convinced she went and made her own Messenger stickers to transmit the exact emotion.

Michelle Jones: whats the catch

Peter Parker: there isn’t one

except like

you’ll have to meet my aunt

and she will be like SUUUUUPE R weird just to embarrass me so like. watch out cause she’ll probably embarrass you too

Michelle Jones: nice

Peter Parker: yeah so if that makes you not wanna come then that’s all good too

Michelle Jones: uh boi

im coming

not every day i get more blackmail material

Peter Parker: wow

sometimes I really get the feeling you don’t like me

Michelle Jones: categorically untrue

if i didn't like you i wouldntve bothered waiting for the invite

just bust in like ‘ayyyo bitch this my pad now’

Peter Parker: I WASN’T FINISHED I WAS GONNA SAY BUT YOU BRING ME COFFEE EVERYDAY SO I KNOW YOU DO!!!!!!!

like me, that is

unless

the coffee has huon particles in it and you’re secretly trying to use me to awaken a race of aliens living in the centre of the earth and this is just some cruel deception

oh my g-d

is that th e real reason we’re friends

how could you betray me like that???????

Michelle Jones: jesus FUCKING christ youre a loser

is this how you react to friends in general

‘hmmm well they either like me or theyre a fucking racnoss’

(im not denying anything btw)

(stay on your toes boi)

Peter Parker: ???? when did I say racnoss?????

!!!!!!

Michelle Jones: dont even fuckign say it

Peter Parker: !!!!!!!!!!!!

Michelle Jones: what did i just fuckin g say parker

and stop abusing punctuation marks

Peter Parker: can’t believe you watch dr who

ccannot believe

wait

if you watch why do you give me so muc h shit for it

Michelle Jones: you just make it so easy

Peter Parker set the nickname for Michelle Jones to Martha Jones

Martha Jones: hmmm

is it because im black

Peter Parker: oh g-d no

No I swesar I didn't mean it like that

fcuk

I’m really really sorry

I promise I didn’t mean it like that

it’s cause you’ve go

sorry hit enter

it’s cause you've got the same last names

and because you’re both so smart

I’m sorry

I should have thought about it befor ei did it it was stupid

I swear I wasn’t like stereotyping

Im really sorry if I insulted you

I really didn't mean it

It's the last thing id want to do

i’m really sorry

Martha Jones set the nickname for Peter Parker to squirming

Martha Jones: holy shit youre so easy to rile up

like man i was about to say lmao jk but boi

boi you are so fucking fast at typing lol

anyway marthas a badass

see you round punk

squirming: wait so are you coming?

mj

mj are you coming

????

oh you said you were beofre

haha sorry

))8((

The invitation said they were starting their Alien marathon at 6pm on Friday night. At 5:57 Peter bursts into the apartment, his spider-sense burns at the back of his skull, and he trips over an alien pair of shoes and falls spectacularly across the room and headbutts Ned in the stomach.

“Ow,” says Ned. Peter struggles to his feet, and tries not to kick the offending pair of Doc Martens as he does so.

“That was really, really stupid,” MJ says. She’s standing behind Ned and looking all amused. She’s clutching a square bowl of chips to her stomach, while Ned just holds his own stomach and makes a sad face at Peter.

“You guys are all here already?”

“Nah, we’re not.”

“Ha ha.”

“Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer, Parker.” She shoves the bowl in his direction. There are gummy worms mixed in with the chips.

“That’s gross,” he says. He grabs a handful.

She shrugs and stuffs some in her mouth. “You’re eating them anyway,” she says through them.

“Doesn’t stop it being gross.”

It’s very gross. But MJ makes a weird sort of cackling noise when he eats it that has Ned staring, so he takes another handful.

“You’re so disgusting,” Ned tells Peter with a revolted expression. He turns to MJ. “And you have such a dignified laugh.”

“Shut the fuck up, Leeds,” MJ says. “Now show me Extra-Terrestrial.”

“Alien.”

“Same thing, right?”

Her face is deadly serious but for the twitch in her lip. It’s weird seeing MJ out of school. She’s not wearing her usual ensemble (the kind that just screams ‘do not fuck with me’), instead opting for an incredibly comfy-looking pair of sweatpants and, to his surprise, a Florence + the Machine band T-shirt. It completely changes her.

It’s weird, but not bad. Not even a little bit.

The couch isn’t quite large enough to fit the three of them comfortably, and MJ isn’t exactly good enough friends with them yet to be comfortable being squashed in a Peter-Ned-MJ couch sandwich. They instead sprawl on the floor, luxuriously covered in every blanket and pillow in the apartment (excepting, of course, the ones from May’s room). MJ – like the monster she is – mixes skittles in with the m&ms and salt and vinegar chips in with the barbecue, so each bite of snack is an adventure in itself. She keeps a pile of books on her lap anyway (“if this movie sucks I have to entertain myself somehow”) and makes a huge show of opening the top one, but pretty soon the pile is spilled out across the floor and she isn’t paying an ounce of attention to them.

MJ runs a commentary on the film the whole way through. As soon as Jones appears, she turns to Peter and says, “If the cat dies, I’m killing both of you for making me watch a movie where the cat dies.”

Peter reassures her very quickly that the cat does not die. She is unconvinced of his honesty. Luckily, Ned chimes in to save him.

“Peter wouldn’t be watching it either,” he says helpfully. “He loves cats.”

She’s surprised by this. “Really? I would’ve thought you were a dog dude.”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

She makes a grabby hand, and Peter dutifully passes over the chips (now devoid of gummy worms).

They’re well into Aliens when May gets home from work with the promised pizzas. May throws them onto the abandoned couch and they dig into them like ravenous xenomorphs.

“There’s no point to putting anything on pizza but cheese, tomato and basil,” MJ declares through a slice. “Margherita is the pinnacle of Italian food. Earth cuisine. Mrs Parker, you’re an absolute angel. Thank you.”

This is such a not-MJ thing to say that Peter pauses in his pizza-devouring to watch their introduction.

May folds her arms and leans onto the back of the abandoned couch, smiling down at them.

“It’s nice to meet you at last, Michelle,” says May. “I assume you’re the one who’s kicked Peter back into shape?”

“Hey.”

“The ladies are talking, Peter,” May says sweetly.

MJ laughs. “Yeah, Peter.”

“Yeah, Peter,” Ned adds.

“Get outta here, Ned, that includes you – ”

))8((

Halfway through Alien 3 Ned is asleep, and MJ has one arm inside her shirt, dramatically feigning gruesome death as her fist bursts out of her stomach. Peter didn’t sleep at all the night before, and his half-functioning brain thinks this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen. He starts to laughs, and stops when his oesophagus realises he was in the middle of swallowing something, and MJ has to pause the movie as he tries to hack a skittle out of his trachea.

“Yikes.”

The skittle is gone when Ned looks up at him, still half-asleep.  “Did you almost die from eating a skittle and not getting stabbed by a drug dealer or something?” Ned realises too late what he said could kind of imply Peter does superheroics in the street. “Uh – that is – I mean – ”

“Relax, I already know about Parker’s weed snorting habit.”

“Weed snorting?”

“You guys suck – ”

 “I’m still fixated on you nearly dying just then,” MJ interrupts. “You did that cat thing, y’know? Where it does, like, the worm when it’s trying to barf.”

May has to come out to the living room and tell them to shut up, they’re watching Alien for God’s sake, what the hell is there to laugh about in those movies –

))8((

At the end of Alien: Resurrection, Ned is once again asleep, Peter is finally ready to fall asleep.

“You should put on the next one,” MJ says in the voice of someone who by no means is actually awake enough to watch the next one.

“Seriously?”

Peter knows he is not awake enough to make it through the movie.

“Yeah boi.”

So he drowsily crams the DVD for Prometheus into the player.

They don’t last ten minutes.

))8((

MJ leaves for work before Peter wakes up, and he can’t help feel disappointed he didn’t see her off.

And anxious.

Did she enjoy the marathon? Did she like the movies? Didn’t she? Did she like the movies and have a fun time? Or just have a fun time but not like the movies? And God she left all her books on the ground there, she’ll be so pissed when she gets home and realises –

The best thing to do in this instance is to simply make himself to restlessly busy that he doesn’t have the time to worry about whether or not MJ enjoyed movie night.

But it’s Saturday. Shabbat. And web slinging and crimefighting probably count as spinning or weaving or trapping or at least one of the melakhah, and he’s not brave enough to ask Rabbi Garfield if it would count or not. Then it would be why the questions, Peter? Or Peter tells himself that anyway, since this is the same Rabbi Garfield who, unprompted, joined a conversation during youth group about whether Jewish vampires could exist, and actually humoured Rachel Ness when she asked if the aliens that invaded New York could be considered kosher (this occurred when Damage Control was still picking up alien corpses in a dump truck).

He compromises. Turns on the police scanner and starts to read one of MJ’s books (The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, he finished The Scarlet Pimpernel ages ago), and he’s about four words in when the radio announces there’s been a hold-up in a bodega and that’s the decision made, isn’t it?

The rest of the day is incredibly busy, and he can’t help but feel grateful and not inconsiderably guilty. Bodega robbery. Lost child. Car crash at a major intersection.  Pickpocket nicking a woman’s purse. Another bodega robbery. Kid’s stuffed toy stuck in a tree. A severe talking-to to the kids who threw the stuffed animal up there in the first place. Lost Indian tourist. Man late for a job interview. Muslim woman asking advice on which new headscarf to buy from an outdoor market. Selfie with a six-year-old girl in a Spider-Man costume. Lost Australian tourists. Lost German tourists. A third bodega robbery. And, if you can believe it, some more lost tourists –

The last event of the day is an attempted mugging. The man’s fine, the attacker is webbed up, knife out of reach, and Spider-Man wipes blood off his elbow and ruefully examines at the torn fabric.

Only he, Peter Benjamin Parker, would be able to rip a suit designed to be impossible to rip … twice. A sliver of skin is visible beneath the quickly-drying blood and he sighs at what May will say when he arrives home with a bloodied arm. A needle and thread will provide a temporary fix, but after that he’ll need to call Happy and get the suit sent to Mr Stark and –

“Hey,” says a voice, and he nearly leaps out of his skin. He doesn’t quite manage that, but he does leap onto the alley wall and knock over a trash can.

MJ stands there, her headphones tilted to expose one ear, hand buried in a bag of chips. Her bag’s not quite zipped properly; a fold of floral apron is visible. Her eyes are a bit dead, like she just spent eight hours working, but there’s a crinkle to the edges that suggests an invisible smile.

“You all good, Spider-Man?”

His spider-sense fades and the shit machine in his skull screams to life, and he says, “Please, call me Spider. Mr Man is my father.”

God fucking damn it –

MJ blinks. Peter tries not to punch himself in the face. He’ll save it for later.

But in a stunning turn of events, his total embarrassment is rewarded by a smile. Not a full one. The kind of smile he got when he first fumbled around, trying to be friends with her. Reserved and wry, but nonetheless amused.

MJ doesn’t know Spider-Man. He’s the teensiest bit saddened it’s not a full smile, but something warm and sappy coils in his chest. What does that say about Spider-Man, in that he obtains a smile (albeit sarcastic) from Michelle Jones in their first real vigilante/civilian interaction?

“Outdated memes, Mr Man?”

“Spider. I insist.”

“Okay. Outdated memes, Spider? I expected better of you. Though I guess your social media presence is lacking, so I can’t expect more.”

Peter makes a mental note to make a Spider-Man Instagram when he gets home. Or a Twitter, maybe … but definitely not a Tumblr. That’s the kind of freaky site that would be interested in his bullshit, and in return Peter is uninterested in its bullshit.

Thirteen-year-old Peter has so much to hide.

“Real memes never grow old, miss. I’m a real connoisseur. Only the finest vintage memes for me, thank you. That tang of acetic acid … mematic acid …”

She snorts.

It’s kind of the greatest sound in the world.

“I was gonna say that looks kind of painful.”

He looks down at his elbow.

“Oh boy, it sure is.”

“Yeah?”

“Agonising. It’s definitely the most painful injury I’ve ever gotten in my entire life. But – ” a huge, fake sigh, “I just have to strive on.”

“Wow, you’re so brave.”

“Thank you. The continued support of citizens like you are what make the pain worth it, miss.” She snorts. “An amazingly high pain tolerance is just one of my many incredible powers. I got a splinter once and? I didn’t even cry. Much.”

“Oh, Mr Man,” MJ exclaims theatrically, putting her hand against her chest in a mockery of those old-timey actresses, “you’re so strong and brave. Please tell me more about your incredible powers.”

“I liquidize all my food and drink it from a crazy straw.”

MJ lets out a huge mock gasp.

“I’m helpless if you bring out a cup and piece of paper.”

“How terrible.”

“Bug spray is lethal.”

“Sound like shitty powers, Mr Man … sorry, Spider.” She still says it in an impressive Transatlantic accent.

“I have some good powers … I mean, I’m good at web-swinging, yeah?”

“I can see the web shooters on your wrists.”

“I never said they were natural! Anyway, my coolest power is definitely … detecting micro-changes in air density.”

 “Micro-changes in air density, my ass,” MJ says, and Peter’s jaw drops.

Was that an Alien reference?

That was an Alien reference.

Oh my God –

Play it cool, Spider-Man –

“It’s the honest-to-God truth, Ripley.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. How about a real power then?”

He leans forward conspiratorially. “Not to brag, but I’m like. Super good at juggling.”

“Why didn’t you lead with that?”

She disappears home shortly after. Peter swings back to the apartment in an obscenely good mood; so delighted that May doesn’t even look sad about him being Spider-Man. She just tells him to not wear that thing in the apartment, Peter, it’s filthy –

“What’s the good mood for?” She asks when he emerges from the bathroom, washed and bandaged and clad in an old, soft T-shirt that now spends its life as pyjamas.

“I was just talking to MJ.”

“Oh.” Her delivery of the word goes through at least three octaves and six key changes, but he can’t even be slightly annoyed about it he’s grinning so madly.

At 2am he’s still smiling like a serial killer, but it’s directed at the ceiling this time. And that little voice in the back of his head that whispers you can’t tell her you’re Spider-Man is just a little bit quieter.

))8((

Monday morning heralds another MJ Deluxe coffee, but this one’s a bit different.

He squints at the black sharpie decorating the side of the white KeepCup, and –

“Did you draw xenomorphs on this cup?”

“I sure did,” she says.

It’s a great drawing. It’s a miniature him – and he knows it’s him because MJ has exaggerated his swoop of hair – making a frowny face as a xenomorph bursts out of his chest.

“Classy.”

“That’s my line. But I forgot something incredibly important.” She leans over with another sharpie, scribbles something else.

It’s red sharpie, and there’s now lots of blood splattered across KeepCup!Peter’s chest. It doesn’t suit the calmly dismayed look on his face. But that just makes it funnier.

“Nice.”

“Turn the cup around.”

Cartoon Ned screams at his demise. Cartoon MJ is bored and thoroughly occupied with Jones the Cat. MJ quickly dots some blood onto their faces.

“That’s so graphic.”

“It’s realistic. You expect me to draw a chestburster attack with no blood?”

 “I expect nothing from you because you always do the thing I don’t expect out of pure spite.”

He gets a vague smirk for this.

“You’re learning, Petey-boy.”

“Petey-boy?”

Of course their banter has to be interrupted by the worst person on the face of the planet. Flash Thompson, clad in his most blindingly white sneakers, a can of Monster clutched in his hand, looks down at Peter with the glee of someone who has discovered a lame nickname they can now abuse.

It’s a very specific look.

“Petey-boy,” Flash repeats delightedly. “Jesus, is that what she calls you?”

Before he can even deny it, MJ jumps in. “Jesus, you call those white shoes?”

Flash clearly didn’t expect a response. Pretty stupid of him, since MJ is possibly the only person in the school who can kick his metaphorical legs out from under him. He looks down at his feet, as if expecting to see a sneaky shoe aiming for his ankle, and then back up at MJ. “Yeah? I do?”

“Well, keep talking to us and they won’t be white anymore.” MJ takes the xenomorph KeepCup and shakes it, staring at Flash meaningfully.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I definitely would. It’s tragic how these accidents happen. So sad how you knocked into the desk and knocked coffee aaaaaaall over those Balenciagas.”

“Uhhh I would just tell Mrs Herschlag you poured coffee on them.”

“That’s not how I remember it happening,” Peter interjects happily. “You knocked into the desk and it spilt.”

“That’s right.”

“It was terrible.”

“But nothing could be done.”

“I should know,” Peter says meaningfully, “I was a witness to the disaster.”

Flash just stares, brow wrinkled. “Parker, are you – backtalking?”

“I would never – ”

MJ snorts. It’s a very familiar noise by now. And then leans forward, a new and serious expression on her face. “So you can afford Balenciagas … interesting.”

“Duh.”

“We have a product in your price range,” says Peter. “Oregano. Sixty bucks a bag. What say you?”

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have made the joke.

In his defence, he had no idea the events he would set in motion.

In retrospect, it’s one of the greatest moments of his life.

Laughter explodes out of MJ like a bomb. The force is so great she rocks forward and crashes into the desk, the desk sways, and the xenomorph cup – now more likely to be a symbol of Flash’s immediate death than Peter’s xenomorphy demise – tilts forward and off the desk.

Things happen in slow motion after that. The cup topples – the lid isn’t on properly. MJ sways back into her seat, the amusement sluggishly turning to alarm. Flash’s mouth widens into a scream, and –

Peter catches the cup. No coffee is spilt.

But Flash lurches back anyway, the can of Monster slips from his fingers, and –

There is a fatal accident in Monday morning calculus. There are a few survivors.

))8((

Unluckily for MJ and Peter, this is the third no-longer-white-sneakers incident in a week and as a result Principal Morita has lost all semblance of patience (assuming he ever had it in the first place) relating to the dumbass situation. After Principal Morita sees the lot of them in three separate interviews, the three of them sit together in the office. There are only two chairs, and Flash immediately claims one of them.

“You take the chair,” Peter offers MJ.

She takes it. But it’s amazing how like a shark she is. He’s just moving to stand behind them when she seizes him in a bony, unbreakable grip, drags him down and squeezes him in next to her.

“You don’t have to share,” he manages.

“Partners in crime, Parker,” she replies. “Equal in everything.”

Their thighs are smooshed together so tightly there’s going to be a red imprint on their skin.

Principal Morita studies them in his most disillusioned way and presents the verdict. “Detention,” he says wearily. He’s looking straight at Peter and MJ when he says it.

Peter isn’t altogether upset by this. He’s in too good a mood over his joke going over so well with MJ to feel distressed by the prospect of detention. And anyway? One detention? Nothing compared to the twenty-something he attended last semester.

In fact, he’s barely paying attention. MJ’s laugh keeps echoing around his head. A full-on laugh. It wasn’t even an especially funny inside joke. But there were honest-to-God tears in her eyes. Whether this was because of the joke, or because her laughter started up again at Flash’s face as he gazed at his ruined Balenciagas, he wasn’t sure.

“Ha!” Flash says.

“The detention is for all three of you,” Morita finishes, and Flash’s victory smile vanishes as his lower jaw collides with his chest.

“What?”

MJ wears a look of absolute delight. Flash looks as though he was personally informed that not only did he have to experience a colonoscopy, but he was to be the nude model for a sculpture class containing only blind people over sixty.

Peter is just surprised.

“Eugene, I’ve had to speak to you about harassing your peers before. Michelle and Peter, you each gave a slightly different account. I don’t know who’s responsible for this …” he gestures, and sighs. “I’ve decided you’re all guilty. You’ll see Coach Wilson in the detention room after school.”

Flash opens and closes his mouth noiselessly.

“Anything to say?”

“I – ”

“Excellent. Go back to your classes. Detention at 3pm, sharp.”

Flash stalks off ahead as they emerge from the office. MJ releases Peter’s arm that he didn’t realise she was holding.

“That was worth it,” she says, and smiles. Not a closed-mouth smile. She shows her teeth and her eyes scrunch up a bit and her cheeks go rounder.

He physically feels his heart swell and hears a crackle in his ears like static electricity.

‘Sooner’ has arrived.

Fuck.