Archive of Our Own

Michelle can’t sleep.

The thing is, she’s no stranger to sleepless nights; she’s a top student at Midtown, and that doesn’t come without its sacrifices. She’s done the all nighters for the art history reports, the physics projects, the practice problems for calculus exams. It’s standard procedure. Pop by a coffee shop, get an extra shot of espresso, and then...commit to the stay-awake-athon. It’s not that hard, for someone with Michelle’s brain and determination.

Only this...isn’t that.

It’s been days and falling asleep is...hard. There’s no paper, no test - not even an academic decathlon meet coming up. She tries the sleepy time tea, the white noise machines, even watching mind-melting shows like Keeping Up With the Kardashians on her laptop. But it doesn’t work. And when she does fall asleep, because it’s been two or three days with a total of six hours of sleep and her body just gives…

Her dreams aren’t the most pleasant.

She always dreams of her attack and subsequent mugging from a few weeks back, and it’s never quite the same. Which is frustrating. The premise is there. Michelle walks from a coffee shop. Michelle has her earbuds in, so she doesn’t hear anyone until it’s too late. Michelle doesn’t have a chance to turn around and break his nose before she’s clocked into tomorrow.

But the attacker always looks different. Blonde. Brunette. Short hair. Long hair. No hair. Always a man, even though she never really sees much of his face. Just a vague outline. When she wakes up, her heart about to leap out of her ribs and absolutely itching out of her own skin, she has just enough sense to grab the dream journal she’s started keeping by her bed and write everything down. Sometimes it’s two pages worth. Sometimes it’s just a word. All of the time, it feels like nonsense.

The dreams are worse than walking around like a zombie, so she takes a page from Tony Stark’s book and starts living and breathing coffee. When that’s not quite enough, she adds the occasional red bull, despite the sugar overload. After one particular rough night she contemplates dumping the energy drink in the coffee, but even she’s smart enough to recognize that’s just heart palpitations in a cup.

There’s a lot of coffee shops in New York, several she’s never been too if one can believe that, so she takes to visiting a new one each time. Michelle makes a game of it, rating each shop on variety of coffee offered, taste, atmosphere, customer service, and even the damn logos on their cups. The notes are all scribbled between sketches of alleys, buildings, and shadows.

Not to sound like a total emo teenager, but her nightmares are pretty much her only muse. Her hands are often covered in charcoal and teachers have begun to complain about the smudges on the papers she’s turned in. Too bad for them, she doesn’t really care.

So days go by and she sits in her room, away from Jake and Amy as much as possible, and tries to pretend her nerves aren’t stretched out rubber bands ready to snap at any moment. Because she’s fine. Michelle Jones is always just fine.

Until Peter pulls one of his Spider-Man stunts and climbs through her window.

Aside from the part where he’s stealthy as shit and she didn’t even hear him come in until he’d shut the window behind him (he’d texted her that he was on her way, but still: she had a hard time not jumping out of her skin), there’s also the worrying detail of the giant red splotch on the front of the white hoodie over of his suit.

“Jesus,” she swears silently, jumping up from her desk chair to lead him over to her bed. “What happened?”

He rips the mask off, face bruise free and brow furrowed in confusion. “What…” he trails off when he sees her staring at his chest, her hands slipping underneath the white cropped hoodie and reaching for the emblem on his spidey suit. “It’s not blood!” he rushes to say, grabbing her fingers before she can undress him. “Hey, it’s not blood. I’m okay.” To prove his point he reaches down, swipes his finger in the bloody colored mess, and sticks his finger in his mouth. “Marinara sauce,” he says around his finger before he pulls it out with a loud pop! “I...may have gotten distracted while I was eating my sub and dropped it.”

Unbelievable. She puts on her best blank face as she pokes him the emblem with one finger, the suit deflating anyway. “Aren’t you supposed to be graceful? Part of the whole spider-bite superhero gig?”

Peter shrugs, the motion lost as he starts to take the stained hoodie off and scamper out of his suit. “Usually, but someone was walking their three dachshunds and they all had matching sweaters! It was the cutest thing I’ve seen all week.” His grin goes lopsided before he reaches over and kisses her cheek. “Besides you, of course. Ooh!” he exclaims before Michelle has a chance to tell him how cheesy that is. He grabs the leather jacket she got from Rosa off the back of her desk chair. “You still have this. Can I borrow it? It’ll be my best Spideygram yet .”

She rolls her eyes at the coined term, something Ned proudly came up with last week. Unfortunately for her, the SpideyofNYC Instagram has gotten quite the buzz. The white hoodie with the word Nerd written across the chest is probably gonna be a hit, but nothing can beat a leather motorcycle jacket. But Michelle feels the need to remind him, “No. You can’t wear identifiable clothing. We’ve been over this.”

His shoulders slump. “Aw, c’mon! Tons of people have leather jackets. No one will know it’s Rosa’s. See -” he cuts himself off as he tries to slip on the jacket, but his arms are, annoyingly, too buff. Stupid jacked teenager. He ends up wearing it like a cape over his shoulders, and it’s quite the pairing with him in just his gingham boxers. “Fits like a glove. I look cool.”

“You look ridiculous,” she corrects, a smile tugging on her lips as she snags the jacket back and pushes him to sit on the edge of her bed. Even though Jake and Amy won’t be home for a few hours, she folds up Peter’s spidey suit and hides it away before she finds him a spare tee and sweats for him to wear, tossing them square in his face.

He doesn’t refute; just continues to wear his dumb goofy smile as he dresses. But as Michelle takes a seat at her desk chair,  shoving her journal deep underneath decathlon flashcards, his smile fades to something of concern, especially when he notices the empty coffee cup shrine that is the left side of her desk.

“That’s a lot of coffee.” He lets out a long whistle. “You might be outdoing Tony with that collection.”

Michelle shrugs, spinning in her chair so her back is fully to him. Now is not the time for him to notice the dark circles under her eyes and the messiness of her hair. Not even the hairpin he gifted her has been able to tame it the past few days.

There’s a soft thwip and Michelle’s chair jerks slightly as his webbing sticks to the back. He turns her chair slowly, his smile still there before he rolls the whole thing his way, up against the bed. “I think you’ve studied enough. Bed time.”

She raised a brow, challenging. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“Of course not,” he agrees. “But you’re tired. It’s written all over your face.”

She waits for Peter to do one of his corny superhero feats like lifting her like she’s nothing and tucking her into bed. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward and gives a flick to the chains in her hairpin before he takes it out, putting it in his own hair.

The image is just ridiculous enough for her to crack a grin. Peter’s posture slackens in relief and he does pull her off the chair this time, right into his lap. “Nightmares, right?” he asks. “You don’t have to tell me about them, I get it, it’s just...that’s why you haven’t been sleeping since Career Day, yeah?”

Peter was never the most perceptive individual, but that was before the spider bite.  She’s figured out that these days, it’s impossible for him to miss the tiny details, at least when it comes to things he’s concerned about. He stopped making stupid errors on his math tests, catches each and every single thing thrown at him (intentional or not), and to her dismay, reads Michelle a bit like her favorite book.

Ugh. The student has become the teacher. How annoying.

There’s no use in lying to him. Not when he already has figured it out, and more importantly, not if she wants to properly navigate any close personal relationship for the first time in her life. She can’t just dodge every question he brings up like she’s so used to doing with everyone else her whole life. Being completely closed off can’t cut it - not with them, not with her knowing he’s Spider-Man.

He puts a lot of trust in her. He deserves the same from her.

With a sigh Michelle reaches up and starts running a hand through his hair, her eyes decidedly looking at the middle of his forehead. Intimacy for her comes in slow, agonizing baby steps. “Yeah,” she admits. “Nightmares. They’re…”

“Jarring?”

A nod. “I’d rather be awake, as miserable as that sounds.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, no, I get it. Really, I do.”

A thought comes over her. She’s surprised she hasn’t thought it up before. The plane crash, the warehouse coming down, his uncle. “So you do get nightmares?”

His face scrunches. “Sometimes. Usually about Ben. But I haven’t in a long time.”

She keeps running her hand through his hair. “Yeah, rub it in.”

He moves one hand that’s wrapped around her and slips it underneath the back of her shirt, blunt nails scratching gently up and down her back. “I didn’t tell you that to make you feel bad,” he says softly. “I’m just pointing out that they don’t last forever.” Peter leans forward and presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“I’ve heard that before,” Michelle groans, scooting off Peter’s lap and sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. She leaves her legs over his thighs and Peter’s hands move, automatically  rubbing at the soles of her feet. “But I’ve got shit to do. My brain needs to get it together.”

“Have you told Jake about any of this?”

She tries really hard not to pout. “No. It seems out of his pay grade, so to speak.”

“Em,” Peter admonishes, pinching one of her toes. “He’s your uncle. He loves you. If can help, he will.”

“We haven’t...really known each other all that long. I know he wanted to get to know his long lost niece a little better but…”

“He took you in for the semester,” he points out.

“Yeah, but still. There’s a difference between asking him to attend an academic decathlon meet and asking him to shoulder my psychological damage . He’s not a shrink. ”

“You’re gonna ask him to a decathlon meet?

“Peter.”

He smiles, lopsided again, and leans in to give her a quick kiss on the corner of her mouth. “I’ll be honest, I’m glad you were the one to drop the S word instead of me. Tony’s been hounding me to ask you if you need any recommendations. He’ll pay, by the way.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. Of course he’ll pay. “I don’t think I need therapy…”

Peter’s eyes simply flicker to her coffee and energy drink shrine.

Goddammit.

“If it gets worse,” she tacks on with a heavy sigh. “I’ll give Tony a call.”

He frowns. “Not Jake?”

“Not Jake.” She shakes her head. Somehow getting family involved feels...strange. Or, well, personal. Mostly too personal. “Tony...gave me his number awhile back.”

Peter looks like he knows this. “Since when are you two on a first name basis, huh?” he teases, teeth splayed in a pretty-boy grin. He playfully bumps her knee. “He’s been mentioning you as MJ.”

“He talked me down from a panic attack. It’s not a privilege I give everyone, so I guess that makes us friends. Sorta. That, or the fact that he let me keep the credit card you thought you lost.”

Peter whines, face falling forward. “MJ! I looked everywhere for that thing!”

“Don’t leave it on your jacket pocket where I can get my grubby hands on it,” and she flexes her charcoal stained fingers to make a point. “That and your Rubik's Cube.”

Peter shoots back up, eyes wide. “Oh my god that was you! Tony’s teased me for hours when I couldn’t solve it at his place!”

Michelle simply smiles. “For someone who’s become so perceptive, I can’t believe you missed that I had messed with the stickers.”

“I thought my brain was melting. That I had finally slammed into one too many buildings.”

“Serves you right.”

He pouts. “You’re mean.”

“Not always.” And to prove her point, she leans in, kissing him slowly.

Peter hums his approval, pulling her close and kissing her just as gently before he pulls back and gives another kiss just as soft to her temple. “Not always,” he agrees, fingers tucking stray hairs behind her ears. “Now. Bed time.”

This time she pouts. “ You’re mean.”

But Peter doesn’t keep up with the stupid back and forth. Instead, he swoops her up with just one arm and all the ease that Spider-Man has before he uses the other to unmake the bed and tuck her in. “You’re gonna lay in bed and think good thoughts until you fall asleep. I’m gonna sit at your desk,” he tucks the comforter around her, making an MJ burrito. “And I’m gonna finish up the decathlon study sheets. Sound good?”

“You’re gonna just...sit there?” Michelle nods to her desk. “Doing homework while I try to sleep?”

“Yep.” He kisses her twice, first on the nose, then on the lips. “Just trust me, okay?”

She does. She trusts him more than she’d like.

Peter gives her one last pat to her knee before he does as promised and heads over to her desk. She watches, silently, as he first rids the top of coffee cups and then even folds a few of her sweaters before he sits in the rolling chair, feet propped up. He then grabs her decathlon notebook and laptop, and gets to work.

She stares at him, studies him, like she always seems to be doing. He twirls his pen in his hand between questions, and his typing is erratic, often filled with jumble and then the incessant click click click of someone repeatedly hitting the backspace button. Michelle doesn’t realize how long she lays there just watching him work in silence before she finally falls into a dreamless sleep.

When she wakes up, it’s almost midnight and Peter is still there. He’s moved from his place on the desk to beside her on her bed, sitting up against propped pillows with the laptop in his lap. The room is dimmer, with only one lamp on the nightstand so he can see, and she realizes he must of darkened the room when he heard Jake and Amy come home.

“I’m still here, go back to sleep,” he whispers, eyes still on the screen. But he manages to run a hand through her hair. In her sleep haze she notices he’s still wearing her hairpin in his hair. It’s crooked and about to fall out. If she wasn’t so sleepy she’s laugh.

“I...didn’t have a nightmare.”

He finally looks over at her, eyes lidded like he’s sleepy, too. “Cool trick, huh?” he leans down and kisses her on the forehead. “I’ll be gone before you leave in the morning, though, okay? You’re alright. Just go back to sleep.”

She does, secretly hoping that he’ll stay until morning and his nightmare-proof method will keep working.

But you can’t always get what you want.

Next time, Michelle wakes up with a scream caught in her throat.

She’s never really experienced waking up from such an intense nightmare before. This is by far the worst one yet. The room is pitch black and Peter has left as promised - the clock on her desk reads 3:49 AM in bright red lettering. Her heart is racing, her back is coated in sweat and she’s kinda nauseous.

Strike that, she thinks when the scream in her throat slowly congeals into what is most definitely bile.

Slow really is the right word. It’s almost taunting how little effort her stomach puts into twisting itself into a knot. To puke or not to puke; Michelle still isn’t too sure if she’s gonna hack up her dinner but she makes the stumble to the bathroom all the same. Her eyes squint under the harsh fluorescent lights and she sits by the toilet, lid up, shaky and sweaty. And she waits.

Eventually, after reading the back of a shampoo bottle one and a half times, she throws up.

And despite her quiet and lady-like upchucking, that and the sound of the toilet flushing is still enough of a commotion to wake up her uncle. He stumbles to the open doorway, eyes only half open and a fly swatter in one hand.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the words lost in a yawn.

Michelle sits herself up against the tub, the cool porcelain doing wonders to her back. “Were you planning on fighting a home invader with a fly swatter?”

Another yawn. “Maybe. ” He uses it as a makeshift back scratcher before he throws it down the hall. He yawns one last time and it’s like he’s suddenly been doused with a glass of cold water: wide awake. He frowns as he puts all the pieces together and comes to kneel in front of her, putting a palm to her forehead. “You sick?”

Her panic attack in the middle of Career Day last week was embarrassing enough. She’s not about to admit to him  that she’s having panic attacks in her sleep, too. So she settles for a half-truth. “A little. I’ll be okay.”

“Something you ate?”

“No. I’m good, really.”

Jake hums, hand lingering on her forehead before he smooths away some of her hair that’s plastered in sweat against her cheeks. “You want me to stay up with you for a bit? I can make you some tea for your stomach and we can put a movie on.”

Michelle isn’t entirely opposed to the option, however childish it may make her seem. She nods and starts to get up, an arm braced against the toilet, when Jake leans forward and does all the heavy lifting.

“I gotcha, here we go,” he grunts, voice still a little thick with sleep. He puts both arms underneath her armpits and tugs, setting her upright and against the vanity. “I’ve got your favorite - chamomile and lavender tea. You know, that real hippy brand you like?” he tells her as he helps her to the couch. “I went all the way to one of those organic markets to get it.”

“I bet you’ve never seen so much kale in your entire life.”

“Why are there so many vegetables,” he laments far too loudly for the middle of the night. “But it wasn’t even the strangest part. What the hell is kwuh-no-uh and why was there an entire aisle dedicated to it.”

She fumbles with the throw pillows on the couch as Jake wanders over to the kitchen. “Do you mean quinoa?”

“Oh, it’s French?”

“I…” Michelle stumbles for an out, all while being too aware of her sweaty forehead and the bad taste in her mouth. It’s a battle worth losing, though maybe a worthwhile decathlon question down the line. “Sure,” she sighs, falling into the cushions and rubbing her cheek against the pillow. She stares ahead in the dark an an equally dark TV, too lazy to turn it on.

The light in the kitchen flickers on and the living room is cast in a sickly light, creating long and narrow shadows. Jake’s bumbling about makes sharp noises that doesn’t do anything for her frayed nerves. Her eyes flicker down to the coffee table when she sees them:

Amy’s case notes.

Jake is humming some tune - The Spider-Man theme song he made up, to be precise, as the kettle begins to whistle. Michelle forces herself to sit up and reaches for the notebook hoping that they are exactly what she thinks.

The crowbar muggings.

Amy’s handwriting is far better than Jake’s. It’s like she’s a robot that can write in perfect size 10 Times New Roman font. It’s all stuff she can’t take out of the precinct, recaps of documents that have to stay locked up. Locations, victims profiles, times of attacks - but no real description of the attacker. It seems Michelle’s not the only one that can’t remember anything except the fear that accompanies this sort of event.

“Okay, I got your tea, I got my hot chocolate,” Jake’s voice snaps her out of it and she hastens to shove Amy’s notes back on the coffee table exactly as they were. She thinks she gets away with it when a still sleepy-eyed Jake shoves a coffee mug in the shape of a Hulk fist into her hands. “Sip on that and it’s sweet dreams.”

She takes a sip despite it being too hot, just to hold her tongue.

“What movie do you want to watch?” He asks. “Not to brag or anything, but I have Nicholas Cage’s entire filmography.” She doesn’t even get a chance to answer before his face lights up and he announces, “National Treasure! Have you seen National Treasure? Oh, you’d love National Treasure. It’s his smartest movie.”

Debatable, really, but she’s not picky when it comes to a distraction. “I’m down for a rewatch,” she tells him, needlessly, as he’s already setting up the DVD.

“You and your friends could totally steal the Declaration of Independence,” he tells her once the movie starts. She’s tried to arrange herself on the other end of the couch but Jake sets the throw pillows against his side and gently lays her head against them. “You, spitting out the history facts like Ben Gates. Ned, the tech guy cracking jokes in the earpiece a la Riley Poole, and Peter….” Jake can’t seem to finish the analogy.

“Most likely to accidentally stumble into a high stakes heist like Abigail Chase?”

“Yeah, that fits the bill.”

Michelle snorts out a laugh. “I wouldn’t waste my time stealing the Declaration of Independence,” she admits. “But if I did - I wouldn’t get caught.”

“You shouldn’t say such things to a cop~” he sing-songs, gently patting her shoulder.

“You’re the one that brought up the hypothetical.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “True.”

“And besides. It doesn’t matter. See previous statement: wouldn’t get caught.”

Jake snickers. “Sure thing, kiddie. Now sip on your tea and enjoy this ship blowing up. Explosions are practically lullabies, right?”

She does as he says, skeptical, but also a little hopeful. Michelle wants to fall asleep. Falling asleep would be great, even if it meant waking up in a sweat a few hours later. But it’s not easy. Michelle stays awake all through the ship exploding, through the heist, through the run through Philadelphia. Jake became dead to the world around the shootout after the Gala, but luckily he doesn’t snore like Amy does. She finally and ironically gets drowsy when they bust into the church and the stairs fall apart and basically everyone’s about to die.

Michelle’s asleep before she sees them get to safety. But she’s seen this movie before.

Still. It doesn’t make the easiest of dreams. But it beats her recurring nightmares.

Michelle wakes up with a crick in her neck and the scent of stale coffee wafting through the air.

She’s slow to come to, and it takes her a moment to remember why she’s on the couch. Jake is long gone but at some point he’d gotten up, given her a real pillow and a blanket, and went to work without waking her up. A miracle, really: she’s not the lightest sleeper these days.

There’s a sticky note on her empty tea mug from last night:

      Called the school and told them you were sick. Your favorite donuts are on the counter. Have fun playing hooky! -Jake

When she checks her phone for the time (10:36am, holy shit) she sees a text message from Peter:

      Jake texted me that you won’t be at school because you’re sick :( I’ll come over and check on you tonight! Feel better <3

Michelle heaves a sigh, rubbing her hands over her face. As much as she doesn’t want to go to school today, it’s not like lack of sleep has kept her before. Plus she has a history test last period and then a meeting after school with Morita about Decathlon. She decides a half day is good enough and makes a a slow effort of getting ready; she saves the donuts with intentions of picking up a fresh coffee from a cafe, courtesy of that Stark Industries credit card she still has and empties half her closet looking for an adequate dress to go with Rosa’s leather jacket.

She’s shoving the bag of donuts in her bag when she spots it:

Amy’s case notes are still on the coffee table. She never took them to work this morning.

Look, Michelle’s got a ton of things to worry about. Her art history test. Her decathlon team. Peter Parker’s side gig as a vigilante. And honestly, this crowbar mugging loser is one of them. He’s still out there, hurting people. It’s not cool. But she’s not a cop. She’s….she’s not Peter. She should leave it to them. Logically.

But Michelle’s never been so good at the whole damsel in distress gig. Plus she’s hella smart. Who’s to say she can’t help.

Who’s the say she can’t stop her nightmares herself?

So she nabs the notebook and puts it in her bag like it’s no big deal. Because she’s gonna put it back where she found it before Amy or Jake get home. She’s Ben Gates and this is her Declaration of Independence. For lack of a better sleep-deprived analogy. She’s not gonna get caught.

She feels like the epitome of the shows up 15 minutes late with Starbucks meme by the time she gets to school. It’s a few minutes into fifth period and since Michelle technically doesn’t have to show up to class until her seventh period history test, she sloppily parks her car and makes a bee line for the library.

The librarian, Nancy, knows Michelle probably a little too well, but it’s a perk when she doesn’t bat an eye to Michelle walking through with a cup of coffee in her hands and a donut in her mouth.

The corner of the library with the copiers is, as always, desolate. The only time the library is ever crowded is midterms and finals, so all the other times, like now, it’s a safe haven. She can easily claim an entire table beside the copier and get to work.

Amy is thorough with her notes. In total, there’s eight witness accounts: two more than she knew about. The last two are fresh, from only three days ago, and involve two college-aged girls both attacked at the same time as a duo. It’s different from the other attacks, which had all been single targets. A mess up or a plan, Michelle isn’t sure (nor is Amy, judging by her scribbles) but she leans towards more of the accident due to the fact that this attack had the perp whacking one girl with a crowbar and pulling a gun and shooting the other.

It’s the first and only attack in these patterns that involves another witness and well, a shooting. Luckily not a deadly shooting. Clearly, the guy only meant to scare her; the bullet grazed her leg and did minimal damage, and apparently struck enough fear in both of them that it’s hard for them to describe what the perp looked like aside from “wearing a hat and oversized hoodie that obscured most of his face” and “a weird tattoo on the inside of his forearm,” that they couldn’t really identify.

Oh, the irony. Spider-Man isn’t gonna want to hear this. But maybe he already has. There’s a lot Peter doesn’t tell her when it comes to his actual crime-fighting, ass-kicking sessions in back alleys and warehouses and the fucking Queensboro bridge or whatever. Michelle hasn’t decided if it’s a sore spot or not.

The best the girls describe the tattoo is that science conch shell which is just...what? Michelle is used to dumb fucking answers, being captain of the team and all, but that’s just...hard to decipher. She Googles science conch shell but all that comes up are (surprise) pictures of regular conch shells. Maybe the tattoo is a conch shell. Or, just a diagram of it? Who gets a diagram of a conch shell tattooed on their arm?

When she’s done thinking about enough shells to make a person seasick, she attacks the notes from a different angle.

That’s when she picks up something interesting.

It’s all circumstantial. If Michelle wasn’t currently surveying every single hippy dippy coffee shop in the area, she probably wouldn’t have caught it. Because here’s the thing about hippy dippy coffee shops. They have hippy dippy names. Names like Kaldi, Yo-Jo’s, and 1938 might not pop out as coffee shop to Amy, but Michelle’s been to those. In fact, she’s been to all of them that are listed in the notes as the last place these people were before they tried walking home and getting attacked.

There’s one that isn’t on the list that Michelle’s been meaning to go to. It’s on the edge of Brooklyn, a place called The Jumpstart. It’s new, literally just two weeks old, but she’s heard good things.

She reaches for her coffee and realizes it’s empty. After the night she’s had, it’s more a matter of need than want concerning a second one. Something tells Michelle she’s gonna need to be wide awake for awhile longer. And it’s not because she has an art history exam.

Then she notices the lighting shift in her corner of the library. “Ah, shit,” she murmurs to herself as she picks up her phone to check the time. Her exam starts in like, three minutes. She could make it, if she really wanted to. Five or ten minutes less shouldn’t make all the difference. And make up tests are a bitch…

But she’s also been excused for the day. She doesn’t have to take her test today. And sure, the make-up is harder but she’s smarter than most people at this school. Renaissance art can wait another day or two.

As she collects her things she shoots a series of courtesy texts: one to Ned to tell him to reschedule the meeting with Morita for her, one to Peter to tell him she’s resting, but if he wants to swing by (hah) sometime later tonight that’s fine, and then one to Jake that says she left to get some air, but she’ll be back soon.

There’s no reason to lie. She goes to coffee shops all the time. And she’s not looking for trouble or to play Detective, despite the well done spiel Jake and Rosa gave at Career Day. She just wants to look over her notes be it of the school kind, decathlon kind...or criminal kind. Michelle likes studying and learning and knowing. She’ll leave the ass-kicking to Jake and Peter.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

Michelle’s been sitting in the corner of The Jumpstart listening to a Dolly Parton playlist, as well as two girls try to navigate a few calculus practice exams for nearly eight hours when she decides it’s probably time she head home.

She didn’t spend the entirety of those eight hours staring at stolen case notes. In her opinion, her time was reasonably divided between looking at the photocopies, double-checking Peter’s Decathlon study guide, studying art composition for her art history make up and...using art composition herself. The last hour she’s been sketching patrons in Renaissance fashion. It’s a nice distraction from the stiffness in her neck and the caffeine overload raging through her veins.

She contemplates getting a chamomile tea when her phone rings.

Michelle sweats under her breath when she realizes she’s ignored like, ten text messages. Mostly from Peter, but one from Ned and one Amy. But it’s Jake who’s calling. Better answer it.

“Hey,” she says, trying to sound as chipper as possible. “I’m sorry, I’ve been sketching. I didn’t realize the time.”

“That’s okay,” he sounds relieved, and Michelle bites her lip in guilt. Making him worry was not the plan she had in mind. “Forgot to call in and check on you since you were sick. You do okay by yourself today.”

“Mhhm. Feel a little better.”

“Good. Listen, I’m gonna be at the precinct just a little longer. Amy too. You gonna be okay?”

“I’m just fine,” she says, just as the espresso machine hisses loudly, causing one of the baristas to jump and drop a mug in surprise.

“What the hell was that noise?”

“I’m at a coffee shop,” she says. “The Jumpstart. Got bored of just...sitting around the house. Hooky isn’t like the movies.”

“You know Tony Stark. The fact that you didn’t recreate Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is blowing my mind right now.”

“Coffee beats recreating cheesy movies.”

“You and your coffee. I’m surprised you haven’t got an IV drip of the stuff.” He snorts at his own joke. “Hah. Drip. Get it?”

She manages a smile. “Yes, I get it.”

“You’ve got the car, right? You park close?”

“Close enough.”

“MJ.”

Michelle sighs. “It’s just a few blocks down. It’ll be fine.”

“...Can you call Peter to pick you up?”

She frowns. “I’m a little...out of the way,” she says slowly. It’s an odd request on his part. From Jake’s point of view Peter should be an unlicensed teenager with no car and lives on the other side of the city. He’s not exactly first pick to walk her two blocks down to her car.

“Ah….right,” Jake clicks his tongue. “But still. Can you give your uncle a little peace of mind and ask him to come get you?”

No chance. “Sure,” she lies.

Jake immediately picks up on said lie. “MJ-”

“Gotta go see you soon, bye,” and she hangs up before he can get another word. Luckily, he doesn’t immediately call her back like Peter or May would, so she considers that a win.

The girls are packing up their things as well, so Michelle know she definitely needs to head home. After hauling all her things in her bag and tossing away napkin doodles, Michelle returns her dine-in mug to the counter and asks for a to-go cup of that sweet, sweet, sleepy-time tea.

“Oh, shit - I’m so sorry -”

“That’s quite alright -”

“ -here let me help you-”

Michelle turns from her place at the counter and watches as one of the girls has bumped into another customer, a man. The floor is littered with calculus notes and coffee as the two scramble to pick up all the stray papers before the front doors of the shop open and blow them away.

The man pushes up his sleeve to keep the coffee spill at bay and Michelle catches sight of a Fibonacci spiral tattoo on his forearm. She’s briefly reminded of her missed exam and then -

The realization hits her like a train. Her chest hurts like the wind has been knocked out of her.

That science conch shell.

Could it be that easy?

I mean, it has to be. That’s it. That’s it. There’s no way it could be any other tattoo. God, she feels like an idiot. She’s been studying Renaissance art all day. It’s literally been right in front of her face for hours! Michelle mentally scratches off Detective of the NYPD for career choices because it sure as shit shouldn’t have taken her that long to connect the pieces.

But then she realizes that’s not fair. No one else has figured out who it was, not even Amy. Michelle’s the only one who knows the crowbar crook has a Fibonacci spiral tattoo. He’s the one staking out coffee shops to pick out college aged girls and then attack them. It all adds up. And he’s right here in front of her.

And yet, she can’t do a damn thing about it.

The barista calls her name to tell her that her tea is ready and she hurriedly reaches for it, afraid to take her eyes off the man for even a second. He’s being polite to the two young girls as they word-vomit more apologies and rush out the door.

Michelle prays the two of them head out in the same direction. But one goes left, the other goes right, after giving each other a hug goodbye outside the door.

The man waits about fifteen seconds before he leaves as well, taking a left.

Michelle waits five before she slips out the door and hangs a left as well.

There’s probably half a dozen more rational things to do other than follow the guy that’s following the unsuspecting girl. Like, calling the police. Jake in particular. Or Amy. Or, hey, even Spider-Man! She has his number and everything. Or she could do what those online blogs say to do: put on her best sorority voice, run up to her and say “Sarah! I haven’t seen you in forever, how you been girl!” and hope that the guy won’t attack even though he hasn’t been opposed to attacking two girls at once before.

God, she wonders if he even remembers her.

But she can’t do anything but just...follow. Her heart in caught in her throat and she’s so so sure this is him but she doesn’t exactly have any proof.  

And then, like straight out of a movie, she sees Peter.

Well, Spider-Man. She sees Spider-Man. He comes swinging in on the closest rooftop - close enough where they can see each other, but not close enough where they can say hi. She notices he’s all dressed up for a Spideygram: a Mets zip up sports jacket and a matching mismatching pair of converse: one blue, one orange. She looks down at her own shoes: one blue one black.

Goddammit. They’re matching. Isn’t that great.

She knows exactly why he’s here. Jake called him. But the only reason he’s here so fast must be because he was already in Brooklyn. Nerd.

The eyes of his mask stare at her and all in all it’s a little unnerving. Michelle glances down the street and figures she has a few seconds to spare. She lifts her arm and makes a gesture for him to come down, even mouthing the words, though she’s not sure what good that’ll do. Maybe a lot. He does have super vision.

But Peter doesn’t pick up on what she’s trying to do. She looks around, checks her six, and then gestures wildly down the street to the guy and the poor girl past an open alley, about to round a corner.

Bad Guy! She mouths.

Peter cocks his head. Idiot.

She starts walking again and Peter waits until they’re at the alley the others passed before he swoops down all cat-like and gently tugs on her arm, pulling her out of sight. A part of her, for the briefest second, tenses up at the thought of being pulled into an alley again. But this is Peter, and she always feels safe around Peter.

He doesn’t take off his mask. “Jake called me to come get you, I was gonna watch you walk to your car but then you went the other way. What’s going on? I thought you were sick, what are you doing out so late?”

There’s a million and one things she needs to convey in like three seconds, and all her freaked out brain manages to spit out is: “Fibonacci spiral.”

“Yeah, okay...” The eyes of his suit buzz and then shrink, matching what is probably a match of his own confused squint. “...wait, no, what?”

“No,” she sighs, frustrated with herself before she reaches out and grips his forearms, desperate. “There’s a guy down the street. With a Fibonacci spiral tattoo. He’s the crowbar dude!”

“The crowbar -” white eyes blow wide. “The guy that attacked you!? That’s him?”

She hesitates. Proof, proof, proof. She needs more, but she just knows. “I think so,” she admits, “He was following this girl out of the coffee shop so then I followed him and -”

“You followed him?! You followed the creepy serial basher? What were you thinking!?”

“That some poor girl was about to be attacked and maybe I could -”

“You could what, stop it?”

That stings. Just a little. In that moment she’s thankful she has about an inch or so on Spider-Man, and adjusts her posture to seem bigger. “I have pepper spray.” She tugs on the sleeves of his jacket, thinking. “Baseball bat from Stranger Things would probably be better, but we work with what we got.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say.” Peter sighs, slumping down and rubbing a hand down the front of the mask. He obviously doesn’t feel like arguing with her. “Let’s just get back to your car and -”

He stops and goes rigid, eyes of his mask big and wide again.

“What?” Michelle hisses, looking around.

“Something’s wrong -”

They hear a scream from down the street.

“Stay here!” Peter yells, but the words are quiet, lost in the wind, as he’s already hooked a web to the roof and started swinging.

Naturally, Michelle does what she wants so she follows on foot.

But she’s not fast enough.

She turns the corner of the alley just in time to watch Spider-Man get shot.

It takes Michelle a moment to process what’s happening; and it seems to go the same for the college girl and The Gunman Previously Known as Crowbar Hack. He looks like he can’t believe he just shot Spider-Man.

None of them do.

Peter’s on the ground, breathing heavily with a red spot on his abdomen growing larger, but he’s still awake. Surprisingly, he’s the first one to get a grip and leans up just enough to shoot a web at the stunned assailant, sticking him to the alley wall. He flies back with such force, he hits his head against the brick and passes out.

That’s when Michelle gets a grip. Her senses all come back, and she’s even smart enough to not blurt out Peter’s name in front of the others. “Spidey,” she demands, cutting up her knees as she slides to the ground, lifting Peter’s head into her lap. The wound in his stomach is bleeding still, and she hastens to shrug Peter out of the Met’s jacket to use it for pressure. “Spidey, talk to me.”

The girl is shaking, scared out of her wits. If she’s hurt, she hasn’t shown it. “He’s- he needs an ambulance!”

Peter coughs, scratching uselessly at his mask; he wants to take it off, but they can’t, not here. “It’s gonna be okay, Em,” he wheezes. “Call Tony.”

“I will, I will,” she assures, using one arm to keep pressure on his wound while the other fishes out her phone. “Just stay awake, okay?”

“Spidey got hit in the head,” the girl said, pointing to the loser webbed to the wall. “He hit him before he shot him. He needs an ambulance.”

“Shit,” Michelle swears. There’s an unfamiliar buzzing behind Peter’s mask, and she wonders if he got roughed around enough to mess with his AI. It probably has. But there’s not much time to dwell on that. “Spidey, you have to stay awake.”

“I’m…’m awake.”

Yeah. Not for long.

Michelle has never been more thankful to have Tony Stark’s number than she does in this moment.

She calls him. It rings. It rings. It rings again.

He doesn’t pick up.

Michelle has never been more annoyed to have Tony Stark’s number than she does in this moment.

“Fuck!” Michelle swears again. When the girl starts crying, Michelle looks up and tries to get it together. “It’s okay,” she told her even though everything doesn’t feel okay. At all. “I have to take him someplace special, he can’t go to a regular hospital. You can’t call an ambulance for him, okay? Just you. Call them and say you’re alone.” she hits her next contact, prepared for a shitstorm.

It rings. It rings. It rings again.

He picks up.

“Hello?”

“ Jake!” Michelle nearly screams. “Jake, I need you right now. I’m with Spider-Man he’s been shot.”

“You’re with - he’s been shot!?”

“Yes!” Michelle cries. Peter’s breathing has slowed, a sign that he’s passed out, and that’s just not good. She presses harder into the wound, the blood soaking through the Met’s jacket. “A few blocks from that coffee shop I was at. Jumpstart.”

Michelle hears loud shuffling and the sound of doors being thrown open and closed. “I’m on my way.”

“He’s webbed up the shooter, you need to call Amy.”

“I will.” Sirens. She hears sirens over the phone thank God. “I’ll find you. Hold on, okay?”

“Okay,” Michelle whispers. The line goes dead. Her stomach lurches, but she doesn’t throw up. She simply puts her phone away, adjusts Peter’s head in her lap, and tries to get him to talk.

He doesn’t.

Jake shows up in record time. She doesn’t know where he got the cop car but she’s not about to complain. It’s parked a few feet from the edge of the alley and he runs in in signature uniform: plaid shirt, hoodie, leather jacket, with his gun up. When he sees everything is clear, he puts it away and runs over to Peter and Michelle, kneeling by the former’s feet. “There’s another cop coming; Detective Santiago. She’s gonna bring EMT’s and help you, okay?” he tells the girl. “But we have to take Spidey before anyone sees him. You understand?”

The girl nods. “Yeah. Just...go. I don’t want Spider-Man to die because of me. Everyone loves him.”

Michelle’s heart drops at the word die, But Jake doesn’t even bat an eye. In fact, he smiles. “He’s not gonna die. He’s a superhero! He’s strong. He’s got adamantium in his bones.”

“That’s Wolverine.”

“Vibranium?”

“That’s - No, that’s -”

“Plutonium? Because I heard that spider was radioactive so -”

“JAKE.”

“Right. Another time, sorry.” Jake hooks his arms underneath Peter’s knees. When his gaze meets Michelle’s, she sees the concern he so perfectly masked moments ago. “Hoist him under his arms, we’ll carry him to the car.”

They do just that and, boy, they must look fucking stupid. Michelle is basically a walking-talking twig, if her skipping gym class is any proof, and even though Jake is pretty strong, he’s definitely struggling. It might not be adamantium or vibranium or plutonium in Peter’s bones but that spider did give him a hell of a set of muscles, and that makes him dense and heavy as shit.

They’re trying to open the door get him in the car when Jake finally lets out a labored breath. “Man, Peter, you’re heavy,” he says. “What the hell has your boyfriend been eating?”

And then Michelle promptly drops Peter where they stand.

“Jeez, Em!” Jake exclaims as Peter’s unconscious form crumples to the ground. His head...well, it hits the pavement. Which can’t be good. Michelle lets out her own, “Aw, fuck,” as they scramble to pick him back up and finally finally shove him in the car.

Michelle settles Peter across the back seats, his head in her lap. When Jake hurries into the front seat and gets them on the road, sirens blaring, she feels it’s safe to slip off his mask.

Because after all, Jake knows who he is.

“Where am I going?” he asks softly, way too softly considering the circumstance, if you asked her.

“Stark’s place,” Michelle answers, running her hands through Peter’s hair. He looks calm, dare she say peaceful, which is wrong because he’s been knocked out and shot. It’s not a good day. “You’re okay,” she whispers to Peter. She can’t stop running her hand through his hair, and it’s getting coated in his own blood. “You’re okay, babe.”

“Awww,” Jake coos. “You guys are at the babe stage. That’s so cute.”

“Jake.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

She fumbles with her phone and tries calling Tony again. He doesn’t pick up the ten times she calls him on the way to his place and half her mind dedicates itself to dreaming up ways she can kill Iron Man and get away with it, but it all goes away when Jake pulls up to the front gate.

“Front gate? A front gate? I got Spider-Man bleeding in the backseat, and I gotta go through the Avenger’s drive-thru,” Jake mumbles as he rolls down the driver’s seat window.  He’s sorta right. It’s some fancy-schmancy high tech gate run by FRIDAY, but it does feel ridiculous.“Hi! Name’s Jake Peralta,” he says into the intercom. “If I could just talk to Iron Man-”

FRIDAY answers with a “Unapproved Authorization. Access Denied.”

“But I’ve got a squashed spider in the back seat!”

“Unapproved Authorization. Access Denied.”

They do not have time for this. Michelle can’t really crawl to the front seat considering it’s a cop car, but she can crawl over Peter and open one of the back doors. “FRIDAY, it’s Michelle Jones. Can you please call Tony and -”

“Unapproved Authorization. Access Denied.”

Jake sticks his head out the window again. “Peter Parker.” he says, hoping the name would work.

There’s a pause and this time FRIDAY says, “Incorrect Voice Recognition. Access Denied.”

But Jake doesn’t give up. “Peter Parker Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers -”

“Unapproved Authorization. Access Denied.”

“Aw, c’mon!”

And then, like a prayer, she gets an incoming call from Tony Stark.

“MJ? You’ve called me a million times, what is wrong- ”

“Peter got shot, we’re outside,” she growls out slowly, dangerously. “Open your damn gate now.”

Jake’s still got his head out the window, oblivious to the Death Tone she’s giving Tony Stark over the phone. “Code: Itsy Bitsy Spider Fell Off the Waterspout!”

The gate opens and Jake fist pumps out the window. “Holy shit!” he whips his head around, a smile about to break his face. “I can’t believe that worked!”

She doesn’t have the capacity to correct him.

Jake pulls into a garage, and Michelle vaguely recognizes the Spyder she and Peter took out for a spin not too long ago. Tony’s still on the phone with her, shouting orders to a Colonel Rhodes and a few other people before he goes back to talking to her and asking, “Got a makeshift medbay in the works. 32nd floor. Got it?”

She most definitely does not got it. Her phone is barely balanced as she tries to adjust the blood soaked Mets jacket over his abdomen and haul him out of the car with Jake’s help. They look like morons. “Tell me your fucking elevator’s working,” she moans. This time Jake gets Peter’s arms and she handles the legs, and they more or less waddle over to the elevator.

“Like a charm. See you.” and then he hangs up.

After that Michelle decides she can get her phone later and lets it fall on the floor. If it breaks, she’ll buy another phone on Tony. Hell, she’ll buy ten phones and give nine of them to him in hopes that next time he’ll answer one of them a little more promptly.

But when she looks down at Peter’s pale face, Michelle hopes she’ll never have to call him like that again.

When they get in the elevator and request the 32nd floor, both Michelle and Jake collapse onto the elevator floor, Peter crumpled between them. Jake manages to take over holding pressure to Peter’s wound, but honestly, she isn't sure what good it’s doing. Adrenaline sure is fun, but the come down is certainly the bitch.

“No elevator music,” Jake muses aloud, because much like Peter and Ned, it seems he feels the need to run his mouth when he’s nervous. “Do they still play elevator music anymore? Is it still like that old timey ragtime jazz, or do they blast Top 40 hits because I think it’d be pretty cool to take an elevator to the top of one of the highest buildings in New York with the best views while listening to like, Taylor Swift -”

Michelle cut him off with a loud groan and runs her hands over her face, realizing too late that Peter’s blood is all over her fingers. Talk about the world’s worst facial. “How long have you known?”

“About Pete? Oh….” He plays it way too casual. “...Since he brought you back from the hospital.”

Oh. So literally the moment he met him. That’s just peachy.

“What.”

He laughs. He laughs! “I’m a detective, MJ. It’s my job to fill in the pieces. I had my hunch when I noticed the weird red gloves he had on underneath his coat. Then, you sent me the picture of Spider-Man wearing the same mismatched converse that Peter was wearing like fifteen minutes before? The rest is pretty much comical reassurance. The spider hair pin, the Tony Stark internship, blah blah blah. It was all pretty obvious to a genius like me.”

“Oh my god,” Michelle whines. “Does Amy know?”

“Of course. She figured it out when we all had brunch.”

“Does the whole precinct know?”

“No. Just Rosa. Maybe Holt.” A pause. “Yeah, probably Holt. But not Charles. Or Gina. Well, maybe Gina she does run that Instagram account -”

“This is a nightmare.”

“You’re telling me. My niece couldn’t tell me her boyfriend was Spider-Man.”

The elevator reaches the 32nd floor, the doors open, and a whole lot of people look at her like they’re looking at a murder scene.

She really, really hopes that doesn’t turn out to be the case.

“Jesus, it’s like the elevator from The Shining,” Tony says before he runs into the elevator and scoops up Peter in one easy swoop, which, wow. He’s not light. He puts him on a rolling stretcher and tells Colonel Rhodes about an IV and super drugs and a lady named Cho before they wheel him down the hall.

As soon as Peter’s out of sight and in more capable hands, the final bit of adrenaline wears off. It’s like someone flicked a switch and all the countless nights of fitful, terrible sleep catch up to her all at once. Jake say something but she doesn’t hear it, eyes heavy and elevator floor surprisingly comfortable.

She does not pass out. Michelle simply falls asleep.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

When Michelle wakes up she’s sprawled out on one of Tony Stark’s fancy couches, head resting on a pillow in Jake’s lap.

Her first instinct is to panic because Peter was shot and she doesn’t know if he’s alive, but she reads the room before she has a meltdown. Jake is perfectly calm, reading a copy of Computers for Dummies while Tony Stark is on the opposite end of the couch reading the first book of the Skyfire Cycle

All in all, Michelle assumes this means Peter is okay.

“Hey kiddie,” Jake says when she stirs, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. He doesn’t look away from his book, but he does give her arm a comforting pat.

“Why are you reading Computers for Dummies ?”

A shrug. “Iron Man let me borrow it.” He finally looks over at her, eyes twinkling with excitement. “He said he gave it to Captain America. Can you believe!? Captain America touched this book! I’m never giving it back.”

Tony snorts out an unamused laugh as he flips through the pages of Skyfire. “I doubt he read it. He wasn’t too happy about that gift. Which is absurd. He’s a smart guy, that’s a given, but you can only get so far in life without knowing the history of Windows operating systems.”

Doubtful, in Michelle’s opinion. But she figures arguing is useless. “And you’re reading Skyfire because…?”

“Peralta said it was good.”

“Is it?” Jake asks, excited for the review.

“Jury’s still out. Why are all the t’s silent? Lord of the Rings wasn’t this convoluted.”

Jake looks like he wants to say something but he lets it go when Michelle lets out a yawn and rubs her eyes again, which prompts Jake to ask: “How was your nap?”

It was great. “How long was I out?”

“Not long. Like...fourteen hours?”

She sputters, hastening to sit up. Fourteen hours. That’s way too long. “I’m up, I’m up…” But her voice and hair probably prove otherwise. The room is still exceptionally calm. “Peter?”

“He’s just fine,” Tony tells her, patting Michelle’s foot. “Got the bullet out, got him a few transfusions. He’s healing just fine. May’s with him right now and after a little more sleep, he’ll be swinging around New York like nothing happened.”

Michelle blinks, not quite believing what she’s hearing. Peter was passed out, bleeding in her arms and now it’s like...nothing happened? “So he’s fine.”

Tony nods, glancing her way. He gives her a smile. “He’s fine. Passed out from the concussion and blood loss. It wasn’t the best combo attack for his health, I’ll admit, but it’ll take a lot more than a bullet to kill that spider.”

It’s then that Michelle realizes the magnitude of getting a building crushed on top of him or crashing a plane into a beach. Those are the things Peter and Tony worry about. Concussions and easily removed bullets, apparently, don’t make the top of the list.

“So...can I see him?”

“Sure,” Jake says and he closes his book. “But first…”

Tony closes his book as well.

Aw, fuck. This can’t be good.

“We need to talk about you following the creepy serial basher in the middle of the night.”

Michelle groans, falling back against the couch. Those were Peter’s exact words, which means, “Sounds like you’ve already talked to him. We don’t need to rehash.”

“Uhhhh, I think we do,” Jake says seriously, but it’s kind of undermined when he taps her nose. “Why on Earth did you think that was a good idea?”

“I didn’t think it was a good idea, I just,” she pauses, letting out a loud sigh. “It was the right one. For everyone. Two against one are better odds.”

“Okay, but you know that’s not true considering he did attack two girls at once. With a gun.”

“I didn’t know that,” she says, playing dumb.

“You did. You stole Amy’s notes to play detective. Don’t play dumb.” He taps her nose again. “I take back what I said about you being able to steal the Declaration of Independence. You’d definitely get caught.”

He has a point. But she feels the need to reiterate, “I wasn’t playing detective. I was just trying to help. I thought maybe the notes would spark some memory, and then I could help - which I did, by the way.”

Both Jake and Tony’s expression soften a little. “Of course you figured it out. Any niece of mine is capable of solving the case. But you aren’t trained to…. go after the bad guy. But you know who is?”

“A whole precinct of highly trained cops and two superheroes trained in ass-kicking?

“A whooooooooole precinct of highly trained cops and two superheroes trained in ass-kicking.” He gestures to Tony who gives a little wave, mouthing the words Hi. “ So after you figure out who the creepy serial basher is, that’s when you, like, delegate.”

“I know. Really, I know,” she emphasizes when both of them give her that look. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes, the words an ugly sigh. She scrubs her hands over her face and she realizes someone has wiped her face of Peter’s blood. “I haven’t been sleeping. I’ve had so many nightmares about this stupid crowbar loser that I haven’t been myself. It won’t happen again. I know Peter is better in a fight than I am. That you two are. Hell even Ned. I can delegate. Brains,” she points to her head before pointing to Tony. “Brawn. Loud and clear.”

“Hey,” Jake whines. “Why’d you point to him when you said brawn?”

“He’s Iron Man.”

“I’m strong too!”

“He picked up Peter by himself like he was nothing. We barely managed together.”

“Well, at least I didn’t drop him .”

Tony coughs. “You dropped him?”

“No,” Jake and Michelle say together.

She decides this is good a time as any to leave. “I’m going to see Peter. I’m sure his puppy-dog eyes will glitter with disappointment and really cinch together this half-assed lecture you’ve given.”

“Hey,” Jake whines. She imagines a million arguments on the tip of his tongue, half serious, half silly, but Michelle sees the concern in his eyes above anything else. They haven’t known each other that long, but she knows he cares. He’s proven it time and time again, from something as small as doughnuts to something as big as driving the Spidey getaway car. She should have asked for his help a long time ago. The nightmares, the panic attacks, all of it. She’s scared him, and maybe she shouldn’t be so chaste about it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For scaring you. I didn’t mean to.”

He wears a crooked smile and gives her shoulder a squeeze. “I know you didn’t.”

“Thank you. For helping. For...for always helping.”

“That’s what family’s for.”

She reaches over and gives him a hug. A good hug, a Peter Parker grade hug, and hope he realizes that means something coming from her.

Judging by the kiss he presses to the top of her head, he does.

“There’s my girl!"

Michelle know everything is truly okay when she wants to roll her eyes only seconds after walking into Peter’s room. He’s all set up in one of Stark’s beds with a single IV going, and all things considered, he looks pretty damn good to her.

“Hey,” she greets flatly, trying not to smile back at the goofy grin he’s giving her. There’s a seat by his bed with a crumbled up shawl where May must have been moments before that looks pretty inviting, but then again Peter’s patting the space beside him in bed, still smiling like an idiot. She takes a seat there, on the edge of the mattress. “Are you high?”

“Just a little,” he shrugs. “Last of the pain meds while my internal organs stitch themselves together at light speed.”

“Blegh.”

“Don’t blegh the Spidey powers okay? They’re awesome. They made me bulletproof.”

“You are not bulletproof.”

“I’m alive aren’t I?”

With a loud groan (she seems to be doing that a lot lately) Michelle falls back onto the bed. The mattress squeaks when Peter leans up and pulls her to his side with his good arm, tucking her to his side. She wraps her arms around him and rests her head on his chest, more than content to listen to his heart beating - a pleasant assurance that, in some way, he is bulletproof. At least this round.

“You’re gonna give me grey hairs,” she complains.

“That’s Tony’s line. And between the two of us, it’s you that’s gonna give me grey hairs. Chasing after bad guys like that.” He tries to pull her closer, breathing a sigh into her hair. “You can’t do that to me.”

“Wanted to make sure he wasn’t a Cluedo Catch contender.”

“MJ! That’s not -” he pauses, pulling away a bit to look at her. “Wait, was he?”

“Doubt it.”

“Aw man. It would have totally made getting shot worth it.”

“I don’t ever want to hear that sentence come out of your mouth ever again.”

“Fair enough, babe.”

Michelle turns and squints at him, trying to find some sort of tell in his expression. There’s no way he heard her call him that in the backseat of the car which means: “Jake told you.”

Peter answers her with a shit eating grin.

Her life is entirely mortifying.

“What else did he tell you?” she ventures, because the babe thing she can handle but -

“Nothing. Well,” and she waits for the other shoe to drop. “Just that you dropped me on my head.”

“Godfuckingdammit.”

Peter busts out a laugh at her reaction. “I can’t believe you! You gave me a second concussion!”

He couldn’t prove that. Besides, “You’re fine,” she tells him, trying to downplay her own guilt.

“Am not,” he pouts, over-exaggerating the whole affair. God, Peter’s a shitty actor. “It really hurts. I might need someone to kiss it better...”

Michelle rolls her eyes but grabs his head with one hand, pressing a kiss into his hair. “There. That help?”

“A little...I’ll probably need a lot more kisses. Especially here,” and he taps his lips.

“I didn’t drop you on your face.”

“I think you did.” He puckers them out.

He’s so ridiculous, and yet Michelle kisses him anyway. “I really am sorry,” she adds quietly, kissing the back of his head once more.

“That’s okay,” he says, and she knows he means it. “You can make it up to me by taking me out on a date.”

“A date.”

“Yeah,” he yawns, his pain medication doing it’s work. “Like a really cheesy one out of a romantic comedy. Maybe a little fun, maybe a little sun. Definitely some spidey swinging at sunset.”

She knew, she knew Peter was going to guilt her into swinging sooner or later. She just hates that he has such good blackmail over her. Not that he’d ever make her, it’s not the Peter Parker way. He’s too good and nice and pure for a true guilt trip. But it’ll make her feel better about the whole dropping him on his head thing, doing something he’d like.

So she’ll think about it.

In the meantime. “Where do I take you for this date?” she asks.

“Mets game.”

She thinks of the bloodied baseball jacket and smacks his arm.

“Okay, okay,” he cackles, stupid happy with his own dumb jokes. “The zoo.”

She wrinkles her nose. Smelly. She’s not a fan. “The aquarium ,” she amends. “And you can stand in front of the otter exhibit as long as you want and I won’t complain.”

Peter absolutely lights up. “I love otters!”

“I know.”

“They hold hands in the water so they don’t float away!”

“I know.”

“It’s so cute!”

“I know.”

“I wish we were that cute.”

“We are.”

He grins, and leans forward to give her another kiss. “We sure are,” he says, the words lost in another yawn. He’s really crashing now.

“Bed time,” Michelle announces, maneuvering so Peter has more personal space. He whines a bit at the loss of contact, but he smiles again when Michelle starts tucking his blankets more snugly around him. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He keeps smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she sighs softly, brushing his bangs from his forehead. “Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, MJ.”

“What is that?”

Jake grunts as he sets down a binder so heavy it literally rattles the coffee table. Of course, Peter makes a move to pick it up, and he palms it in one hand like it’s made of feathers. It’s like he wasn’t shot in an alleyway a week ago. Being a superhero definitely seemed to have more pros than cons.

“That,” Jake starts. “Is my official Spider-Man binder.”

Michelle stares, unimpressed.

That’s never stopped the idiots in her life before. “I’ve been trying to figure out who Spider-Man is...” Jake moves his hands in a roundabout gesture.” “...basically since your origin story.”

Michelle’s mouth is half open, a mediocre quip on her tongue, when Peter lets out an impressed whistle as he flips through the pages. “Oh my god. There’s an article from Oscorp in here about their failed spider experiments.” He looks up, eyes wide. “You thought…? Like, you knew Spider-Man came from Oscorp spiders?”

“They don’t call me Jacob Sherlock Peralta for nothing.”

Peter lets out a loud gasp before Michelle can get in any sort of counter. “Holy shit!”  He pushes the binder under Michelle’s nose, pointing to a picture. It’s a boring street picture, filled tons of people, including Peter.

But the kicker is the random dude beside Peter that Jake had circled in red pen and labeled Spider-Man?

“You were so close!” Peter says in awe. “You figured out where Spidey was. I’m in the picture! I’m literally right next to him! And you picked the wrong dude!”

Jake sighs, dejected. His whole posture is mopey and pathetic. “All that work. And then MJ just brings me Spider-Man through the front door.” He gestures to Peter, all dressed up in said Spider-Man suit. He’s got on a white t-shirt that says Spidey and one of Jake’s leather jackets on over it. It’s a nice pair to Michelle’s I’m with Spidey shirt and her own leather jacket that was previously Rosa’s. Turns out Rosa didn’t have much use for a formal leather jacket covered in Spider-Man’s blood and let Michelle have it.

Peter shrugs, smiling. “Life’s funny like that.”

“You still owe me a juice box.”

“Apple for you, grape for me. Crazy straws. I remember.” Peter then sets the binder back down on the coffee table, rattling it again. Michelle watches it like it’s going to break as Peter pulls her close to his side. “But first: sunset swing with Spidey’s favorite girl.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. You guys are stupid cute and all that jazz, but before you go can I talk to MJ for a second?”

There’s something peculiar in Jake’s expression that kinda twists Michelle’s gut in dread. But Peter doesn’t pick up on it, or at least he ignores it, and flashes a thumbs up before he heads off to his room to get his phone and shoes.

“What is it,” Michelle sighs once her bedroom door shuts.

Jake’s face screws up in a wince before he reaches over to the coffee table and plucks the top, blank-face folder off a stack that’s next to the binder. “I wanted to give you this.”

More case notes. Ever since the little episode in the alley, Michelle’s had to come clean about her nightmares and sleeping habits. Which means medication and therapy, at least for a bit. So at first, she thinks it’s a part of the whole therapy gig. But she wonders if seeing the mugshot or arrest record will put her at ease or just...stir up the nightmares again. She hopes it’s the former. She’s had a pretty good week considering.

“I won Cluedo Catch,” he says softly, and not...very happily?

Which is a red flag.

When Michelle opens it, she sees it’s not the crowbar guy. It’s some guy named Jackson White. She sees the head shots: one from each angle.

Then she notices the tattoo on the back of the neck.

“Little Peter couldn’t identify the tattoo on the killer’s neck. And that,” he gestures to the tattoo, all muddled and abstract, “Doesn’t seem easy to describe. Some cheap, homemade tattoo. It looks like something Pissarro made.”

“Picasso.”

“Yeah, him too.”

Michelle traces her fingers down the report, but she doesn’t see Ben Parker’s name. “He was arrested for fraud, robbery, assault. Not murder,” she closes the document. “How does this have anything to do with Ben Parker?”

Jake still looks guilty. “Maybe nothing? Look, I can’t prove it was him. The Ben Parker case is cold. There isn’t enough evidence. But this guy worked in the same area, did the same kind of muggings, carried the same gun that killed Ben. I can’t prove it. But it’s the best I got. If you want to show Peter…”

Michele grips the documents tightly in her hand, unsure.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “If it’s wrong - I don’t know what it’ll do to him.”

“But what it’s right? He’s not in for murder and that sucks, but he’s gonna be in jail for a long time. That has to count for something.”

She’s at a loss, weighing the options in her mind. Telling Peter could give him peace if it’s right. Or it could reopen painful wounds if he’s wrong. And she’s not entirely sure even mentioning it is worth it.

When she opens the folder again, thumbing the pages, she realizes the arrest record is from six months ago. And Jake isn’t even the arresting officer. “You didn’t win Cluedo Catch,” she grumbles.

Finally, Jake cracks a small smile. “It counts in my book. Even if it’s not official.”

Michelle manages a faint smile back.

“MJ!” Peter shouts from her room, and she goes rigid in horror. Peter was right there in her room the entire time. He has super hearing. He probably heard the conversation the moment Jake mentioned his name. “Are we going or not!?”

With a shuddering breath, Michelle keeps the folder, holding to his chest. Jake nods, an affirmative that she can keep it.

“Go on. You’re burning daylight.”

When she opens the door to her room, Peter doesn’t appear suspicious. He’s got the mask in hand, sitting against the sill of the open window. “Hey. Whatcha got there.”

There’s a look in his eye.

He definitely overheard.

“Something for after our...date.” She puts the folder away, in her desk. “That okay?”

His smile is easy. “Sure.” He holds out his hand, nodding to the window. “Ready?”

After he slips on the mask, she holds on to him with all she’s got as he climbs the two of them to the top of the building. Sure, she’s been on tops of tall buildings before, this is New York. But it’s different like this. It’s different with Peter. It's more exciting, more thrilling and somehow, more like home.

“So!” he says. “Ice cream?”

“Sure,” she breathes out, looking off the edge. Peter holds her close and she knows there’s no way she’ll fall. “Stark Raving Hazelnuts, I assume?”

“Actually, Tony just texted me. He got early samples for the Spin-a-Web Buns ice cream from Ben & Jerry’s. They just delivered it to his house. We gotta try it.”

“I can’t believe they’re making a Spider-Man ice cream.”

“I know. I’m a big shot now.”

“Don’t fret. You’ll always be a dorky little nobody to me.”

“Perfect. All is right in the world.” She can pictures the smile behind the mask as his mechanical eyes squint like a happy little robot. “So? Ice cream? Make a killer Spideygram on the way?”

She looks over the edge. God, this is exhilarating, but it's gonna give her a stroke. “Swing to Manhattan?”

“You’ll be fine” he assures. Her breath catches in her throat as he picks her up with one arm, holding her to his side. Her arms and legs wrap completely around him. “You’re with me, remember?”

She rests her head against his. It doesn't feel like even the wind could tear them apart. “I remember. Let’s go.”

He jumps without another word, and then…

Okay. She get the whole Spider-Man thing now. It’s pretty spectacular.

(The ice cream though? Even better.)