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“Forget it. You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Excuse me?” Michelle recoiled from him, her hair cascading over her shoulder. One hand clutched the champagne flute tighter.
Peter pulled the mask back over his head, finding comfort behind the fabric. It took a lot to cause such a volatile, churning anger to control him. It was now coursing, white hot, through his veins. “Don’t play dumb, Michelle, we both know you’re not.”
She dropped the arm barred up around her torso as a shield. Now she stood vulnerable to him. The sparkling evening gown framing her figure was betrayal. Peter knew why it hung from her shoulders. She’d given him up for a journalism award and a few glasses of fancy champagne.
For so long she was his MJ. His trusted friend. The love of His life. All the heat in his veins gave way to ice coursing through his heart. His brain turned over, trying to fathom why she’d done such an unspeakable thing. “I told you no. I asked you not to do it. And you still did it. Why?”
Michelle didn’t say anything, her eyes flickering away, quick as the city lights would flash along her dress. Her face only kissed half the light. One half there, one half dissolving into darkness. Half of her mouth opened. Then it closed. The gloss slathered over her lips wasn’t natural. It only made her lips look slimy. Villainous.
Still no words escaped past those lips.
Peter shook his head. “Just fucking forget it. Go and pretend that what you did wasn’t a total violation of my trust.” Peter stepped up to the ledge of the terrace, ready to swing off. “I’m not doing this anymore. Not now.”
“Wait! No! Peter, you’re being unfair!”
His head snapped back to look at her. The eyes of his mask narrowed; his scowl obvious. Peter thought he saw a flash of fear in Michelle’s eyes.
Even with her hair perfectly styled and her makeup and gown flawless, she looked disheveled. Her eyes held a panicked mayhem, and her fists grasped the fabric of her skirt so tight it left wrinkles. She took a jolting step forward, her entire face now washed in the light streaming out of the windows. The gala was still raging inside the fourteenth floor of the Daily Bugle. Michelle glanced at it before locking eyes with him.
“Publishing the story may have been an asshole move, but you have to understand. The city was rioting. They needed to know who was under the mask or it would’ve fallen apart! After what happened at Grand Central Station, they needed to see your face. They were coming after you with pitchforks, Peter. The entire city thought you were working with the Hoods.” Michelle took another step. He could see the colors of her eye shadow, the flecks of gold hiding in her irises when the light hit them. He hated how it still made his breath catch.
Michelle took another measured step, beseeching Peter to understand. “They wanted your head. Jameson was right on your tail. If I didn’t publish then Jameson would’ve. And he would keep searching until he found you and everything you loved and destroyed all of it in one article. He was this close to finding out your identity. Do you really think a flame thrower like Jameson wouldn’t have twisted the story? Made you into some terrible villain.” Peter glared at her words. A glare which Michelle returned. “If I didn’t write that article you could’ve been killed, Peter. How many civilians have tried to kill you since Grand Central? Do you think Jameson would’ve put their minds to ease? No. He would’ve made sure the citizens kept pulling knives on you. That the police kept the bounty on Spider-Man’s head. You’ve been living a lie for nine goddamn years and the people are getting tired of wondering who’s behind the mask. They don’t trust the guy swinging around in spandex, who doesn’t take responsibility after the fight. Maybe there was a reason that almost every superhero to date hasn’t bothered with a secret identity. Maybe it’s easier to fight crime as one person instead of some split personality. She stepped closer, the entirety of her shoulder shining in the yellow light. “You can still keep May, Ned, and–” She held her breath. Maybe she was going to reference herself before thinking better of it.
“What? Keep everyone safe? There’s a good reason why I kept that mask on, and it was solely to protect everyone I love. So, don’t go telling me I can still protect you, or Ned, or May, because you don’t have the faintest idea what it’s like. It’s been hard enough without the whole world knowing I’m Spider-Man. Look what happened to Tony. Look what the world–the universe–knowing who he was did. He was attacked, his friends, family, everyone he cared for was attacked. Did you know Pepper still gets death threats? That Morgan can’t go out without a security detail. And that’s just one example.” Peter replied, ironic laughter almost cresting in his throat. Reality was cracking under the heat. Michelle’s figure shattered behind the tears in his eyes. Peter let the anger evaporate the moisture. He felt the tears adhere to his mask. “The city never needed me, they needed Spider-Man. I told you that. I begged you to understand. I trusted you to understand. But I guess I put my trust in a traitor.”
Michelle’s eyes blew wide. “Wow, that’s rich, Parker! Don’t try and push all of this at me because you’re too much of a coward to face the world without a mask on!” Michelle took in a deep breath through her nose, releasing a shaky sigh. “Look you can be mad at me, but please understand. I did my job as a journalist, and I did what I knew was best for the city. I did what I thought was best for you.”
“Well as long as you did your job. That’s what’s important.” Peter snarled. He shot a web to the adjacent building and Michelle rushed towards him.
“Please! Please, Peter. Don’t. I’m sorry, okay? I was just trying to do what I thought was best. Please you must understand that if I didn’t publish that story. The story where you’re the hero, the boy next door, the kid who’s done everything in his life to be the hero. If I didn’t publish that story which has changed the hearts of nearly every New Yorker, Jameson would’ve made you into a villain. He was so close to finding your identity, Peter, and if he’d published first you wouldn’t have been able to step foot in New York again. As Peter or Spider-Man. Please just try and understand that I did what was best for you. I even thought you might be happy you don’t have to live the lie anymore.”
Standing, Peter shook his head. Two twinkling tears rolled down Michelle’s face. “See that’s the point. It’s my life you screwed around with. It’s a secret I’ve trusted to you for nine years. I told you I didn’t want you to publish after you asked me. I told you I wasn’t ready. I told you I’d find another way to clean up the mess I made. But no, that’s not good enough for Michelle Jones. You just have to shove your nose into everyone else’s problems. You just have to know best, don’t you? Always has to be the smartest in the goddamn room.”
Her nose wrinkled and her cheeks boiled. “I did do the right thing you bastard! I’m sorry if you’re too big of a dick to notice I did you a favor!”
“You’re my fucking fiancé, Michelle! For God’s sake! I don’t care if it was the right thing! I told you no! I told you I wasn’t ready, but you made the decision for me anyway! You should know better than to dick around in someone’s life like that! You betrayed me. You just …” He shook his head, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. They were two different people. Michelle with her golden gown and accessories, her face painted in makeup. She was someone else now. A writer grasping for the next story. The journalist with all the answers. She was the one who revealed Spider-Man’s secret identity. She was the savior that kept the city from falling to ruins. The one who brought the citizens back together under Spider-Man’s mantle.
In that moment MJ vanished. The girl who made wisecrack jokes. The girl who complained that Peter smelled like pavement and exhaust. The girl who read fifty books in two weeks and snuggled against Peter’s ribs like she was one of them.
Somewhere behind the glamour and sparkling champagne Michelle Jones emerged, cold and guarded. They were back at the beginning and Peter couldn’t fathom how she’d changed. Changed from the girl who he could trust with anything, into the greatest betrayer in his life.
This new persona eclipsed MJ.
Peter assumed he must look the same to her, however. That somehow, he changed. Somehow now he must be different, or too much the same.
Peter felt the mask over his lips. The fabric mopping up tears he vaguely knew were falling. With the anger scalding his vision, tainting his sight with blurring fire, Peter tore the mask from his head. He hurled it at her. Spitting the mask at her feet as retribution for her watery eyes. It landed with a smack on the pavement roof. “I have no use for it now, thanks to you.”
“Peter…” Michelle bent to pick the mask up. “Please…don’t,” She sobbed. Peter could feel an explosive sob in his own throat. “Please don’t go. Let’s talk about it. I never wanted to hurt you; you have to understand that. Please.” The tears in her eyes echoed in Peter.
“Goodbye.”
Without his mask the wind felt different on his face. He felt a sense of doom, yet up against the skyscrapers, open to the views, he found freedom. Something felt empty still.
The memory of Michelle standing against the building backdrop, her eyes begging him to stay. To talk. It burned deep into his soul.
He couldn’t talk now without burning every inch of his body. If he stayed with her, they would have imploded. Pain sliced him deep, past his skin and muscles, reaching into the place he’d saved for her.
Another sob wrenched from his chest, causing Peter’s hold to slip on the web. He slammed into a skyscraper, his head snapping against the slick panes of glass. Peter sunk against the side of the building, allowing his legs to curl under him. He let his back curve against the glass and his head drop heavy to his hands.
The clenching sobs ricocheting around in his chest burst from him in angry spurts. Bowing his head, Peter wept for the third time in his life.
In his misery, Peter felt rain fall along the helix of his exposed neck.
Somewhere above him, on the rooftop terrace Peter evacuated, Michelle still stood. Her hands clutching Peter’s mask, the ivory eyes starting, unblinking up at her. He’d thrown the mask back at her. The anger all too real on his face.
Rain began to pour, enticing her to slip down the banister Peter had perched on. She clutched the mask to her chest, hoping to close the fissure expanding there. In the deceivingly warm light emitting from the building, she caught the twinkle of her ring. He’d thrown the mask back at her, but never requested the ring.
Michelle curled into herself, ever tighter, praying that the ring on her finger was still a good sign.