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MJ finds that her relationship with Peter has become… easy. It’s an odd thought because she never thought herself to be the kind of girl that settles into a relationship the way she has.
Kisses on the forehead, hands that gravitate towards each other at all times, and shared looks full of feelings, say otherwise.
MJ doesn’t mind at all. In fact, sometimes she wishes that she and Peter could spend every waking moment together. Ha. Tell that to her high school self and she might have a heart attack.
High school is a time she doesn’t like to remember. She was closed off, rude, shy. She was also an ardent political activist. She still is, she just doesn’t get to go to as many protests and marches as she’d like to because college hates your social life.
Being the captain of the debate team was probably the peak of her high school career, not that she cares about “peaking” or whatever - because there’s no such thing as a peak unless you adhere yourself to the idea so that one day you fear you’ll have your downfall - but that’s what most people remember her for. And damn, did she feel powerful.
But MJ also retained her cagey traits as captain and that made leading the team, and maintaining its chemistry, difficult. How will team members be inspired to bond with each other when their damn captain hasn’t had a single real friend in her life?
It still worked out, but sometimes she could tell that some pairs hadn’t seen completely eye to eye when they were building their case and they suffered because of it.
MJ graduated in the running for valedictorian - in the running, not quite getting the title - and her parents are still resentful. She can tell by the passive-aggressive comments her father makes about how if she had worked just a little bit harder she could have gotten a significant handicap in her college tuition for the college of her choice.
She tells herself those words mean nothing to her. Sometimes, she’s able to convince herself of that for months at a time.
But one day, MJ gets an essay back from her English teacher, and it’s a B minus. The letter, written in a swooping script, glares at her in angry red ink from the page, and she hears her father’s voice reverberating within the walls of her brain. A B minus? Seriously, Shelley? I’m disappointed. I thought you could do better than this.
She nearly runs out of the lecture hall, restricting herself to a nice racewalking pace, but the second she leaves the building a single sob racks her body.
No, please.
Her hand is digging into her jeans pocket before she realizes and through her blurry vision, she watches her finger tap on the “Phone” icon and scroll to Peter’s name.
It rings. One ring. No answer. Two rings. No answer. Three rings. No answer. Four.
Another sob escapes her throat, and she covers her mouth, not wanting anyone else to witness her breakdown. She’s ashamed of how quickly her walls came crashing down.
Click. “Hey, MJ, what’s up?” MJ can’t help but exhale wetly in relief. The sound of his voice is already soothing her.
“Peter…” she says, her voice shaking with tears. She closes her eyes and brushes some droplets off to the side with her finger.
“You okay?” His voice adopts a tone of concern. He can tell something is wrong. Should she be snarky because it was a dumb question or tell him the truth because she needs someone to talk to?
MJ chooses the latter. “No,” she says, laughing nervously. “I just- are you busy right now?” Stray tears fall down her cheeks. She’s hidden in the shade behind a tree. Nobody can see her. It makes talking easier.
“Not anymore,” he says, and she gasps. Is he really going to skip out on whatever obligation he had? For her? She doesn’t matter that much.
“Peter Parker, if you miss a class because of me I’m breaking up with you,” she says, feeling some of her traditional tone returning to her voice, because she will never, ever pass up an opportunity to mess with him. It makes her feel better. He laughs.
“I was only gonna study with Ned. I’ll text him and tell him it’s you, okay? He’ll understand.”
At his statement, she feels a great appreciation for Ned and the familiar shyness that she’d get in the early days of their relationship when he would do something nice and she felt like she didn’t deserve it. “Oh, no, Pete,” she says, feeling like a burden. “You don’t have t-”
“Yes, I do,” he interrupts. “Just tell me where you are and I’ll come find you.”
She’ll excuse his interruption because she’s too emotionally distressed to develop an argument for argument’s sake. It’s not her kind of thing to do anyway. “Okay, um, I’m at Pan’s statue. By the tree.”
She can practically hear him smile from the other end of the line because that’s one of their favorite spots to lounge when they have a few hours of free time. He always puts his head in her lap as she reads and occasionally she’ll run her hands through his hair when she needs a break from the tiny words on the pages. “Be there in three minutes, Em. See you.”
He politely waits for her to choke out, “See you,” before he hangs up.
She’s still clutching the essay in her hand, but she’s flipped it over so that that stupid letter will stop making her feel like shit. The urge pulls at her to read the comments her professor left, but she fights the temptation.
They go the full twelve rounds, and eventually, MJ loses. She turns it over in her hand and begins to read the small red ink the professor has laid all over her paper. She should have developed her topic sentences better. She should have found some evidence that better suited her point.
I can’t believe you, Shelley. Don’t you want to go to college?
The tears start to flow again, and MJ covers her face with her hands so that really, nobody will see her cry. Already there’s nobody who could possibly be witnessing it, but sue her, she gets paranoid when she’s emotional.
She hears the crunching of grass in front of her, and slowly, she peels her palms away from her eyes.
She’s met with a warm smile that slowly becomes a concerned frown as it takes in the sight of her face. It’s Peter. MJ lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in, and her body goes on autopilot, rocketing up from the ground and wrapping him in a bone-crushing hug. Eh, he’s pretty fit. He can handle it.
She inhales the smell of him, and already it feels like home. He holds her tightly, one of his hands on the back of her neck, kneading gently through her curls. She’s sure she looks like a complete mess right now, but she doesn’t care, because Peter’s here. He probably doesn’t care either.
They haven’t said anything, still, but Peter’s communicating to her with his arms wrapped around her just as much as she’s communicating to him by doing the same thing. They’ve come a long way.
MJ draws away from him, looking down at his shirt. There’s a huge wet spot where her tears had fallen. She curses quietly.
“I got your shirt wet,” she mutters, glancing back up into his eyes, which are filled with a strong emotion she doesn’t exactly want to label right now. “Sorry.”
Peter smiles. “It’s no big deal, Em.” He unwraps his hand from around her neck to brush some of the tears away from her face, and she leans into his touch, closing her eyes. She’s frowning and sniffling, and he’s such a damn sweetheart for being able to deal with her when she’s acting like this.
“So,” he starts, hand still gently cupping her jaw, “why’d you call me? Not that I don’t love hearing your voice-” she flushes red at that and smiles shyly- “but I just wanna know, y’know?”
MJ leans away from his hand, and he lets it fall to her waist. “I got- I got a bad grade on my English essay,” she finally says, trailing off at the end because she feels dumb. “I know, it’s… stupid, I just…”
“Hey,” Peter says, hand pressing into the small of her back, and she draws an inch closer to him. She can count the tiny freckles smattered across the bridge of his nose at this distance. “It’s not stupid. Not at all.” He waits for her to continue, and she takes the hint, and her nose is almost brushing against his.
“I- I could just hear my dad’s voice in my head, you know? Telling me it was awful, that I… I don’t deserve to be here.” She watches something within him break at her words, and her breath is caught in her throat as he pulls back a few inches from her with a fiery look in his eye.
Oh no, he’s hot.
“Michelle,” Peter says sternly, like a parent berating their child. “You, of all people, deserve to be here. You deserve it more than me.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he doesn’t let her get a word in edgewise.
“You’re opportunistic, MJ. You see something you want and you take it. I can’t think of anyone, anyone, that would have sent an email to the editor-in-chief of the fucking New York Times and somehow turned it into an article in the paper. You’re talented, you’re smart, you’re beautiful, and you got a…” he reaches behind himself for her hand that clutches the slightly crumpled essay paper and holds her wrist to turn it towards him. “A B minus on one essay. That doesn’t take away from how amazing you are. You’re Michelle fucking Jones and that’s not gonna get in your way.”
MJ finds herself rooted to the spot by his words, still reeling from the way his eyes never left hers as he spoke and the way his grip on her waist tightened when he said “Michelle fucking Jones” because holy shit. Holy shit. Holy. Shit.
“I…” she splutters, and she’s pulled back into his embrace as she starts to cry again, a little bit harder.
“I don’t deserve this,” MJ whispers, finally voicing one of her greatest insecurities about this whole relationship. “I don’t deserve you.”
He only hugs her harder, and she only cries harder.
He’s not responding to her “I don’t deserve you” admission. Does that mean he’s agreeing with her? Does he just feel bad? The childish part of her asks, and she beats the words down with a stick. She doesn’t need that kind of self-doubt.
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve you either, Em,” he mumbles into her hair, and her eyes widen. No way. This guy will be the death of her. At every turn, he surprises her with something she never would have expected. Exhibit fucking A: This.
“You’re crazy, Pete,” she says, laughing through her tears.
“So’re you.”
MJ is laughing loudly now and smiling, and she just knows he is too because he’s a big dope. He’s her dope. She’s never felt this way before, so connected to someone, so in sync, so…
So in love.
The realization kind of slaps her in the face and so she distances herself from him again, searching his eyes, and they’re full of happiness and wonder as he gently strokes her cheek with his knuckles. His hair is a bit messed up from how he’d dug his head into her own messy locks and he’s smiling at her and yeah. She’s in love.
“I think I’m in love with you,” MJ says before she can stop herself. Even though it’s the truth, sometimes the truth isn’t always the best thing to say. She’s struggled with a verbal filter all her life, but usually, it’s with snarky comments and dark jokes, not… compromising things like this. Momentarily, he looks shocked, and she wants to snatch her words out of the air and stuff them back down her throat because she’s definitely overstepped.
But then his smile is back, bigger than ever, and his lips are on hers, and she kisses back because, well, she loves him. And it tastes like acceptance and happiness and a dash of cocoa butter.
He barely pulls back half an inch before he says, “I think I’m in love with you too.”
And she can’t help it. She laughs before pulling him in by the collar to kiss him again, fiercely, until some asshole calls from outside the hedge “Get a fucking room” and MJ turns to yell, “Suck my dick.”
When she turns back to him, a little bit breathless, she sees that his eyes are actual fucking hearts. Her brain turns to mush and it looks like his has, too.
“You’re amazing, MJ,” he whispers.
“Don’t I know it.”