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This is a fluke.
A minor slip-up with the immune system.
Either that, or Peter’s white blood cells have betrayed him.
Being sick is a feeling that he’s lost familiarity with over the years—a feeling he certainly couldn’t miss if he tried—having had nothing more than maybe a few rare coughing fits ever since the spider bite, and even those were short-lived.
But that’s barely anything compared to the headache and chills he feels right now; the foreign aches and pains running through his body.
It’s barely anything compared to being stuck on the cool tile of the apartment’s bathroom, trying not to dry-heave into the toilet. Again.
Peter releases a shaky breath, closing his eyes as he rests his forehead against the porcelain in hopes of some relief, positive that his temperature must be well above normal.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
Spider-Man doesn’t just get sick.
To think that he’s missing school—it’s his senior year, for crying out loud—to be locked in the bathroom in fear of emptying his guts over the new carpets that May had just replaced.
Heaving a sigh, Peter backs up from the toilet and leans against the wall, head sagging slightly despite his tense muscles. His mind feels like it’s shutting down, thoughts and consciousness drifting away due to exhaustion.
Sleep didn’t come easy for him last night. Or, at all, really.
Plagued by nightmares that he could never imagine in his wildest dreams, the steady increase of his temperature, the influx of headaches—none of it made for a good night’s sleep.
So, sue him. He’s tired and cranky and would love to just drift off right then and there into a deep slumber.
But then there’s a knock on the bathroom door that jars him out of his half-asleep state, wrenching the prospect of returning to it from his desperate grasp.
“Dude? Are you in there?”
It’s his best friend. Of course it is—Ned and his voice that’s too loud for the sensitivity of Peter’s ears right now.
Holding back a groan that’s building up in his throat, Peter says, “Yeah, Ned. I’m here. What do you need?”
“I was actually going to ask you that,” Ned replies slowly. “Considering, you know, you’re the one who’s sick. According to your text from this morning, at least. I thought you didn’t...get sick anymore?”
Peter absently nods, rubbing his eyes which feel like they’re throbbing out of his skull. “I thought so, too.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Don’t know. Just started feeling like shit after patrol last night, but nothing even happened, so I don’t...I don’t know,” he tells him, though parts of his memory seem to be a bit choppy. Still, it’s not much help, and neither is Ned as he continues to prod for information.
His best friend means well. Peter knows that—knows that he’s just trying to help, but he also knows that Ned would do him a favor by leaving him alone.
But he doesn’t voice that thought. Of course he doesn’t.
“I could call May or Tony—I don’t know, someone—”
Peter feels a surge of annoyance along with another wave of pain, him closing his eyes again. “No. No, don’t call anyone. Look...shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Class ended a half hour ago, Peter,” Ned says, deliberately articulate, and oh.
Has he really been sitting in the bathroom for that long?
No, he hasn’t. He couldn’t be.
Right?
Something about that—about all of this—suddenly feels wrong. Peter’s never lost track of time that badly before, but apparently, he hasn’t been locked in the bathroom for just an hour.
Maybe closer to five, according to Ned.
“Well, my internal clock has always needed a tune-up,” he mumbles, trying to make his tone come off light but failing—miserably so. Couldn’t sound more shaky to his own ears. “Look, I’m fine. I...I’ll be fine. You don’t have to stay.”
There’s a moment of hesitation before Ned breaks the news to him, tentative.
“I’m not. I have to get back to my Lola’s house to help her cook tonight, but I didn’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’d rather be—”
“Peter, I wasn’t going to leave you alone,” Ned repeats, slightly frustrated. “Look, I, uh, I know you didn’t want anyone else to know you were sick, but she asked where you were this morning.”
“And let me guess. You told her,” he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needs is to be fussed over.
Not that she would, but he’d rather not have her worry about him.
Though, Peter isn’t sure if she’d do that either.
“Yeah, I told her. I know things are kind of rocky between the two of you right now, but she’s coming over. Probably bringing soup, too. Not homemade, though, so don’t worry.”
Peter feels his lips bend into the smallest smile as he looks at the floor, thinking about her cooking. How bad it is, how she and May need to take some lessons together.
“Okay. I guess I can accept that,” he murmurs, inhaling sharply as another ache travels down his back.
It’s all starting to take the shape as something more than the simple flu, Peter knows that, but he doesn’t want to think about the possibilities—isn’t even sure where to start.
Maybe a minute later, Peter hears the front door of the apartment open—her having one of the few spare keys that were made. Though, he would know who it was even if all his senses were dulled to oblivion.
The selfish idea of knowing her best—out of everyone in her life—is tucked in the back of his mind, along with the smugness that seems to come with that prospect. It’s a dirty feeling but one he can’t rid himself of.
Her footsteps pad over to the hallway, pausing outside of the bathroom. She exchanges a few quiet words with Ned, and Peter waits patiently.
Because she came over to see him.
Not Ned. Not May.
Just him, him, him.
“Peter?”
Her voice knocks him out of his thoughts, Peter frowning as it does so. Once again, he’s reminded that something is wrong, really wrong, but doesn’t audibly acknowledge it. Not yet.
His lips automatically form her name in response, a sweet thing on the tip of his tongue as his voice cracks out, “Michelle.”
“How are you feeling?” Her tone is imbued with a tender undertone that always seems to make the strings in his heart thrum.
“I, uh—I’m okay. Really, you...you didn’t have to come over. It’s just a little headache,” he says, wetting his chapped lips, listening to the way her breath stalls. She’s going to want an explanation, an apology for coming over for nothing, something, anything—
“Parker, you open this door right now. I’m not going to waste my time here with you lying to me again.” A moment of pause—of him not moving an inch—before she lands another blow. “I trust Ned more than you when it comes to telling me the truth, and he said you’re not feeling well. Open the door.”
Peter feels both indignant and hurt at the jab, only because of its accuracy. He reaches up and unlocks the door, letting her open it.
Michelle steps inside the cramped bathroom and gives him a once-over, her left eye twitching slightly. And, oh.
Oh, she’s annoyed.
“MJ—”
“Just a little headache, is that what you called it?” She gives him a look, one that tells him he’s full of shit, before kneeling on the ground. Her hands cup his face unabashedly, tilting it side to side.
And maybe in any other circumstance, he wouldn’t be able to breathe, because this is the closest they’ve been in weeks.
Who is he kidding?
Peter still can’t breathe.
It’s Michelle.
Michelle, who always takes his breath away, who came to take care of him despite their nasty fight weeks earlier. She is everything but his right now, and he aches for her desperately.
“I’m not very good at describing things,” Peter utters, lids fluttering shut as her thumbs trace his drawn cheeks.
“Can you believe him? I can’t believe him,” Michelle mutters, glancing at Ned when she says this. He, in turn, nods encouragingly.
“Exactly. What a menace.”
“Dude.” Peter’s voice comes out petulant, betrayed.
“Look, even I can acknowledge when you’re a colossal dumbass. MJ will help you a bit with that self-reflection, but I’ve got to go. If you guys want me to save you some lumpia, ring me up.”
Ned offers them a wave goodbye, Michelle nodding in response and Peter calling out that he would like some lumpia, please and thank you.
“My knees can't take sitting on this floor forever,” Michelle eventually says, standing up, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Can we move to your room, or are you going to projectile vomit all over?”
Peter swallows before nodding, figuring that his nausea isn’t what it was before. He lets her tug him to his feet, knowing fully well that it was just an excuse to touch her, feel her hands in his.
“MJ,” he breathes once they’re settled in his bedroom, him tucked beneath the comforter. It doesn’t help his chills and neither does the look she’s giving him. “I just...thanks. Thank you for coming. I…”
I appreciate it?
I’m sorry?
I miss you.
Peter knows that it’s all of the above but never gets the chance to say so, Michelle already shaking her head and cutting off his train of thought.
“Yeah. I’m not the kind of jackass that would just let you suffer on your own,” she comments, quiet and offhanded, before standing abruptly. “I brought soup. It’s chicken noodle? Uh, I’ll...be right back.”
Michelle disappears through his door before Peter has the chance to process everything, leaving the spot she previously occupied cold and drafty.
Shivering slightly, he sinks underneath the covers and rests his head back, the aches he’d felt through his body subsiding just a bit.
The headache, on the other hand, gets worse.
His vision gets spotty, patches of black obstructing his view, and he wonders for a split second if he’s going to pass out.
It might’ve been better if he did, Peter thinks, knowing he won’t be able to fall asleep despite his exhaustion. Not if the dreams he had the previous night return with just as much vigor.
The inky darkness, a consuming thing through and through.
It was too much.
Peter looks out his window, eyes lingering on the setting sun and the shadows it’s casting. He doesn’t want night to come, not at all—longing for the light to come back instead.
Speaking of, he notes, seeing as Michelle returns seconds later with a tray of soup balancing in her hands. She blows a strand of hair from her face, offering him the wryest of smiles, and his lips curve up automatically.
“You made that?”
“Contrary to what you and Ned think,” she huffs, scowling beautifully while setting the tray down on his nightstand. “I can cook without lighting the entire kitchen on fire.”
“I know, I know, America’s best chef right here,” Peter jokes, and Michelle rolls her eyes in response, tossing a spoon in his direction. His grin stretches as he catches it between his fingers. “Hey, you could really hurt someone with that.”
Michelle gives him a deadpan look. “Move over, dork. Your floor is the last thing I want to sit on. God knows how much blood you’ve gotten on it.”
“May just replaced the carpets, actually,” he says absently, making space for her in his bed, a familiar gesture that always has his heartbeat increasing tenfold—even more so when she crawls in, their knees bumping, bare feet touching.
It’s intimate, all of it—from the soup to the skin-on-skin contact to just Michelle being in his bed. He’s missed this, missed her so much.
Peter watches as she takes a careful sip from her bowl, spluttering after the heat burns her tongue. She gives him an indignant look after he snorts out a laugh, eyes narrowing.
“Careful, Parker. It only takes one wrong move for me to accidentally spill this all over you,” Michelle warns, but her tone is familiarly teasing.
“Okay, okay.” He cautiously drinks his own broth, letting the warm steam soothe his throat. “Thank you...for making this for me. I really appreciate it.”
And you goes unsaid, but his expression makes it clear.
“Yeah, well. Generosity sparks in me from time to time.” She looks away, gnashing away at the inside of her cheek. “But how are you feeling now? None of that ‘I’m fine’ bullshit, either.”
“Everything kind of hurts. I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it, though,” Peter admits, glancing down when her hand falls on his knee, a comfort move she does on occasion.
“You sure? I could go get you some medicine. I know they’ve got some strong shit over at the bodega. NyQuil, at least. Nasty stuff, but…” She trails off, her expression scrutinizing when he doesn’t answer. “Peter? What can I do?”
“Can you just...stay with me?” He swallows as her eyes flit across his face, like she’s trying to decipher what could be double entendre. “Please.”
“Yeah,” Michelle eventually says, giving him a tiny nod. “I won’t go anywhere. But, seriously. No medicine?”
“I don’t think it’ll help,” Peter responds, shaking his head while placing a tentative hand over hers—his excuse being that she’s warm and he’s not. “I’m pretty sure it’s rendered useless in my body since...”
“Well. Maybe don’t get sick next time and you won’t have to deal with this problem,” she tries, and he cracks a small smile. “When did it start?”
“Ah. Well...after my patrol last night, actually.”
“Oh.” She nods, her expression unreadable after the reference to Spider-Man, having just confronted him about his secret identity weeks ago.
After months of him lying to her about it.
Thinking about it still stings like a fresh wound, knowing that he could have prevented the whole ordeal by telling her the truth from the beginning.
But Michelle is intelligent. Observant. Of course she managed to figure it out on her own and was just waiting to see if he trusted her enough to let her in.
Peter knows his own argument was weak, thinking that keeping her in the dark was a form of protection—that the dangers of Spider-Man wouldn’t touch her if she didn’t know about them.
How stupid that sounds now.
He could apologize.
He wants to apologize.
Because she came over for him.
Peter knows he doesn’t deserve one bit of her, and yet, he still has the audacity to love her. Maybe that’s just his own brand of idiocy, but he wouldn’t change it. Not for anything.
“MJ,” he begins, quiet and hesitant, but she must recognize the look on his face, already shaking her head. “Michelle, please, I—”
“We don’t have to do this right now,” she tells him, gentle. “Not because I don’t want to hear it. I know you’re exhausted, Peter. I know you’re not feeling well.”
“Michelle, I just…” He trails off, struggling with his words and inhaling sharply when it feels like some dark force just stabbed the back of his brain. “I want…”
“I came over to take care of you. This is my decision to put you first, and I’ll still be here when you want to talk later.” Her eyes tell him not to worry, and reluctantly, Peter nods, feeling his own start to well up.
I love you, I love you, I love you so much.
Maybe one day, he’ll have the guts to say it.
“Okay,” Peter mumbles instead as she takes their bowls of soup, placing them back on the tray. His breath is shaky as he exhales, and he suddenly feels an unreal wave of tiredness. “I think I’m going to…”
“One step ahead of you, Parker,” she comments, already standing up to turn off the lamp. The light from the hallway still illuminates her silhouette like a halo, but for Peter, it feels as if the darkness is swallowing him whole.
Michelle’s hand is on the door, about to pull it closed with her on the other side, when panic seizes him.
“Where are you going?”
“I...I was going to let you sleep,” she says, brows furrowed. “Maybe clean up the kitchen. Read a little.”
“Oh,” he manages, his throat feeling tight.
Michelle hesitates, releasing her grip on the door knob slightly. “Do you...want me to stay?”
“Please. I mean—you don’t have to, but I just...I’m not…” Peter trails off, wondering if he could sound any more vulnerable than he does right now.
“No, it’s—it’s fine. Yeah, I stayed up until midnight to finish reading Vanity Fair, so I’m kind of tired, too? If you don’t hog the bed, I wouldn’t mind getting some shut-eye,” she says, and he nods vigorously.
“I would never hog the bed.”
“And here I thought we were past lying,” Michelle replies with a quiet laugh, and he smiles as she climbs back in beside him. Though, when her arm brushes against his, her breath hitches sharply.
“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Peter, why the hell is your skin so cold?”
Peter swallows, unsure, but knows that his temperature has taken an unnatural drop. “I don’t know. I—I really don’t know what’s going on with me, but if it’s too cold for you...you don’t have to—”
“Stop it,” she tells him, rolling her eyes before pulling the sleeves of her hoodie down. “I’m already here.”
“MJ, seriously, it’s okay,” he tries, kneading his own hands together in an attempt to warm them for her sake, just in case. But then she shakes her head, lips pressed into an exasperated smile.
“Can it, Parker. You’re freezing. I’m a heater. If you want, we could just…?”
Peter grins, especially when her cheeks redden slightly in the dark. “You want to warm me up, Jones?”
“If you tease me now, I will kick you out of your own bed,” Michelle warns halfheartedly, wrapping a tentative arm around him. “It’s like hugging an ice brick. I don’t know how you’re still alive.”
“Probably because of you, Em,” Peter mumbles, moving closer in her embrace for the warmth of her body heat.
“You know what, you’re right,” she utters before placing the softest kiss above his brow, and it makes him melt from the inside out.
It might have just been a friendly thing. It might not have.
Frankly, he doesn’t care.
Because either way, Peter’s the one in her arms, in her embrace, knowing that it’s the safest place he could ever be. The only place he feels secure.
And maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.
Maybe he was never meant to protect her.
Maybe she was always meant to be the one to protect him.
The darkness feels like it’s closing in.
Almost suffocating.
When Peter wakes up, he can’t breathe properly, terrified that he’s still dreaming—that whatever he just saw is terribly permanent. There’s a scream on the tip of his tongue just begging to be let out.
But then he looks over and sees Michelle, sees that she’s asleep, and he has to choke back a sob. One of her arms is draped lazily across his chest as she lies on her stomach, face half-buried in the pillow.
The last thing Peter wants to do is wake her, but he has to make sure she’s real. His fingers graze her cheek lightly, solid yet soft under his touch, and it confirms that this is reality and his dream is not.
Michelle stirs, her eyes opening just a crack. “Hey.”
“Hi,” he breathes, relief flooding through his veins. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Are you okay?” Her brows are furrowed in concern, and he figures he must look worse for wear.
“Yeah, I just—I had a dream. But it’s okay.” Peter sighs, his head still pounding in rhythm with his heart, and him drenched in sweat. “I’m, uh, I’m going to use the restroom real quick. Wash my face.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No, I’m—I’m alright.” He slips out of bed, though not before smothering a kiss in her curls, because she’s real. It was all just a nightmare and nothing more. “I’ll be right back.”
Coordination must not have caught up with him yet, Peter thinks, as he stumbles into the bathroom, not bothering with the light.
Keeping the door cracked, Peter goes over to the sink and starts rinsing his face off, letting the cool water soothe his hot skin. And yet, it doesn’t soothe anything else.
His mind keeps going back to what might’ve been the worst dream he’s ever had, the imagery too gruesome for his heart to take. Whatever’s inducing these hellish nightmares must be connected to his fluctuating sickness.
Though, his temperature feels normal now.
Maybe that means it’ll all be over soon—the aches and chills and dreams that could cause him a coronary, all gone.
Sounds like heaven.
Peter opens his eyes again after rinsing his face, about to turn off the water.
But then he notices something that has his heart seize, recognizing the familiarity from his dream. Droplets of black splashing into the sink.
Except, he’s not dreaming anymore.
Right?
Blindly, Peter reaches for the light switch, trying to swallow any unease he feels, because maybe this doesn’t mean anything. It could be a coincidence—a very cruel and unusual coincidence.
As soon as the light engulfs the darkness, Peter stumbles backwards, his back hitting the wall and knocking down a picture frame.
“Peter?” Her voice echoes down the hallway, and he panics, knowing that she’s coming to check on him and knowing that it’s the last thing she should do.
Michelle has to stay as far away as possible.
Because in his reflection, inky tendrils are snaking around his skin, engulfing Peter in the very same darkness he’s been fearing as of late.
It takes the shape of something that’s not like him at all, more venomous than anything.
But it’s the exact same monster from his dream. The one Michelle had encountered, leading her to a terrible fate.
And now he knows that it’s not just any monster.
It’s him.