Chapter Text
“You are not married to Michelle Jones,” Johnny says, disbelief coloring every word. “The Michelle Jones? Like the most famous actress of our generation? Ms. Michelle ‘I got a Ph.D. in psychology by twenty-six and randomly got scouted as a model and turned to acting’ Jones? You’re fucking with me.”
“How do you—never mind, I don’t wanna know. Wikipedia is a website of too many facts. And, besides, it’s Mrs. Michelle Jones-Watson-Parker, actually.” Peter shrugs, throwing his gloves in the trash and moving his goggles out of his face. Working under Reed Richards sounded amazing when he got the job offer—Peter’s already worked with the Fantastic Four in his more costumed line of work, although they didn’t exactly know it was him—but maybe having Johnny Storm barge into his workplace every day was not something he expected. At all. “But that’s kind of a mouthful. She’s just Michelle Jones in a professional capacity.”
Johnny squints at him. “So you’re telling me that your wife, MJ—the woman you always talk about—is that Michelle Jones?”
“Uh-huh,” Peter says, moving to the other side of the room with Johnny hot on his heels. He sits down and waits for the diagnostic to load, swiveling around to look up at Johnny.
Johnny shakes his head rapidly, but not a single blonde curl moves. “No.”
“No?” Peter stifles a laugh. “Dude, she’s my wife.”
“I thought her ring was a fashion statement?”
“‘A fashion statement’? Johnny, I put it there.”
“It’s just—I mean, you’re, like, not . . . I mean you’re not unattractive, you’re handsome in a weird way, and it works, you know—”
Peter snorts. “Thanks for the ego boost, buddy.”
“—but she is the most beautiful woman in Hollywood.”
Actually, in Peter’s completely unbiased opinion, she is the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Smartest one too, I bet,” Peter teases, feeling infinitely proud of MJ at this moment. “Now stop mooning over my wife and let me get back to work, asshole. Dr. Richards needs these results by the end of the hour.”
Johnny pinches the bridge of his nose like his whole world got flipped upside down. For the literal Human Torch, you’d think he’d be used to world-flipping events, but apparently, MJ being Peter’s wife is just too much to handle.
“I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah, well,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I couldn’t believe it when she said yes to me, so we’re in the same boat.”
“This . . . actually makes so much sense. I’ve been to your apartment and it’s nice. I know Reed’s a good guy and he pays a lot, but. Wow.” Johnny places his hand on Peter’s shoulder, visibly trying to restrain his laughter. “Man, you’re a trophy husband.”
Peter smiles crookedly. “Kinda love it.”
“Yeah, yeah, you would.”
Dr. Richards comes around the corner, looking frazzled. “Peter, do you have the—Johnny, what are you doing here? I thought you were testing how long you can expend your energy.”
Peter takes one last look at the numbers and sends up the raw results in an email to him. “Hey, Dr. Richards, I just emailed it to you.”
“Reed, I finished three hours ago,” Johnny sighs out, ruffling Peter’s hair and ignoring him slapping Johnny’s arm away. “Then I took a nap and got hungry, but passed by Petey here and decided to have a chat.”
“Don’t call me that,” Peter says automatically, rubbing his eyes.
Dr. Richards takes a deep breath. “Okay, thank you, Peter. You can take the rest of the day off, that’s all I needed from you today. Johnny, how long were you able to maintain your plasma state?”
“Sixteen point eight hours,” Johnny recites, scratching at his ear. Peter gets up and takes off his lab coat, nodding his goodbyes to half of the Fantastic Four on the way out.
“Wait, Peter, you have to introduce me to M—”
Peter, quite gleefully, shuts the door before Johnny can finish his sentence.
#
“Ned,” Peter says, shoving the large assortment of Filipino food Ned brought from his visit to his Lola’s house down his gullet. “Is your Lola single?”
Ned throws lumpia at his head, but Peter catches it, chewing with his mouth open. God, this stuff is so good. “Gross, dude. She’s, like, eighty.” Then, a little louder: “MJ, you’re gonna stand for this? Your husband wants to date another woman.”
MJ comes from the bedroom door, clad in Peter’s t-shirt and some pj pants. She trails her hand against Peter’s jaw, kissing his cheek. She fist-bumps Ned before sitting down in the seat next to him. Immediately, Peter tangles his right leg with her left.
MJ starts loading her plate with pancit. “I’d date your Lola, Ned, if it means I can have a home-cooked meal every once in a while.”
“Hey,” Peter says, swallowing his bite. “I try.”
“Yeah, so do I. Pete, we both kinda suck.”
“I make really good pasta,” Peter says. “And you can do breakfast foods. Kinda.”
Ned leans back in his chair. “You guys are hopeless. I can’t believe you’re famous.”
“She”—Peter jerks his thumb at MJ—“is the famous one.”
“You’ve literally been Spider-Man,” MJ says, deadpan, “since the tender age of fifteen.”
“Okay, but I wear a mask because of the whole anonymous hero thing. Hence, the lack of fame as Peter Parker.”
“Oh, he’s got you there,” Ned says, nodding.
MJ rolls her eyes. “Idiot.”
“Dude, did I tell you,” Peter starts, “Johnny just found out I’m married to you. Well, he knows I’ve been married to MJ ever since I took Richards’ job offer, but he didn’t know MJ is actually short for ‘Michelle Jones.’”
MJ groans, covering her eyes. “Ugh, don’t. I can practically hear the air quotes on my name.”
“C’mon,” Peter teases, nudging her shoulder until she finally shows her beautiful brown eyes. “Maybe I should brag about my famous wife more. Should start every conversation with, ‘My wife, Michelle Jones-Watson-Parker, the love of my life, apple of my eye—”
Ned kicks his shin.
“Ow,” he says lamely. “Rude.”
“I don’t know how people haven’t figured out I’m married to you yet,” MJ says, taking a bite out of some noodles. She looks around, furrows her eyebrows. “Literally every photo I have on my Instagram that’s not promo has been taken by you.”
“Thief.” Peter steals some extra lemon slices from Ned’s plate to squeeze some onto her food. She swings their entwined legs in thanks.“That’s plagiarism.”
“I tag you, dork. You just never open Instagram. I think they think that you’re just my favorite photographer, which isn’t a lie,” MJ says, taking a hefty bite. “This shit is so fucking good. Tell your Lola I said thanks.”
“Of course.”
“And that I’d date her if she’s free.”
“Absolutely not.”
She turns to Peter, shrugging. “Eh, I tried.”
“Do they still think you’re secretly married to your co-star?” Peter asks. He tries to think of the last time someone info-dumped about MJ to him, not knowing he’s her husband. It was probably one of the times that he’d been staring at her face on a billboard, like a love-struck idiot. “Or, actually wait—I think it’s Harry Osborn now.”
“I have enough white men in my life,” MJ says, rolling her eyes.
Peter snorts. “It’s just me.”
“Yeah, well,” says MJ, turning to kiss his cheek again. “You’re the only one I need.”
“Besides,” Ned interrupts, “he’s married to Liz Allan. Remember her? Dude, you used to have the biggest crush on her.”
“Oh my God.” Peter buries his head in his hands. “That entire year was so embarrassing.”
“You left her alone on homecoming night.” MJ swirls her noodles around her fork. “And, if I remember correctly—”
“You always remember correctly. You have a mind like a steel trap,” Peter interjects.
“—you fought the Vulture and Liz, now mortified for reasons beyond you ditching her ass, moved across the country,” MJ finishes with a smile. “Oh, and Ned got caught ‘watching porn.’”
Ned nods, fond. “What a time.”
“I hate you both,” says Peter.
“No, you don’t.”
Nah, he doesn’t.
#
“Peter,” Dr. Richards says. “You have a suit right?”
Peter freezes, his eye hovering over the microscope. “Uh. What?”
“You know, like a tux.”
Peter breathes a little easier and adjusts the focus. “Yeah, why?”
“We have that charity gala in a few days—all employees are required to come.”
Peter wracks his brain, trying to remember if his eyes just glazed over while reading that email. Damn. “It’s on Saturday. Eight o’clock.”
Dr. Richards smiles. “Yes, exactly.”
“Oh, I—it’s my wife and I’s seventh anniversary,” Peter says slowly. Dr. Richards just claps a hand on his shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze.
“That’s great! You can bring her along as your plus one.”
Peter’s back straightens. “Sir, I really can’t—”
But he’s gone.
Susan, who has been in the room for the last minute or so, just sighs. “Sorry about him. He just runs off like that, my Reed. You really don’t have to come, Peter. I can explain it to him. You go be with your wife.”
Peter shuffles on his feet. “It’s—it’s fine. I wasn’t really planning anything fancy, just staying in and having a quiet evening.”
He already asked Hawkeye for a favor to look after New York City for the night. She raised an eyebrow and asked, “Hot date?”
Spider-Man threw his head back and laughed. “The hottest.”
“I’ll go check with MJ to see if she wants to come.” Peter can already see his Saturday night going differently. MJ’s been wanting to meet his coworkers—really, she just wants to gauge Fantastic Four as a group—and she will take any excuse to get a nice free meal.
Susan shoots him a smile. “Great! I’ll see you on Saturday, Peter.”
“Yeah,” he agrees half-heartedly.
Saturday was supposed to be lounging around in their underwear, staying in bed until noon, drinking unreasonably expensive wine. Peter sighs and takes out his phone.
MJ there’s a charity gala I have to attend on Sat, he texts her. I know it’s our anniversary so I can cancel if you want me to.
It doesn’t take long for her to respond. She’s done with filming for the time being, so she’s probably just reading at home. Probably tucked in her reading chair, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, wearing his shirt, looking breathtakingly gorgeous—
Black tie event? she messages him back, pulling him out of his stupor.
He flicks through his emails and finds the one with all the information. He scans it quickly and sends, Yup.
I’ve been looking for an excuse to dress up ;), MJ says.
Peter grins stupidly at his phone. Really? I thought you said you didn’t want to wear anything for our anniversary.
Lies and slander. A second later: I can do that after.
I love you so much, Peter sends, and after a minute, he texts back twenty hearts.
Dork. Then: I love you too.
Peter slips his phone back into his pocket, smiling. God, he is married to the best woman in the entire world.
#
“Hey, tiger, come help me with this dress, please,” MJ says from the bathroom. “I can’t do the top button.”
“Be right there.” Peter looks in the mirror, tugging at his bow tie. You’d think that wearing a skin-tight suit every day basically would help but no. Something about a tie around his neck makes him antsy. He straightens out the bow tie once more and walks into the bathroom.
MJ’s wearing a long, black gown that’s backless. He can see where he’s supposed to button her up at the top, but all Peter can do is place his hands on her waist, moving until they settle over her navel.
“Hey, Em,” he says, skimming his lips over the back of her bare shoulder. He brings her closer to him. “You look beautiful.”
MJ places one hand over his. “Peter . . .”
He presses: one, two, three kisses along her back. Her hand grips his arm, her nails digging into his skin. Peter can’t help but smirk.
“Peter,” she says again, hoarsely this time. “If you don’t stop that we’ll be late to the gala.”
“Okay,” he says easily, “then we’ll be late.”
MJ waits. One, two, three—she twists around and captures his lips with hers.
#
They are exactly forty-three minutes late, but no one seems to mind.
Peter and MJ make their appearance as quiet as possible, knowing that the press would go crazy if they catch a whiff of her. He bribes the kitchen staff to get them inside without much fanfare, and MJ only had to sign a few autographs.
“Perks of being famous,” Peter whispers in her ear.
“Peter,” she says, exasperated, “we literally had to bribe people not to leak my presence for at least a week.”
“Okay, and? It’s only just—hey, Dr. Richards!” Peter says, letting go of MJ to shake his hand. Dr. Richards smiles politely, but Peter notices that Susan’s eyes widen slightly before she hides her surprise. “This is my wife, Michelle Jones.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Michelle,” Dr. Richards says. “And, please, call me Reed.”
“I’m Susan,” she says, holding out her hand with practiced ease. “I’ve heard so many great things about you, Michelle.”
MJ ducks her head into her chest and Peter’s heart swells at the sight. “Ah, I hope he’s not bothering you guys too much.”
“He’s a brilliant scientist, even if he is always somehow perpetually late to our weekly meetings,” Dr. Richards—Reed—jokes.
Peter sighs. “Some things can always be said in an email.”
“Honey,” Susan says, tapping Reed’s arm. “That’s the board of directors, you better greet him before—”
“Right, right,” Reed says quickly. “Peter, Michelle, please enjoy yourselves.”
“They’re nice,” MJ says after they leave. “Where’s your other friend, Johnny? I haven’t met him yet.”
Peter cranes his head around, looking over the sea of people dressed in black. He hears, rather than sees, people notice MJ. But by the time the low whispers turn into pointed fingers, he hears a camera shutter. Just one, a phone too. He turns around and it’s Johnny, tucking his phone in his back pocket. He takes a few steps towards them and Peter chuckles.
“You’re Michelle Jones,” he says, giving her his best movie star smile. “I’m—”
“You must be Johnny Storm.” MJ shakes his hand. “So you’re the guy who doesn’t believe Peter’s my husband.”
Johnny splutters. “It’s not like I don’t believe, I mean . . . you’re—Petey, help me out here.”
“You’re on your own, buddy,” Peter says, slipping his hand on MJ’s lower back. He strokes the skin there, smirking when he hears MJ’s inhale sharply.
“It’s just that, well,” Johnny says, “you’re you.”
“Uh, thank you?”
“And Peter’s . . . Peter.”
“Thanks,” he says dryly.
“No, like, I just thought you’d be married to another actor or something.”
“Or actress,” she says, placing one hand on her hip, raising an eyebrow.
Johnny nods. “Or actress.”
“Dude,” says Peter. “I’ve known MJ since high school. We’re technically high school sweethearts.”
“Oh my God, don’t say that,” MJ groans. “You make us sound so . . . cutesy.”
“Em, I hate to admit it, but we are cutesy.”
“You are the bane of my existence,” she says, leaning and grabbing two glasses of champagne, giving the server a quick thank you nod. MJ hands him one and they clink their drinks together before taking a healthy sip.
“You weren’t saying that an hour ago,” he mutters into his glass.
MJ digs her elbow into his stomach. Hard. He barely winces.
“I can see it now,” Johnny says, squinting at them. “You guys are really good together. And, Pete, man, you are filling out that suit. When did you get so buff?”
Peter flushes pink. He keeps his hand on MJ’s back, caressing the skin near the dip of her dress. His hand placement has just gotten lower and lower over the course of the night. God, when will this gala be over already?
MJ winks. “Trade secret.”
Johnny’s seems to warm up the air. Peter give him a look.
“I, um, it was nice meeting you, Michelle,” Johnny says, glancing at the exit. “I think my sister’s calling me.”
Peter almost laughs. Susan is too busy chatting up the board of directors.
“Call me MJ,” she says.
“MJ,” Johnny breathes out. “Yeah, I—yeah. See ya!”
Johnny rushes away from them.
MJ turns to look at him. “Why didn’t you tell me the actual Human Torch had a crush on you? This shit is hilarious.”
“Me?” Peter says, surprised. “Did you not notice how he literally became a furnace when you winked at him? He has a crush on you.”
MJ rolls her eyes. “But his crush on you is infinitely funnier.”
“Okay,” says Peter, snorting. “You’re delusional.”
“And you’re an idiot.”
“Well, you’re—”
MJ kisses him.
He wisely shuts up.
#
Peter asks Johnny to send him the picture he took of him and MJ the next day. Very late, the next day.
How’d you know I took a pic of u? he texts back. But here: [image]
Good sense for this kind of stuff.
Whatcha gonna use it for??? Johnny fires back.
Peter types back, Posting it on IG.
REALLY??? YOU HAVEN’T POSTED A SINGLE PHOTO. EVER!!!
Yeah I know. Thx for stalking my acct, Peter replies back, chuckling to himself.
“What’s up?” MJ asks, burrowing back into bed, in his side.
“Asking Johnny to send me the photo he took of us yesterday.”
“Why?” she mumbles sleepily, tracing the line of hair below his navel.
“Was gonna post it in Instagram.” Peter grabs a lock of her hair and twirls it on his finger. “I thought the world should know about my beautiful wife.”
“Don’t forget to tag me,” says MJ, looking up and peering at his phone. “I can’t wait to see the media storm that follows.”
“You don’t wanna run this by your publicist first?” He leans down and kisses her forehead. “I can wait.”
“Nah, go for it. It’s been a long time coming anyway.”
Peter quickly opens Instagram and types out a short caption, making sure to tag MJ. Once he posts it, he throws his phone on his side table and snuggles down into his sheets.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi,” he whispers back. “I love you, you know.”
“I love you back.”
Then, at four o’clock in the afternoon, they take a long needed nap.
#
Peter’s phone blows up from the notifications.
He doesn’t mind.
