Chapter Text
He appears in one of MJ’s first classes of the new year.
Now, she doesn’t usually pay too much attention to other people, but a few things make him stand out immediately.
For one, they’re more than halfway through the academic year; it’s just after winter break, so the sun still hangs low in the sky despite it being 8am, and gray clouds have gathered to block out what little light might have shone through.
It’s as if the weather is conspiring to make the students even more miserable than they would have been - or, perhaps, to match their moods. Fucking pathetic fallacy.
It’s not like no one transfers midway through the year, sure, but it’s not very common. Anyway, that’s not the only thing that catches her attention; exhibit two - and probably the most important of all - is his face.
She’s not saying that to be an asshole, there really is a reasonable justification. Reason being, the fading, mottled bruises on the left side of his face that stretch all the way from his cheekbone, past his jaw, all the way down his neck and disappearing beneath his well-worn royal purple sweater.
Bold color choice, especially for a new kid; then again, he doesn’t seem all too bothered by the attention, if he notices at all.
He seems mostly in his own world, with the way his head is pillowed in his arms as he lays on his desk and stares out the window at the dark sky, his chestnut-brown hair messy and chopped short, like he doesn’t know what to do with it.
The only reason she caught a glimpse of his injuries was because her attention had been drawn to him when he walked across the class, thanks to the way the low-level whispering had wracked up a notch or ten, disturbing her reading of Ten Ways to Gain Your Cat's Trust.
(She needs the tips, Widow is a real asshole when she wants to be.)
The only reason she’s still looking was because, well, because of the frankly stunningly beautiful tragedy in his profile - the kind that makes her itch for a pencil to capture the majesty of human grief in graphite, a frozen moment of raw emotion.
He doesn’t look away from the dreary view, even as the teacher walks in and begins the lesson.
Neither does she.
--
When he walks into the library during lunch break the following day, MJ only notices him because of the commotion he causes.
Or, well, she supposes it’s cruel to claim he caused it; it seems - from what she can grasp from the snippets of conversation she catches from her vantage point in the corner of the room - that another student wasn’t watching where they were going, and there was a collision as the boy walked in.
One involving a stack of books and loose papers.
How cliché.
She goes to look back down at her book, and it’s decently engaging - but movement catches her eye as Sweater Guy hands some books back to the other student (participant? Casualty? Victim?) with a blank, annoyed look.
Something she’d missed before was the square bandage on his jaw, held in place with medical tape - which suggests that, whatever conflict he was in, it was decently serious.
The other student scuttles off, flinching away as Sweater Guy holds a hand up in an apologetic(?) wave. Sweater Guy seems to notice, and pulls his hand back down - she can practically hear the confusion from across the room.
She raises an eyebrow. Interesting.
Then Ned chooses that moment to sit down across from her, blocking her view of sweater-bandage-guy, and she shifts her attention to her closest (only) friend as he talks at a million miles per hour about a new Star Wars or Star Trek or random-fantasy-show comic book or movie or-
Look, she’s trying to keep up, she really is, alright? She cares about Ned - he’s kind and sweet and doesn’t care that she’s a lonely weirdo who walks around reading books about either niche philosophy or cats and avoiding, well, people - but it’s hard to keep track when all the names have five syllables and he keeps forgetting to take breaths in between long, run-on sentences.
They’re two different types of nerd.
But he makes an effort to make sense of her ramblings about one 500-year-old philosopher or another (or, alternatively, her 500 new cat facts), and she tries to pin down which fantasy race is dominant in what setting; it’s how they work.
After a while, though, the conversation shifts to something she can keep up with: Sweater Guy.
“-and, apparently, Betty tried talking to the new guy and he even sounds scary-”
“There’s already gossip about him?” MJ cuts him off, but Ned just takes it in stride - it’s their thing; he knows she’s bad at social cues, and she hops trains of thought with him the best she can.
He fixes her with a deeply unimpressed look. “MJ. A bruised, mean-looking, typical bad boy archetype with at least a couple scars showed up in the middle of the year. Of course there’s gossip.” He grins impishly. “I’m pretty sure a dozen of the girls are planning their romances as we speak.”
He pauses, tilting his head. “And at least half a dozen guys.”
She hopes the look she’s giving him helps her utter disappointment come across decently.
“Oh, come on,” he groans, leaning back in his chair, “don’t be so boring! I know you’re curious, too.”
MJ just rolls her eyes, pointedly raising her book in front of her. She is certainly not intrigued by Sweater Guy, no matter what Ned might say; seriously, did she miss being transported into a trashy romance novel?
…or maybe that’s just high-school. She snorts quietly, and goes back to hiding a smile as Ned whines and vies for her attention across the table.
No matter what people say, sometimes characters in a story can figure out what their genre is. Or, at least, they can take steps to prevent becoming a cliché - if she ever hears noise in the basement, she’s certainly not checking it out - and the very last thing she needs is a bad boy/girl next door romance.
Fuck that, she’s not being reduced to a romantic interest in anyone’s story; she’s got all she needs right here - her two truest (and only) friends: Ned, and century-old books.
Screw Mystery Boy and his, well, mysteries.
--
Okay, maybe she’s a little intrigued.
Sue her! High-school might be a cesspool of rumors and gossip, and teenagers might be total clichés, but, well, she’s a teenager in high-school. She’s not immune to the allure of the rumor mill and mystery students.
…especially not ones whose bruises disappear strangely fast.
Granted, she can’t possibly know how long he had them for, but she’s pretty sure - based on the seeming severity and coverage of them on the first day - that it should take at least a week.
His are gone in three days.
No one else seems to think anything of it; but, then again, not everyone had spent their weekends researching the recovery period of different types of injuries in order to write a convincingly realistic murder-mystery novel.
(So she went through a phase, so what?)
The lack of notice might also have something to do with the fact that his injuries seem to be a common occurrence; his face appears to have a never-ending rotating pattern of bandaids, scratches, and bruises. His hands, too, but they’re basically the only bare skin he ever shows, so.
It would be more worrying, if not for the way he seems perpetually unbothered by any of it - or, well, as unbothered as one can appear when they seem eternally annoyed.
Then again, maybe he just has a so-called ‘resting bitch face’. If so, MJ can relate.
He’s in a lot of her classes, but, despite that, she hasn’t heard his voice properly even once - he tends to remain quiet and stare out windows a lot, then scratch out notes once in a while, only to return to staring out windows.
He doesn’t raise his hand for any questions, and even the teachers seem to get the memo to leave him alone - or, well, maybe they’ve been told something about him, warned to let him be, or something. That’s more likely.
Either way, Mystery Boy remains just that; confusing, and with an intrigue MJ can’t quite completely resist, even if it means being a tad cliché.
…she should really find out his name. ‘Mystery Boy’ sounds extremely lame, and like something from a second-rate detective-slash-superhero TV show. Even ‘Sweater Guy’ is better.
And, probably, more apt, seeing as he seems to have a constant supply of them. In fact, she hasn’t even seen him don anything other than jeans and sweaters - each in various stages of wear - in the time he’s been at Midtown Tech.
It would be boring, if not for the large variety of unique colors and interesting patterns they sport; there was the purple one on the first day, then orange on the second, and a rainbow of others to follow.
(Her personal favorite, so far, is the blue-and-yellow polka dots on a background of pure black, clashing with green - green - tinted jeans, if only for the sheer audacity to wear something so bright and attention-catching in the cut-throat fashion-conscious environment of high-school.
Though, maybe he’s just aware of the effect he has on people, seeing as no one dared call him out on the atrocious color combination. He has to be aware, he’d be an idiot - or just the most oblivious person she’s ever met - if he wasn’t.)
Not to mention his reaction to Flash's usual shtick.
Flash seems to take the appearance of a new classmate as some sort of challenge or threat; a time to prove his dominance.
So, when the new kid is getting books out of his locker in between lessons, and Flash approaches with a shark-ish grin, flanked by goons, MJ knows what's going to happen.
She doesn't interfere partially because there's no point - Flash will get his way now or later, she'd just be delaying the inevitable - and partially because she's curious to see how the so-called 'Bad Boy' will react.
The answer is - rather unsurprisingly, given his many bruises - violently.
Flash taps him on the shoulder, with a menacing (well, what he seems to think sounds menacing but in reality is just creepy), "Hey, Parker-"
And is promptly cut off as a flip switches and 'Parker' twists around, grabbing Flash's arm and pinning him to the ground, knee between his shoulder blades. It happens so fast that no one seems to know how to respond; the hallway goes dead silent in a way a high-school full of rowdy teens never is.
Then Flash honest-to-god whimpers, and the spell is broken.
Mystery-Boy-slash-New-Kid-slash-Martial-Arts-Badass 'Parker' gets up quickly, pulling away as though burned, and Flash swiftly scrambles to his feet, glaring at him. Parker just glances around furtively, notices the massive crowd, and wastes no time in grabbing his discarded backpack and slamming his locker shut.
The sound seems to shock everyone else out of their collective stupor, and the whispers begin.
Parker speed-walks down the hallway, the crowd parting before him without prompting. Flash is attempting to regain his pride - and failing miserably - and people are gossiping and theorizing, and MJ isn't paying attention to any of them.
She stares after Parker and thinks about the regretful, scared look in his eyes when he saw what he'd done.
Definitely interesting.
(She doesn’t see him around for a couple days and, judging by the bruise on Flash’s cheek and the way he winces when he moves his back - not to mention his smug smile the next day - she's pretty sure she knows why.)
--
Considering everything, Mystery Boy is pretty much nothing like she'd expected.
In fact, after spending an hour studying with him in the library, she's pretty sure he's like no one she's ever met before. For one, his name isn't Parker. It is - as she discovers, when Ms Robins reads his name out for the group project - his last name, but his first name is Peter.
Peter Parker. The sort of name that rolls off the tongue with a satisfying mix of harsh R's and strong E's.
(Really, she doesn't know why she was expecting Flash to actually use his proper name - she won’t be surprised if he’s assigned a juvenile nickname like ‘Pig-brained’ or ‘Penis’.)
But that's only the beginning of it.
When she marches over to his desk at the end of class and declares they're going to meet after school in the library to begin planning their project, he just stares - startled, like a deer in headlights - and nods his assent.
Still, she assumes he was just too caught off guard to be rude in the moment, so - when she enters the library a few minutes after the bell rings, spots him already set up in a corner, and makes her way over to him - she’s expecting him to be brash and loud. Or maybe quiet and, well, mysterious.
So she drops her textbooks on the table across from him and raises an eyebrow when he doesn’t startle, just glances up from his phone and nods at her, a faint smile on his lips.
There’s a new band-aid on his jaw, and a fading bruise that starts at his neck and disappears down under his clothes.
“Hi,” he greets, voice gentler than she’d been expecting. The bruise shifts with his Adam's apple and the band-aid bunches and stretches as he speaks.
“Hey.” She replies, promptly sitting. There’s a moment of silence as she spreads her books out and retrieves her pencil case from her bag. “So, any ideas for the project?”
He scratches at the edge of the band-aid, tilting his head and revealing a larger stretch of his neck and, in turn, the bruise. It looks nasty. She wonders if it hurts, swiftly realizes that’s a stupid question, and then wonders if he still notices that it hurts, or if it's a common enough occurrence that he doesn’t register it anymore.
As he puts forward ideas (all, admittedly, quite good ones; she should’ve expected it, being at a STEM school for smart kids, but it catches her off-guard and she chastises herself internally for stereotyping), she notices his voice.
She’s barely heard it since he joined the school, but it’s… nice. It’s pitched low and a little rough, lilting in just the right places, but it carries the markers of a teenager in the cracks and jerks, accentuated by the jumping between sentences.
(It’s also not quite Queens-native, which she files away for later.)
She wasn’t particularly happy with this arrangement, when it was first announced - she loves English, but group projects? Really? And they don’t even get to pick their partner? - but, soon enough, they’ve fallen into a rhythm.
They choose a topic - the portrayal of gender in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein - which is fairly by-the-by, but fits the narrow parameters given to them.
Neither of them are too happy with the limitations, but it’s high-school and they’re not going to risk pissing off their power-hungry teacher and getting a mediocre score, just to make a point. Plus, this is going to count to their final grade.
To her own surprise, MJ comments on it beyond basic mutterings, striking up a conversation beyond the project. “Ms Robins is always like this,” she says, shrugging.
“Ah,” he says, nodding, “one of them.”
She raises a pointed eyebrow. Peter flushes.
“Not- I meant, like, those sorts of teachers,” he rushes to explain. It’s the most flustered she’s seen him. “The ones with the, y’know, serious control issues.”
MJ snorts. Yup, fits the bill. “Pretty much. I think she’d be happiest if we all submitted identical presentations.”
“Would make this a hell of a lot easier,” he shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Or harder,” she contends, pointing the end of her pen at him, “imagine having to work with Flash.”
He frowns slightly, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “‘Flash’?”
She squints, then realizes what he’s asking and can’t help the amused smirk that creeps onto her face - Flash seems to have chosen Peter as his new arch-nemesis, and Peter doesn’t even remember his name. “Flash Thompson? The guy you…”
“Oh,” his eyes light up in recognition, “Eugene.”
That startles a short laugh out of her, and Peter startles, staring at her with wide, deer-like eyes. Then he relaxes and gives a small, almost dopey smile.
He shakes himself from his stupor and chuckles, but it’s stilted. His eyes dart away. Guilt, her mind supplies. She ignores it, and points out a new angle for them to look into. Peter looks an equal amount relieved and disappointed to get back on topic. Huh.
They stay for nearly an hour, before Peter glances at his phone and swears under his breath - she catches a glimpse of what she’s pretty sure is a Star Wars background and mentally files that away for later.
“Sorry,” he says, shoving his stuff into his bag, “I’ve gotta go.” He’s turning to leave before she can react, but then he pauses and looks back. “Uh, should we set up a time to meet, or…?”
She sighs, stands up, and holds out her hand, expectantly. He stares. “Phone,” she urges, wiggling her fingers. He nods in understanding, handing it over, and she inputs her number as a new contact.
It affords her the chance to check her suspicions and, sure enough, that’s the Death Star and some sort of (probably iconic) character dressed in robes that she has a vague recollection of seeing. Fanatical nerd, or just casual fan? A couple hours ago she’d have said the latter, no questions asked, but now…
She goes to hand it back but falters as she notices the battered phone case and cracks at the edge of the screen - the model is several years old, and it looks worse for wear. She clears her throat and looks up at him, shaking her head to clear it.
“Text me, we’ll sort it out later,” she says, holding his phone out for him to take.
“Oh! Ok, yeah,” he flashes her a smile; it’s the biggest one so far - bright and cheerful and only a tad sad - and she startles, feeling a bit warmer. “See you around,” he glances at the screen, “Michelle Jones.”
And then he’s turning and leaving the library and she’s-
She swallows, then puts herself on the task of packing her things away, checking her own phone for messages from her dad.
That was-
She’s halfway home before she can think of the right word to put to that whole situation.
She hadn’t been expecting to get along with him, let alone enjoy chatting to him, and she hadn't meant to give him her number, but it made sense, and it was easier, and he’d smiled like that and it was-
Unexpected.
No, that’s not quite right.
It was… pleasant.
Yeah, that works.
She gets home, pulls out her sketchbook, and sets her pencil on the page, no real plan of what to draw. Her hand moves and the lines appear and it’s-
Wonderful.
She flushes. Goddamn teenage hormones. Goddamn teenage brain.
(The sketch is most definitely not of Peter’s smile and, if anyone says it is, she’ll kick them in the most painful spot she can find.)
--
Ned gives MJ a sympathetic look when she says she was paired up with Peter for the project - he’s in the other English class, annoyingly - but she just shakes her head.
“It was fine,” she shrugs.
“Really?” He asks, doubtful, “He wasn’t, I dunno, rude? Mean? A sexist asshole?”
She rolls her eyes. “He was…” a bright smile flickers across her mind, “nice.”
He continues looking doubtful. She kicks him under the table. He yelps. She smirks.
“Okay, okay,” he concedes, holding up his hands, “But, really? I mean, he seems so…”
“You should know better than to judge based on his looks, Ned,” she fixes him with a pointed look, and he shuffles uncomfortably under it. “We’re better than that.”
He sighs heavily. “You’re right.”
She smirks. “I know I am.” He rolls his eyes fondly.
And then she catches a glimpse of a green sweater with white stripes - pretty tame - and messy brown curls, and notices Peter seems to be making a beeline for the door with his tray. He looks, even from a distance, tired.
He’s slouched low, backpack hanging off one arm, and she can practically feel the eyebags from across the room. For one - or all - of those reasons, she takes pity on him - that’s the story she’s sticking with - and calls out. “Hey, Parker.”
His head darts up and he pauses in his tracks, glancing around before meeting her eye with a look of confusion. Ned is staring at her, wide-eyed, making cut it out motions that she’s very much ignoring.
She gestures for him to come closer, and he does so, slowly and very clearly unsure.
“Dude,” Ned whisper-shouts, “just because he seems alright doesn’t mean you can-”
“Sup, loser,” she greets, over her friend’s head. She has a feeling he’d get along with Peter, if he just gave it a try.
Peter looks confused, and a little hurt. “I, uh, you said…”
“Come. Sit. Eat.”
Ned’s not sure what’s going on, Peter is utterly lost, and, frankly, even MJ herself doesn’t know why she’s doing this. But it’s happening, and she’s not going to bother answering why. (Mostly because she doesn’t have an answer.)
Ned sighs. “Don’t worry, man, that’s just what MJ’s like,” he says, giving her a look that lets her know he’s retaliating in his own, small way, “it’s like she’s allergic to actually expressing her emotions like a normal person.”
She glares. Too far. Ned catches on, apologizes in a look. She shrugs. (Friendship is so much easier once it’s actually been established; they don’t even need words to talk, sometimes.)
“‘MJ’?” Peter asks, like he’s testing the letters in his mouth.
“It’s what my friends call me,” she says, and his mouth makes a little ‘o’.
He sits down across from her, and puts his bag down with a thump. It looks heavy. He chuckles nervously, turning to Ned. “I’m, uh, Peter. Peter Parker.”
“Ned Leeds,” he replies, amused - probably because who the hell introduces themselves by their full name in a high-school setting? “You transferred in January, right?”
He’s asking like Peter hasn’t been the biggest supply of gossip and speculation without even participating in the rumor mill - like Ned himself hasn’t been wondering about the mystery Bad Boy who transferred halfway through the year.
But Peter just nods slowly. “Yeah. There was a, uh, an issue with the scholarship paperwork. Only just got it sorted out.”
Scholarship kid, then. MJ glances over the worn sweater - the holes in the ends of the sleeves - and thinks that makes sense. Then, promptly feels like an asshole; sure, she’s not the most wealthy kid at the school, but there’s a reason she’s at one of the most prestigious STEM schools in the state, and it’s not a scholarship.
Ned hums in understanding- though he and MJ are in the same boat. She can read the signs of guilt on her friend’s face - the stereotypes of poor kids being rough, asshole delinquents are probably catching up with him - and decides to help him out.
“So, Parker,” she says, and his eyes shoot to hers. Damn, since when were they that bright? “You like Star Wars, right?”
He smiles, small and a little shy - nothing like the grin yesterday - but Ned is beaming. MJ smirks to herself as Ned turns to Peter and starts rambling, shooting off questions like nothing else, and the other boy warms up.
They’ll be friends within the day. Knew it.
She does her best to ignore the uncomfortable tightening in her chest as the pair laugh at some fandom-related inside joke that she doesn’t quite catch or understand.
--
(8:49pm) Unknown Number: hey, its peter
(8:50pm) Unknown Number: peter parker
(8:52pm) Unknown Number: from english and the library
MJ glances at the texts as they pop up at the top of the screen, and snorts. She doesn’t know how she ever thought the guy was a delinquent; he even texts like he’s nervous and stumbling over his words.
She clicks onto the next one that pops up and adds his number to her contacts with a little smirk.
(8:53pm) Walking Cliché: u probly knew that tho
(8:53pm) Walking Cliché: srry
She waits a few minutes, just to let him stew in the awkwardness - maybe panic a little - before responding.
And then Widow nudges her knuckles in demand for pets and she finally answers so she can free up her hand.
(8:57pm) Me: Hello, Peter Parker.
(8:59pm) Walking Cliché: …this is michelle right?
(9:01pm) Me: Yup.
(9:02pm) Walking Cliché: i was just thinking we should set up the next session
(9:02pm) Walking Cliché: for the project
(9:03pm) Me: Sure. Where were you thinking?
(9:04pm) Walking Cliché: i can do the school library, probably not best for long term or weekends tho
She knows what the best solution would be, but…
Well. She’s not exactly ecstatic about letting this boy she’s spoken to three (3) times since she first laid eyes on him into her home.
Maybe four times, if you count a quiet thanks for passing a hand-out or glue stick. She sure doesn’t.
Then again…
She really doesn’t want to get a bad grade on this assignment.
And that’s what tips the scales. Because, MJ is anything if not consistent, and she’s not about to risk her English grade just because her partner isn’t exactly what she expected.
(9:06pm) Me: We might be able to use my house, depending on the day.
As long as my dad’s not home, is what she means, but isn’t about to say; it’s not like he’s home that often, anyway.
There’s a long break - longer than any of the previous ones - and she knows it’s not because he didn’t see the message, because there’s a blue tick by the text and the three dots keep appearing and then fading away.
And then,
(9:10pm) Walking Cliche: probably not mine
She pauses.
Is he embarrassed? Maybe he’s worried she’ll judge him for not having some sort of mansion or fancy apartment, seeing as her family has the money for Midtown, while he has to get by on a scholarship.
Surely, he doesn’t think she’s that shallow.
Then again, they really don’t know each other.
She decides to cut him some slack.
(He’s going to owe her in the future, for how considerate she’s been over the past few days. It’s ruining her brand, honestly.
Widow meows at her plaintively, and MJ narrows her eyes at the furry ball because it sounds derisive, and no that's not crazy, she swears her cat is secretly a genius.)
(9:12pm) Me: Okay.
They message for a while longer, and set up plans to meet up at the library - one outside school - that weekend. MJ doesn’t push on the matter of his house, but she can’t deny that she’s curious; then again, she’s a curious person by nature.
She also knows when to back off.
She flips over to the unofficial-official (no one uses the official-official one, because who wants to be in a group chat with their teacher?) Decathlon chat with a heavy sigh.
(9:24pm) Me: Listen up, losers. Don't think you can slack just because we made it through regionals. State's coming up, and we’re short on alternates, so I expect you all to be there and be ready.
(9:26pm) Me: Extra practice, next Monday after school. Don’t be late.
MJ clicks off the chat before the inevitable complaints and begrudging agreements begin to flood in - there’s been a shortage of applications to AcaDec in the past year, and it doesn’t bode well; if the numbers get too low, the school might decide they’re not worth it and shut them down.
She thinks back to the library brainstorming sessions and wonders if Peter’s as good at his other subjects as he seems to be at English - he doesn’t tend to answer questions in class but, when asked, he usually gets them right.
Extra interesting.
She wonders if he’d be interested in joining a club.
Then, she benches that thought, she rolls over (much to Widow's very vocal protests), and grabs her copy of World's Wisest Felines, grabbing a pen to continue her annotations as Widow curls up next to her. Might as well get some reading in before bed.
--
The rest of the week rolls past rather uneventfully, other than the newest addition to their lunch table. Peter and Ned get on - as she’d predicted - extremely well, and they spend a lot of the break chatting at full speed about one nerdy show or another.
At one point, she glances up from her book, fully prepared to launch into a rant on the way the author just butchered their point, and then. Stops.
Because the other two are deep in their own conversation about a specific reboot of Star Trek that she hasn’t watched because those sci-fi shows just don’t appeal to her, and she swallows down her words at how cold she feels, all of a sudden.
She goes back to her book.
Her eyes scan the page, and she doesn’t really absorb any of it, and the words turn to mush, and she just feels so. Cold.
--
Saturday arrives, and MJ’s sitting at a table in the back of the library, where she’s been for the past thirty-six minutes. Her bag is sitting on the seat beside her, her laptop open to a mostly-blank document with a list of facts about Shelley’s influences.
And Peter is twenty-one minutes late.
She glances at the clock in the bottom corner of her laptop screen - make that twenty-two.
She scowls, brow furrowing, mood worsening by the second; she really doesn't like being stood up, especially not on a weekend when she could be at home, drawing, or reading, or doing basically anything that doesn't involve sitting on a creaky plastic chair in the recesses of a too-loud, dusty library.
So, with seemingly ample time to spare, she gives in and flicks over to the news on a new tab, scrolling through the ridiculous click-bait titles, until she reaches ones that interest her.
New renewable packaging... a protest that caused a massive traffic jam... Spider-Man sightings in Queens...
Wait.
She scrolls back, clicking onto The Daily Bugle, and skims the - extremely biased, frankly trashy - article on Staten Island's resident webslinger. Well, Queens' now, since he hasn't been seen in Staten Island for a few weeks now. Huh. Maybe he moved.
She has a soft spot for Spider-Man, out of all the super-heroes; he's a vigilante, first off, so there's no monetary incentive. Plus, she's seen him at the fringes of a protest or two, always protecting the disenfranchised - and clashing with police more than once, since it seems their definitions of acceptable force don't quite match up.
A couple minutes later, Peter rushes through the library doors in a flurry of cold air and panic, eyes scanning the room before falling on her. She clicks off her web search to watch the disaster that is Peter Parker.
With a jaunty, awkward wave, he approaches as though approaching a wild animal, or a particularly angry doberman. Which is... satisfying.
"I'm so sorry," he says, as soon as he's close enough to speak, "the- uh, the subway was running late, and then there were roadworks-"
MJ raises a single eyebrow, and he falls silent, looking, frankly, like a kicked puppy. She sighs. "Sit down, loser. We need to get a move on."
And, well, if the way his face perks up as he slides into the spot next to her, bringing the smell of wind and deodorant and... metal(?) makes her lips twitch upwards, well. That's between her and the battered library table.
They make more progress on the project, and maybe get side-tracked a few times, and at some point in those few hours Peter relaxes; MJ hadn't even realized just how tense he usually was until he, well, wasn't. There's a slope to his shoulder where there's usually a hard, straight line - a smooth curve to his spine where he carries his tension.
He tilts his head, and his jaw catches the light in a way that highlights every inch of peach fuzz. He runs a hand through the choppy hair that's slowly been growing out, curling slightly at the tips.
He looks up, his eyes moving into the path of the light, shimmering almost gold, and catches her staring. His mouth quirks into a half-smile, and MJ can't find it in herself to be embarrassed. She wants to trace him, to capture every movement in ink on the edges of her work.
Instead, she raises an eyebrow and answers his question about the work.
When he looks away again, she studiously does the same.
Soon enough it's a few hours later and they've nearly finished - they're working well together, and MJ thinks they might get it done that day, until-
"Oh, fuck," Peter says, eyes comically wide and startled, like a deer in headlights, "I'm sorry. I need to go, like," he glances back down at the phone that has somehow gained even more cracks since she last saw it, "ten minutes ago."
He's frantically shoving things into his bag with the finesse of a frightened chipmunk, and MJ would be more annoyed if it wasn't, frankly, quite entertaining.
"We're nearly done," she points out, but she's already packing away her own belongings - albeit much calmer.
"I know, I know," he glances up through unfairly long eyelashes, wide eyes somehow brimming with apologies. (Really, animators should use him as a model for expressive faces. It's impressive.) "But I really, really need to go."
MJ sighs, standing as she retrieves her phone from the table - because, unlike some people, she organizes her supplies like a sane person, and it doesn't take ten minutes to gather up - and levels him with a stare.
Mostly because it's funny to see how wide those eyes can get.
She almost feels bad enough to let him off, it's like kicking a puppy.
(Almost.)
"I really am sorry, Michelle," he repeats, and MJ feels a little bad when she hears the pure regret in his voice.
"If you want to make it up to me," she says, instead of telling him it's okay, because she's still a bit upset, even if he seems to be late for some sort of life-or-death scenario, based on how he's treating his already battered books, "Academic Decathlon is running low on members. Come to the auditorium Wednesday after school, maybe you'll make the cut."
She hoists her bag higher and walks away, leaving Peter a spluttering mess.
(Later, when she's home, she opens the Daily Bugle article back up, and notices a familiar name beside the picture of Spider-Man. She's not pleased about the dubious quality of the tabloid Peter's apparently free-lancing for, but she has to admit the picture is good.
She goes looking and, sure enough, finds a few dozen more pictures in various articles, all with taken by Peter Parker written in italicized script beneath.
It is, frankly, not her fault she ends up with half a sketchbook of Spider-Man drawings. In fact, it's Peter's fault for capturing the frenzied, athletic movement so damn beautifully in each of his stupid photos.
She should make him pay for the cost of the paper.)
--
It happens again, on Friday.
She’s reading about the history of domesticating animals and Ned and Peter are chatting and she goes to talk about how bullshit the author's reasons for declawing are (it's inhumane and horrific, fight her), when she cuts herself off before she gets a chance to even begin.
They’re talking, and she’s sitting there, across the table but feeling so very disconnected.
She’s sitting at the same table, she’d invited Peter over to sit with them, and yet…
It’s like freshman year all over again, where all her classmates are sitting together in their pre-packaged groups and cliques, and she’s curled up in a corner with a book, awkwardly trying to act like she doesn’t care that she’s all alone, even though it’s killing her slowly, and-
Last time, that story ended with Ned approaching her and chatting mindlessly and breaking down her walls meticulously and befriending her, and-
This time, Ned’s the one with the person he just clicks with, and MJ’s the only outsider, and maybe she’s just too much work and he’s found a better replacement and-
Suddenly, her lunch doesn’t look all that appetizing.
She snaps her book shut, grabs her bag, ignores the confused call of “MJ?” and stalks out the cafeteria.
If she’s going to be alone, then it’s going to be on her own terms, not because someone else gave up on her or abandoned her or cut her off or decided she just wasn’t worth it.
She knows - she knows - she's being stupid. She can practically picture all the clichés she's playing into right now - she's read enough misunderstanding tropes to recognize it.
But this isn't fiction, it's plain, hard reality. And, sometimes, cliches are wrong.
Sometimes, people really do leave their friends behind.
She'd know.
The stinging in her eyes are definitely righteous tears of anger, and that’s only because her book made a really stupid point, and no other reason.
She curls up in a corner in the library and does not cry.
Ned finds her - because of course he does, he always does - after only five or so minutes, and he doesn’t try to say anything. He just sits beside her on the extremely uncomfortable, thin, ugly carpeting, not close enough to touch, but so they’re in each other’s space, and waits.
She doesn’t say anything.
The bell rings.
Neither of them move.
A few minutes pass until the echoes of footsteps and screams subside, hoards of teens pouring into their classrooms like a receding tide.
Only when the very last stragglers have disappeared, and the hallway beyond the doors is ringing with silence, does MJ glance furtively to the side, catching a glimpse of Ned's blue hoodie.
Then,
“You’re gonna be late,” she mumbles into her knees.
“Okay,” Ned replies, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.
She stares at him from the corner of her eye.
“Idiot,” she huffs, trying to sound annoyed but just coming out as… grateful. Sad. Fond.
“I know,” he agrees, and she thinks that’s going to be it, until; “I must be, since I didn’t notice whatever’s going on with you. Big ol’ idiot, me.”
She nods into her knees, feeling the scratch of denim on her skin.
They lapse into silence.
She knows he’s waiting for her to talk.
Ball’s in her court, so,
“Just. I know I don’t get all that nerd shit-”
“Says the captain of the Decathlon team.”
“-but I try, okay?” She continues as if he hadn’t spoken, but she can’t help the slight smile that tugs at her lips. She hides it in her knees. Damn Ned and his stupid ability to cheer her up. “And I just, you two are always talking now, and I…”
She trails off, but Ned understands. He always understands.
He sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m really sorry, MJ, that's totally on me." Pause. "And, um, thanks. For telling me. I've been shitty."
She can almost see the article she sent him on how-to-properly-apologize-and-not-make-it-about-yourself.
He's trying, he really is.
No-one's ever tried this hard before.
(It's nice.)
"Yeah, you have." She says, straight-faced, head still in her knees even though the air is stale and hot.
He snorts, and elbows her in the ribs. "Asshole," he says, fond.
She tips her head back until it hits the wall, even though she knows she'll have bits of plaster in her hair for weeks. "Loser." Then, quieter, "Did you know cats recognize their names, they just choose not to answer?"
"Sounds like something Widow would do."
She smiles against her knees. She really loves that damn cat.
A beat.
"I like him." She doesn't look up, but she can hear the smile in his voice when he replies.
"Yeah," he says, just as quiet, "me too."
"He's gonna join AcaDec."
Ned sighs. "Did you threaten him?"
"I resent that."
"Blackmail him?"
"Slander. Lies and slander."
"Guilt-trip him?"
A beat.
"You and that cat are a match made in heaven, I swear to god."
"Damn straight," she says, without hesitation, then offers, "He's good at geometry."
A short pause.
"Well," he says, slowly, "I guess I can overlook your underhanded methods this once."
"You still need to practice it."
Ned groans. Loudly.
She grins.
--
They need to finish their English project.
They really need to finish it, because it's due on Friday and it's currently Tuesday and she's busy Wednesday evening with AcaDec.
Except that only leaves Thursday after school, and she needs to be home to feed Widow, since her dad's away on a business trip and won't be back until next week, and that cat gets really grumpy if she's not fed on time.
MJ sighs.
Opens their chat.
Sighs again, just to make her distaste for the situation clear to the universe. (Widow headbutts her hand, showing her own distaste at not receiving pets, and MJ scowls, but acquiesces anyway.)
(9:08pm) Me: Alright, Loser. We need to get this project done. Meet me on the front steps after school on Thursday.
(9:08pm) Me: Don't make me wait.
She waits for a moment, but he doesn't respond.
Eventually, she makes herself turn off the phone and pay attention to the TV show playing on her laptop as she scratches Widow's coal-black fur.
There's something therapeutic about tracing the lines of white-and-black fur as Widow - breathing space-heater that she is - purrs away in her lap, and a random new romcom creates background noise.
The downside being her mind keeps wandering to patterned sweaters and the lines of rough, bruised hands, and-
And she's not going to clean up for him.
Nope.
(She does, but her room was due for a deep-clean anyway, so it had nothing to do with Peter coming over. It was just a good excuse to get it done.)
--
(2:18am) Walking Cliché: ok!!
(2:23am) Walking Cliché: w8 not the library?
--
"Make sure to take your shoes off," MJ says, decidedly not fidgeting with her hands, because she is not nervous. Peter obliges, because he's stupidly polite like that, taking off shoes that look more duct-tape and glue than shoe, held together with sheer willpower.
She doesn't mention it. Shoes are expensive.
"Your house is nice," he offers, and she manages the faintest flicker of a smile.
"Come on," she calls over her shoulder, already heading for the stairs, "we'll work in my room."
It takes Peter a minute to follow her and, when he finally does, he steps into her room like he's scared he might spontaneously combust any moment, just by touching the wrong thing.
MJ muffles her amusement and rolls her eyes at him, pretending not to notice the way his gaze sweeps around the room, lingering on her drawings and the plants on the windowsill and... her bed. He promptly flushes red and sits down on her carpet, looking anywhere else.
Then she pulls out her supplies, and he gets his, and then they're back in the flow of things - and, yeah, maybe they get a little carried away, because they weren't far from being finished and suddenly they have a diorama and a half dozen historical sources to back up their points, but what can she say? They work well together.
They're nearly done (seriously, this time) when the door creaks open and Peter tenses, stance going stiff and eyes darting to the entryway, ready to-
And Widow strolls in, pauses to take in the new person with a lazy blink, and then wanders over to the windowsill and lays down in the sunbeam cascading across the room.
MJ looks at her cat, then back at Peter. She raises a bemused eyebrow.
He catches her eyes, and flushes brighter than before.
(Honestly, she should keep track of just how red he gets, and why. It would be a good drinking game.)
"You... have a cat?" He asks, and she stares at him blankly.
"No," she replies, slowly, when he doesn't say anything else, "I have a shapeshifting alien who likes to lounge around disguised as a house-pet." He just keeps staring, eyes narrowing a little, and MJ stares right back. "That was a joke."
"I honestly never know, with you," he shrugs, then looks back at Widow, "is she friendly?"
"Yeah, she finds any excuse she can to lie on top of me. Preferably while standing on my stomach."
Peter tries to disguise a laugh as a cough, and it's a terrible attempt, really - but a valiant one, so she lets it go. He glances back at her, then at Widow. "Can I...?"
MJ nods, and he's up in a flash, approaching the windowsill with a slow patience that people don't usually have with cats - she appreciates that, most people just shove their hands in Widow's personal space and get offended when she responds with violence. (MJ denies ever encouraging such a thing.)
(Though Widow might get the occasional treat for enforcing boundaries. Consent is important.)
"Oh, you're a beauty," Peter murmurs, when Widow finally lets him per her, in a way that has nothing to do with the shiver that promptly runs down MJ's spine. She's just cold, is all. "A tuxedo, are you? What pretty markings... your fur is so soft, too. Good job, darling."
There's a gentle elegance in the way he pets her, in the occasional check-ins and the way he learns what she does and doesn't like (and he's good at it, by the way she's purring up a storm), and it makes MJ ache to immortalize that movement in graphite, or acrylic, or-
"What's your name, sweetheart? What's her name?" He asks MJ, but keeps his voice low, as to not spook Widow, and she takes a moment before she answers.
"Widow."
(Her voice is fine, not scratchy at all. F i n e.)
"Like..."
"Black Widow, yeah. I was going through a phase."
MJ stares him down, daring him to judge her, but he just shakes her head and looks back at her over his shoulder with a fond smile. "I like it. She's wonderful."
Neither one of them looks away as the seconds stretch out like molasses, and she can feel her breath stuck in her throat, but in a good way, and she feels warm all the way from inside, and-
"Ouch!" Peter pulls his hand to his chest, pouting as he looks down at the back of it, at the red bubbling to the surface. MJ goes to apologize, but then he's talking again, faux-glaring at Widow. "That was totally uncalled for. Mean, even. You're a mean, mean cat."
He proceeds to have a staring contest (yes, with the cat), which he appears to lose (again, yes, to the cat), because he sighs and drops his hand, shaking out the sting. "Guess you suit your name, huh?"
And, well, it's all MJ can do to compose herself and pull him to the bathroom to clean the cut and apply a band-aid, because Widow may be pretty clean, but she's still a cat, and her claws are pretty sharp. Really, being good with cats should not be this damn attractive.
Peter complains the whole time about her overreacting, but she catches him staring at the cat-patterned band-aid (sue her, they're cute) with a dopey grin once or twice, so she figures he doesn't really mean it.
(It's gone without a trace by the next morning at Midtown, and so is the cut.)