Author's Note:
My fourth Spideychelle one-shot since finishing "Affinity War"! This fic and those that will follow in the coming weeks are based off a list of prompts, posted on my Tumblr (forasecondtherewedwon).
24. "Is that a tattoo?"
Peter talks a lot. Peter talks too much, and it's getting worse. Ever since he figured out who he really wants to talk to, he can't shut up. He isn't even sure if all the talking is accomplishing anything because the person he's talking to… well, she mostly communicates by giving him blank stares or the middle finger. Man, one of these days, he's going to spill something super important―keyword: super―and he probably won't even realize it until later. Unless Ned's there. If Ned's there, he'll be sure to tell Peter what an idiot he was right away. Which is not that comforting a thought.
It's Wednesday and Peter's seriously considering showing up to the detention classroom after school just so he can keep breathing the same air as MJ when his incessant talking to her during class actually earns him a detention. At least he doesn't have to pretend. She told him one time that he's a bad liar and he believed her. He also said "thanks."
Ugh, it is what it is. Peter's crush on MJ is massive.
In detention, he doesn't know how to be quiet, doesn't know how to sit still. Would it be outrageous for him to drag his desk across the floor so that it touches hers? He's doing it. There's an ear-splitting shriek as the desk's legs scrape the linoleum and Peter locks eyes with Coach Wilson, grimacing. He tells Peter to keep it down because he's listening to Céline Dion on his Walkman. (Peter wonders if still using a Walkman was considered a pro or con during the man's hiring process at a school called Midtown Tech.)
All he gets from MJ is a raised eyebrow, but Peter is exultant, straightening his desk to align it perfectly with hers. The fact that he hasn't stopped staring at her escapes him for the moment because she hasn't stopped staring at him either. Once her gaze does dart away, Peter flushes hard.
He looks around, as if this classroom―the most boring one in the building, as far as he knows, selected as a form of sensory deprivation for homework-non-turner-in-ers and talking-in-class-ers―has changed since the last time he was here. (It hasn't.)
As Peter is about ready to accept the borderline criminal lack of visual stimuli, he notices MJ's arm, where she's pulled up her sleeve. He leans towards her, eyes narrowing.
"Is that a tattoo?"
She gives him a sharp look.
"No."
And looks away again.
Oh. Well, that was disappointing. Peter's mind is racing, trying to conceive a follow-up comment, when she speaks again, making his brown eyes go wide.
"I ran out of paper."
Not only does MJ volunteer this explanation, she rolls her sleeve a little higher, inviting Peter to look. Along the length of her inner arm are several mouths sketched in blue pen. Parted lips with the hint of teeth behind them, closed-lipped smirks. Thin and full. He reaches out and feels immediately awkward and intrusive, but MJ gives an equally awkward little jerk of her head to say it's ok, and Peter touches her skin near the inside of her elbow.
"They're beautiful."
She graces him with a small smile.
"Thanks, nerd. I'm practicing facial features." His fingers trail faintly over her skin, not thinking, and he feels her pulse surge beneath it. Peter looks from his hand to her face and finds her cheeks pink. "Uh, separately. Practicing them separately. Without a―" MJ points at her face and makes a hasty circling motion. "―face."
"Right," Peter agrees, jerking his hand back to scratch the back of his head. Very casual. "Right." As if his distracted words are any kind of useful validation. God, he has no idea what he's talking about, but he's talking. He's always talking.
"You're running out of space." Jesus Christ, there he goes again.
MJ shrugs, assessing her doodled arm.
"Yeah, I'd start on the other one if I could draw with both hands."
"Use me," Peter blurts out. "I have… arms." He's already shoving up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to substantiate his statement. "I mean, you need to practice right? Not that I think you need practice. You're really great. At drawing."
He's begging to be called out as an idiot at this point, but MJ doesn't seem to be listening. Her eyes are directed down, at the arm he's angled across their joined desks. Peter's gaze shifts frantically between his arm and her face. When her hand reaches out, just like his did, he quits breathing. He thinks his expression is full of some kind of baffled wonder, like he saw on the kid's face in this really old movie E.T. when the alien's finger lights up.
Miraculously, her hand strokes his skin. Peter bends his wrist back a bit to display the potential canvas and his forearm flexes. MJ's fingertips veer away from his flat inner arm, pressing harder over raised muscle.
"AND I MADE MYSELF SO STRONG AGAIN SOMEHOW," Coach Wilson sings out suddenly.
Peter and MJ jump apart. He hadn't noticed how close their heads had gotten while they were both looking down.
"I was just making sure, uh, that you work out. That your arm would work out, for drawing on," MJ explains.
"Right," Peter says, for probably the millionth time now.
"So, just keep still," she instructs, uncapping a pen and shifting to position her hand over his arm again. He misses how she was touching him.
"Fine. I have…"
The word 'homework' eludes Peter, so he just points at his Spanish workbook. His eyes are all over the side of MJ's face as she begins to concentrate. (On him! Ok, on her drawing, but it's still on his arm.)
She sketches steadily and he's addicted to the tickle of the pen across his skin. Although he doesn't stare―he assumes it would bother her―Peter can't focus on anything else. He's become aware far too late that he gave her his dominant arm; it's not like he could write down an answer even if he thought of one. What he does do is become very familiar with the layout of the open page.
He's surprised when MJ stops. She's paused a few times over the past half-hour-ish, but this time, her pen doesn't return to his arm.
"We still have time," Peter says, glancing at her and the clock (hmm, maybe not that much time).
"I'm done."
He looks, holding his arm up. She's created a row of eyes. They're amazingly realistic for something drawn in thirty minutes on his forearm. There are eyelashes and shadows, flecks in the irises that almost trick Peter into believing the eyes are more than one colour.
"These are incredible. It's crazy that you did this so fast," he says, wanting to give her every compliment. Talking, talking, talking.
"There are only six," MJ says.
Her tone of downplaying is so ridiculous that Peter laughs. She smiles slightly in surrender.
"Why six?"
The bell rings to end detention and he isn't ready to be away from her.
"Because you already have two on your face," she says, stuffing her pen into her ponytail and sliding out from her desk. "Later, Parker."
Peter's the last to leave―including Coach Wilson, who shuffle-dances out the door―as he sits there, stunned, thinking about the number of eyes on a spider.