When Michelle got home just after midnight, there was not a single soul in her house. She dropped her house key loudly onto the counter, hoping the sound would startle somebody into greeting her. MJ's parents were still at work, she knew that (there was a reason her house was among some of the nicer, bigger ones in Queens), but her thirteen year old brother, Charlie, should have been home hours before. She couldn't help the lump that had formed in the back of her throat, "Charlie!"
She shouted his name a few times, popping her head into some of his favorite hang-out spaces. When, after the tenth time of yelling her voice hoarse, there was still no answer, she bounded back down the steps. Barely slowing down to snatch her house key back up off the counter, she threw the front door open fully prepared to walk down every block in the state of New York to find him. Her brother was no goody-two-shoes and if she didn't find him before the police did, God only knew what kind of story would be in the news the next day. People of color didn't often come out of police confrontations unscathed.
She was halfway down the driveway when a white pickup truck pulled up in front of her. Lo and behold, a dark figure in a hoodie threw open the passenger side door and lept out. He straightened up next to his sister's 5'10" frame. Charlie was still a few inches shorter than her but he knew he'd be taller once puberty really took its toll on him. MJ watched as he clumsily reached back through the window to shake the strangers hand. She could smell the alcohol on him already.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, she turned herself around and marched back into the house. She didn't wait for him nor did she wait to speak to whoever it was that drove him home this time. Seemingly calm, she placed her keys back in their original spot and sat on the couch, head in hand, elbow on knee as she waited for her brother to find his way inside. She hated these conversations.
His presence was evident when the front door opened and slammed shut for the third time in less than a half an hour. "Where were you?" she asked, tiredly.
"Em-"
"Where were you, Charlie?" her voice grew slightly louder and it was all it took for Charlie not to visibly flinch.
"Yo, chill, I just went out for some food. Someone didn't make it home in time," he stumbled over to her and plopped on the adjacent couch cushion.
"Food or alcohol?" she scoffed, turning to look at him: really look at him, assessing his slurred speech and red eyes. "Or both?"
"So, there was a little beer. So what?" he leaned back, throwing his arms over the back of the couch, clearly nonchalant about the reason for MJ's tone and making himself comfortable.
"So what?" her eyes narrowed as she felt the need to stand up, as if her height would intimidate him, "Charlie, you're thirteen. It's illegal! If you had gotten caught, mom and Aaron would have had to pick you up from the precinct." He opened his mouth to argue back but MJ was on a roll. "What? You didn't learn anything from Gayle? You've visited her! You've seen what prison is like and at the rate you're going, you're gonna end up in the cell right next to her!"
"Oh, MJ is so perfect. She never breaks the law," he mocked. "Weren't you the one who said that laws are not always fair and just and that we should be able to change them?"
"Yes! For laws that are physically harming other people and preventing people from making their own decisions and from obtaining decent healthcare, not the legal drinking age."
"So you've never sneaked a sip of alcohol in your life? You're so full of shit."
"Yes, okay. I have. But I'm sixteen and it was a sip. I'm not sneaking off in the middle of the night to get drunk with a bunch of strangers. Do I even have to mention the fights you've gotten into? Or the time you got caught vandalizing one of our neighbor's property? You're lucky that Mrs. Henderson didn't call the cops!" At this point, MJ was yelling. Her brother blinked, taken aback.
"Michelle, seriously, take a chill pill. If I wanted a lecture, I would've waited until mom and Aaron got home to stumble in," he laid his head down on the arm of the couch and closed his eyes as though hearing his sister's voice gave him the migraine he was developing.
She sighed, counting under her breath, until her breathing had evened out. She hated losing control and it was happening more and more lately when her brother got himself into trouble. "Mom and Aaron have enough to worry about right now. Between their new jobs and planning their wedding...they-they have enough, Charlie."
"Em-"
"Get to bed. You have school in the morning and so do I." Her tone left zero room for argument and her expression was wiped blank. She had taken back control and God help the next person that made it slip.
Getting ready for bed was such an established routine that Michelle didn't even remember doing it. Next thing she knew, she was seated in bed, book in her hands, pyjamas on, teeth brushed, and hair piled in a messy bun at the top of her head. Since she started this particular book the previous day, she had trouble putting it down. Mornings in Jenin** was a page-turner, an unapologetic inside look at the Arab-Israeli conflict taking over Palestine and MJ would be lying if she said she hadn't shed a few tears which were quickly wiped away before anyone could notice.
She was just turning the page to start another chapter when she heard the front door swing open. Her parents were home. Immediately, she replaced the bookmark, set the novel on quietly on her nightstand, turned the lamp off, and pulled the covers over herself. Laying on her side, she snuggled close to the pillow and shut her eyes as her bedroom door creaked open.
"Emmy," her mother's voice whispered into the darkened room as Michelle winced at the nickname, "Are you still awake?"
MJ held her breath and stayed quiet until the door clicked shut.
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With a loud clap, Wilson Fisk slammed his checkbook onto his desk: the only outward sign that he was pissed. In one fire, he had lost millions of dollars. And, not just his dollars. The boss of the boss wouldn't be too happy about it, though Fisk thought he was so rich, he couldn't care less about a million or two. He was wrong and he knew that from the angry voicemail left for him in his office when he got back. "Fisk! You goddamn bastard. I leave you alone for two seconds and you burn two million! You better have a good explanation. Call me before I send someone down there!"
Yeah, the boss was not happy. Fisk dragged a hand down his face, grumbling underneath his breath about that stupid kid in the suit as he dialed the phone. If he wasn't ordered to, he was still going after that little scrawny punk.
The line clicked and the first thing that was growled over the machine was one word, "Explain."
"Short version: it wasn't my fault. Queen's very own set fire to the warehouse."
"The NYPD set fire to an abandoned warehouse?" he drawled, mirth mixed uncomfortably with malice somehow.
"No," Fisk's nostrils flared as he took a breath, "Spiderman."
"Then take care of him! I don't hand you funds so you can sit on your ass, Fisk! You're not getting another dime from me for at least two more months," the boss seethed on the other line.
And, just like that, one of the biggest crime bosses in New York, was cut off. Wilson Fisk, AKA Kingpin was officially broke and he was going to take it out on Queen's finest and very own superhero. That is, after he ate the dinner his wife had cooked for him.
"Wil, come on! Your food is gonna get cold, dear!"
"Coming, Nessa!" He needed a name.
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"Parker, how many different, known species of spiders exist?" MJ's bored voice startled him from his nap. He had been laying, head on the desk in front of him all throughout decathlon practice and apparently, the group's leader wasn't too thrilled with that. She stared, eyebrows peeker towards her hairline and she clenched the index card in her hand so tight, it crinkled. "You still with us?"
"Uh, yeah. Um...about 35,000?" he guessed.
Michelle flipped the card over to see that exact answer printed on the back. He was right and she mumbled unintelligibly for a few seconds under her breath before stating loudly to the group, "He's right."
He nodded and slowly placed his head back down when Michelle's voice triggered him to shoot right back up, "Parker," she angled her head to the door of the classroom signaling she wanted to speak to him in private. "Look if you want to swing on vines like Tarzan in the middle of the night-"
"MJ, not so loud-"
"-tying up criminals and such, that's fine-"
"Michelle, seriously-"
"-But, when you're here at decathlon practice, you're here. 100%. No sleeping. You can do that in class." She blew a strand of hair that fell out of her typical messy updo out of her face in a huff.
"Are you done?" Peter asked, semi-amused.
"No," she poked her finger at him and opened her mouth, probably to scold him some more when Flash Thompson's voice rang out from inside the classroom.
"Hey! MJ, Penis, stop flirting and get back in here!"
"I told you not to call me that, Eugene!" Michelle called back. Without so much as another glance at Peter (who totally saw the little smirk that formed on her face), she turned and marched back into the room; Flash's face a deep scarlett as the students around him snickered. MJ only ever smirked at her 'friends' and the young superhero couldn't help but think she and 'Eugene' were friends? If Peter didn't picture her as someone who was so socially awkward that she would avoid all possible romantic contact with people, he would've thought they could be even more than friends...which scared him...for...reasons he will never admit to anyone lest they sit on his back and threaten him with a wet willie. Maybe Ned had done so one too many times throughout their childhood.
As Peter followed slightly behind her, he felt the glaring eyes of several other teammates: Flash, Cindy, Sally, Abe, and Betty to name a few. As he reclaimed his old seat, he felt the vibration of the phone in his pocket.
As Michelle settled back into her seat, the rest of team began to quiz each other using their own specialized flash cards. She carefully cracked open a new book. Cautiously looking around at his other teammates, Peter slid the phone from his pocket, the screen lighting up with a new text message.
Need to talk to you ASAP. About a certain fire started last night. -TS.
No matter how many times Peter told Mr Stark that he had his contact saved in his phone and no longer needed him to sign his texts, Tony still did it.
How did you find out about that?
BMP, kid. Get your ass over here. -TS. Peter searched his brain for the acronym, eyebrows furrowed then abruptly straightening out once it hit him. Baby Monitor Protocol. He squeezed his eyes shut, keeping his disappointed groan inside. His 'mentor' still didn't have faith in his superhero abilities even though he was 'super awesome' at it. At least, that was what the irrational side of Peter's brain convinced him of. It's not like Spiderman was known for trashing people's fences...lately.
I'm at decathlon practice. Can it wait til later? Peter sent the message and not a second later, his phone buzzed a second time.
I'm outside. -TS
Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Peter reluctantly pushed back his chair and stood, the eyes of several people following him. "Where are you going?" Cindy asked.
When Peter was, well, Peter and not you-know-who, he stuttered through most of his sentences partly out of nervousness and partly because his brain simply moved too fast for his mouth. Also, he was a native New Yorker. Why shouldn't he talk too fast? The only person he genuinely tried to slow down for on a regular basis was Michelle because she found him 'exhausting to keep up with sometimes.' "Uh-Stark Internship-um emergency. I have to-"
Groans filled the air as wadded up brainstorming notes were tossed in his direction from everyone except Michelle, Ned, and Mr Harrington. MJ's eyes followed him straight out the door, staying silent in favor of keeping her reputation as a socially awkward teenager. But still, she found herself biting her lip, restraining herself from defending the scrawny little white boy. She'd do an extra protest for human rights to make up for it later. When she got home, she would pick up her sketchbook and draw Peter's kicked puppy dog eyes for her daily 'person in crisis' sketch: her pencil gliding over the his irritatingly soft features. She lowered her eyes back to her book.
###################################################
"What do you mean: money? How much money?" Tony's two questions rapidly fired at the young teen seated next to him.
"I don't know," his voice cracked, almost like he was going through puberty...again. He could just hear Michelle's voice in his head, what a loser. "Like a million dollars maybe? I-I didn't exactly have time to count it..." when everything was being set on fire. He held off on that last part. Mr. Stark seemed to have momentarily forgotten that particular detail in favor of discussing the copious amount of cash that this mysterious man had stacked up in a warehouse and Peter was not about to remind him. As Happy pulled the car up to the Avengers new headquarters, the duo in the backseat unbuckled their seatbelts and made their way into the building.
"So, this guy just has millions of dollars in cash stacked up in a warehouse?"
"Y-Yeah. That's-That's pretty much what I said be-before," Peter recalled his earlier recap to Tony.
"Don't get smart. What ever happened to putting your money into a bank?"
"You see, Mr. Stark," Peter followed the older man enthusiastically to the kitchen, "I was thinking the same thing. If I could maybe-maybe track this guy down. I mean, he probably has some sort of paper trail somewhere. But, I could-I could-"
"You could what, kid? Take him out?" Tony turned to glare at the teen and shook his head, "I don't think so. What did I tell you months ago? You're not ready for this. I think it's time to get the cops involved and call it a day."
"But-But I took down Toomes," Peter pointed out dejectedly.
"He kicked your ass and I told you not to go after him either. Keep in mind, he knows who you are. As Peter not just as Spiderman. He tells the wrong person that and you're done. Your aunt May's done. Your friends are done." The billionaire sat purposefully on the stool of the kitchen counter. "The guy has henchmen-"
"So did Toomes," Peter interrupted.
"Ah, Ah, Ah. The adult is talking. Let me finish," Tony waved his hands angrily at the kid who decided to stand in favor of trying to make himself appear more intimidating than he was. Key word: trying. "The guy has henchmen, almost as much money as I do, and access to condemned buildings that have no-trespassing laws. It sounds like Queens mob business to me and that is not a job for a Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman. In fact, it's not even a job for the NYPD. You know why?" He raised his eyebrows expecting Peter to take a guess.
He didn't. "Because mob men have a lot of connections. They're above the law and they're above you so, stay out of it."
"But Mr. Stark-"
"I mean it, Parker. One toe out of line and I'll know. Friday, initiate Baby Monitor Protocol model two eight five."
Yes sir. Initiating Baby Monitor Protocol model two eight five.
"What-?" Peter turned to look at the ceiling where the female, Irish disembodied voice emanated from the speakers and quickly snapped back to Tony when he spoke again.
"Now get out of my hair. Don't you have homework?"
Peter didn't really want to find out what made BMP 285 different from BMP's one through 284. So, he decided to listen to his mentor...for now.
A/N: **I actually read this book back in high school for extra credit in my honors history class. Ten out of ten recommend it. It is such an amazing, poignant novel that follows a woman named Amal and her journey from living in Palestine with her family as a young girl to becoming an American citizen and raising her own daughter then returning back home. I only remember one mature scene in it (there may be more but I only remember one), so do beware and read at your own discretion. But, again, it is a great book.