Many of you have expressed a serious grief at the idea of this fic coming to a close, and I must say - I agree! Writing this story has been an absolute pleasure for me. This fandom has given me the best response I could ask for, with so many people being as encouraging, kind, honest, supportive and critically helpful with my work as I could ask for. Everything my scatter -brained head missed at 1am, you all helped rectify, whether it was American lingo problems, continuity not being, well- continuous, or points about the topics covered throughout the entire story.
I had my serious doubts about whether or not I could finish this. I really did. But every comment, kudos and question has made me continue writing! I have enjoyed crafting this story as much as you have all seemed to enjoy reading it, and that says a hell of a lot, not just about the calibre of my writing, but also of how appreciative you guys are about what us fanfic writers churn out. Committing to stuff like this isn't easy - it's the first proper fic I've ever actually committed to completing.
Recommendations for this chapter are mostly Oh Wonder (sue me), but especially White Blood and All We Do. Also Livewire and Body Gold, if you need extra songs to get you through this entire chapter.
There's also a really beautiful theme called 'Seijaku' from the soundtrack to 'The Girl Who Leapt Through Time', that also really fits this, if you're looking for a classical piece to listen to, so as not to distract from what you're reading.
But yes - thank you! I have an idea that I may or may not follow up on, but if I do, expect it at the end of this story, in the last chapter, in my notes. I'll have to decide what I want to do.
But it the meantime - have more Spideychelle. There can never be enough.
Ned had been wearing a goldfish–like expression on his face since he'd met Peter in that hallway that Thursday morning, and continued to wear it all the way up until lunch. By that point, he'd finally managed to speak.
"You were planning on telling her?!"
Peter sighed into his hands, scrubbing his eyes in frustration. If Ned got any louder, he'd be as well announcing his life story on the live news in the evening.
"Yeah, I was planning on telling her. I couldn't not, Ned,"
"Did you ever plan on telling me ?"
Peter stared at him, hand raised in confusion, the frown creasing his eyebrows.
"Dude, you found out before I could even make that decision."
"Huh. Fair enough," Ned glared at him for another second before his concerned frown took its place on his face again.
"But you said she knows, so -?"
Peter groaned, resisting the urge to plant his face in his plate of untouched spaghetti, the swirls of pasta not far off imitating the inside of his head at present. Never before in his life had his head felt more like all the soft, mushy, confusing foodstuffs he knew of. Confusing strings of pasta. Squished mush of scrambled egg. Something that had no logical patterning or organization to it.
In essence, Peter Parker's brain had melted, so he was having a pretty rough time of it.
It had not helped that he'd tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep as his brain went all neon-lights and flashing colours, unable to rid his mind of her lips and the taste of cinnamon in his mouth and the lemony scent of her hair, and that ridiculous, vivid, yellow dress that she'd insisted on wearing, making her look like a dream from a summer that could only be dreamt up, too crazy for reality.
Michelle didn't feel like a real person, even though she was the most alive and real and tangible person he'd ever met.
"I think she does. That actually means nothing, Ned,"
"You don't know that,"
"He doesn't know what?"
Michelle's voice snapped them from their conversation as she slid into the chair in front of them, Our Mutual Friend still in hand, but Frankensteinslapped down on the table in front of them, possibly as a safeguard should she finish Dickens by the end of the last period.
He'd never understood the attraction of reading about dead people being stitched together to become something straggling between human and something other than human, but then again – if he asked her, she could probably tell him why, and then some.
She was invested like that.
Even in this moment, his brain was struggling not to short circuit again, watching as her lips pursed in confusion, brow furrowing. The purple streak in her hair was illuminated by the light coming through the canteen windows, the curls of the rest of her hair spiralling around her head like a crazy, untamed halo, but the smirk growing on her face was anything but angelic.
"Parker. Earth to Parker. Come join the sane,"
He snorted in amusement, just for a response. He could not be looking at her right now – not when his blood vessels couldn't keep themselves in check, and stop him looking like an idiot. Ned tried to stifle laughter along with him, but not for the same reasons.
"So? What doesn't he know?" Michelle asked, grabbing his abandoned fork and twirling some of his lunch around the prongs, scoffing it before he could say anything. He scowled back at her, but she just barked out in laughter, biting her lip with her top teeth as she stared right back at him, daring him to challenge her.
"Nothing," Ned chirped, smiling innocently. She shrugged in response, generally looking unconcerned. This was freaking him out a little – Michelle was never one to just let things pass.
"Whatever. You up for a last check-over the essay tonight, Parker?" She turned to him again, tilting her head a little. Her hair was back in its ponytail, long-sleeved white t-shirt showing her slender arms and frame, her olive green cardigan tied around her waist, partnered with a long black skirt that still looked kind of odd on the cusp of summer. Peter didn't mind so much – she made the rules with her own wardrobe, and that was that.
Such determination.
"Uh, yeah, yeah. That's fine. Seven OK?" It was the first time for him to make the suggestion in what had been their weekly meetups for the project. It had nearly gone out of his head, with all the crazy things going on – namely Michelle Jones and her decidedly badly-timed kisses – but he felt in the perfect headspace for am essay right now. Anything to distract him.
She nodded once, dipping her head back into her book with a casual indifference. He didn't miss the tiniest of smiles that graced her face, making her dark eyes glitter a little, even with her gaze dipped away from him.
"Sure thing, Parker."
She didn't speak after that.
One thing he was sure of was that his spaghetti did not get the attention it deserved.
It was all focussed on her instead.
X X X
The walk to Peter's flat felt like a promise she wished she hadn't kept.
She was making her way there again, alone, because of course he'd swung off the minute the bell had rung to signal last period. His not so subtle rush to the stairs, to get out the doors as quickly as he could, had been too much of a giveaway for her. He always made it look like he was in a desperate need to go to the bathroom, but then again – he had never been one to be subtle anyways.
She'd finally finished the last chapter of Our Mutual Friend, stuffing it in her bag as she had opened Frankenstein, just as the last bell rang. It'd been frustrating. As much as Michelle had taught herself to walk in a straight line and read at the same time, it wasn't an advisable talent to put into practice on a busy Thursday afternoon, and crossing the road without looking was too dangerous to even contemplate.
She'd read Frankenstein many times before – it was one of her favourites. But the story wasn't as horrific in the sense of ghoulish mystery and a ravenous monster whose only mission was to kill everything. People often confused it with the films.
Frankenstein was sad. It was a sad book from a sad place. It was about losing something and wanting to get it back. It was about trying to find a place in the world that didn't want to give you one. It was about being different in an age were being so was a crime.
She identified a lot with the themes, if she was saying anything about it.
Buzzing herself in, she made her way to the Parkers' flat, May greeting her with warmth that she'd become grateful for. She dearly hoped Peter appreciated the full scale of how amazing his guardian was.
She dumped her bags in his room, pulling her essay out, taking a seat on the bed, legs crossed over. She knew in her heart of hearts that she'd come way too early – they'd agreed on seven, not five, but she had decided much too quickly that they needed to talk. About everything.
About last night. About him. About them.
About where she fitted into this entire mess that was his life – about where she fell with him.
About what she meant to him.
About what he meant to her.
She'd spent the majority of her life closing herself off, content to be emotionless if it meant that she could avoid being fussed over, and rejected, and suffocated by people who tried to hard to be your friend, when it wasn't friendship they were after. Michelle had grown tired of having to be alone by her own volition. She'd found that place with Peter and Ned, and with the Decathlon team, and she was tired of pretending that she didn't want it.
She'd told the whole team that they should call her MJ.
That had been a moment in her life that had changed her whole perspective on how she should be with others. It didn't immediately make her want to hug everybody and become friends – but it had made her realize that people like her existed, and wanted to be with people like her just as much.
People like Peter and Ned – they didn't fit in where they weren't wanted. They stayed with each other, and had extended a hand to her in offer of joining them in their comfortable, solitary existence in Midtown.
It had taken a while – man, it had taken ages – but she'd accepted. She'd sidled up with them and begun some journey with her arms around their shoulders, traversing all her previous notions of friendship, and instead walking with her boys into what she liked to call the future.
Michelle was at a stage in her life were Peter Parker and Ned Leeds were the two most important boys on the planet for her.
She dumped the essay on his bed, standing up and stretching. There was no way she could concentrate on this without it being a total failure. She knew it was fine – she knew the essay was fine. Every line and counterargument had been thoroughly thought through, as she'd drilled Peter into paying attention every time his mind wandered to the kitchen for something else to eat. They'd debated, and scribbled, and made every possible argument known on the page, debating to the point where they'd covered every angle they could think of. They'd ended up with a strange answer:
Both sides were right.
It had gone a little weird in the middle – more an argument about the Accords than anything else – but they'd agreed that neither man was wholly right. Both had their points, both had their mistakes, but both knew what they wanted.
And that's what made them heroes.
They'd concluded that heroes shouldn't follow other people's agendas. But they also had to protect the places and lives of the people they had sworn to keep safe. It was a double edged sword if ever there was one.
But the main conclusion had been this:
Heroes were selfless. They helped others. It wasn't a complicated issue by that run of things.
Amongst all the politics and destruction and human rights debates and every stupid little thing that sent the media into a frenzy, heroes were honest.
They were good. They were human, and they made mistakes, and sometimes let their emotions cloud their judgement and made the wrong decisions that cost things that ought not to have a price.
But they couldn't be hounded for that. They dealt with things on a totally different base from everyone else.
Yes, Peter and Michelle felt that the Accords were a good idea. They felt, indefinitely, that superheroes had a responsibility for what happened, even if the freaky stuff they dealt with didn't much care what happened to them.
But they believed in a freedom for their actions. They believed in them being allowed to be a good force in the world.
They believed in them being a symbol of retaliation for the forces that wanted to harm the people they had sworn to protect.
They wanted them to be allowed to be good.
It was a complicated argument, for sure. Michelle had known this the whole time. She'd often wondered what Peter had thought, sitting with her as he fervently tried to explain his side of the argument. He was Spider-Man. Surely he had his qualms about being kept under watchful eye?
Apparently he did. He wasn't as blind about Tony Stark's actions as she'd thought. He admired him and supported him, but he didn't follow him. Not all the time. He made decisions for himself.
She kind of loved him for that.
As she paced the room, turning these thoughts over in her head, she bent down to untie her boots, knowing full well that they were too restricting if she was going to sit in Peter's comfy room for the next few hours.
Except the sound of the window opening made her freeze.
She turned just in time to see Peter – or rather, Spider-Man – climbing in through the window, limbs nimble as he clambered onto the ceiling, clearly not having noticed her in the room.
Michelle made the decision quicker than she thought it.
She dived for the bed, sitting on the floor in front of it, watching as he leapt to the floor, hands spread on the wooden floor, pulling the mask off in one swift motion. It was weird to watch him when he didn't know she was there – there was a tranquillity to his face, an honest approach to his walk that made him seem far more confident than he did at school. It was a lazy gait, in stark contrast to his bumbling walk when he tried to push through the packed corridors in school.
But it was weird, more than anything.
To suddenly see Peter Parker as Spider-Man – to see him in the suit, but see him as he was in real life, the suit sculpted to fit and his hair obviously tousled from the mask –
It made it all hit her so quickly. It clicked in that instant.
My best friend is a superhero. There it is – right in front of me, right now.
He flung the mask behind him, narrowly missing her head as it landed on the floor at her feet.
"May? You home?" he called through the open door.
No reply.
"Nope. But I am,"
Peter's frame went rigid, whipping around so quickly that she feared he might snap his spinal cord with the force. His eyes widened like saucers, jumping to slam the door shut as his whole body went into meltdown.
"What the living fuck, Michelle?!"
It was the first time she'd heard him swear like that, and it was honestly, ridiculously funny. He said it like he hated having to be so rude, which actually suited him down to the ground, considering that he usually spoke like a gentleman from the 1900's.
"Sup," she replied, smirking just a little in retaliation.
Peter did not look amused.
"What are you doing here?!" His voice was serious, panicked, and all forms of worried, grabbing fistfuls of his messy hair in sheer terror.
"You invited me over, Loser,"
"At seven! I said seven!"
Michelle shrugged, crossing her legs as she shifted on the floor. Wooden floorboards were not comfortable to sit on, that was for sure.
"Whatever, Parker. I'm here now,"
Peter nearly shrieked in frustration.
"But you shouldn't be! You shouldn't be -!" His voice abruptly cut off, as he took a deep breath, trying to calm his raging nerves. He was still in the suit, and as he stretched his arms around his head, trying to calm down, she could see the subtle hints of his slim-line figure, toned to perfection.
She swallowed carefully. This was not about anything other than where their relationship stood. That and the essay.
"I can't believe this is happening – again," he sighed dramatically, pacing about in front of his door, mind going at one hundred miles an hour, not sure what to say or think or do or feel.
He had an inkling she knew – there was something in that kiss that made him think she knew before she'd ever say it to his face – but what if -?
"Chill, Parker, I've known for ages,"
Peter stared at her, mouth agape as he tried to understand what she was saying. Ages? What, like -?
"What ?!" he nearly squeaked out in surprise, his eyes wide and voice wavering, the terror practically making a home on his face. Michelle continued to sit on, comfortable enough to let him act out the whole situation for as long as he pleased.
Michelle grinned, tilting her head to the side in mock glee. Although, this was rather funny – in a sadistic, pay-back way that she knew he would hate her for, for the rest of his life. But it was a small price to pay.
"Nah, I didn't. I just thought you were acting super weird, like usual, loser. And then – well, I figured it out. Sometime last week -"
"But how?!" he squawked, waving his hands about. It reminded her of the one of the first times she'd seen him – at the table with Ned, excitedly talking about the internship he'd gotten. He waved his hands about all the time when he spoke, as if it would somehow iterate the point better, but it had become an integral part of his character. Michelle had become so – aware of him, like she'd known him her entire life. It was like seeing someone for the first time.
She knew Peter Parker. She knew him very well.
Her frown took a hold of her face, making him pause in his rant, staring at her in such a way that made her feel suitably uncomfortable.
He was not messing about here. He wanted the answers – sharpish.
"Did you not believe me when I said I recognized your voice?"
His breathy laugh was sarcastic in all manner of speaking.
"No, I didn't,"
"Well, that's how I figured it out, Parker." She paused. "Well, not at first. I just thought you got on like someone I knew. And then I started actually paying attention."
He breathed in deeply, eyebrows raising in annoyance.
"And then I found your dumbass hoodie in the closet and then I just knew. You're lazy af, Parker. Seriously. It was like following crumbs in Hansel and Gretel,"
He groaned, wiping his hands over his face, turning around in frustration. Michelle frowned again, trying to read his body language.
This was seriously cutting him up. But why -?
Michelle's mind cleared, realizing what he'd been planning to do.
"You wanted to tell me," she whispered, making him look over his shoulder, his face falling at the sight of expression. She looked – well, he wasn't sure how to describe it, because Michelle had never worn an expression even remotely similar to the one she had on right now.
It was clear. No furrowed brow, no tilted chin, no smug smirk on her lips.
She just gazed up at him, still on the floor, her eyes clear and her lips a little parted, gaze searching his face for some recognition – some sign – that she'd even cut in close to the truth.
Peter looked at the floor.
"Well – yeah, I guess I did."
"Does Ned know?" It was a simple question, but it still felt like a confession. What exactly he was confessing, he didn't know, but it wasn't with the words that he'd thought he'd use.
"Yeah. He was the first to find out,"
"Huh,"
Silence ensued. Peter could feel the tension hanging in the air, taking one last glance at Michelle on the floor, her chin ducked into her now raised knees, staring at the floor as she traced a circle on the wood with her index finger. It was a sight he couldn't understand – Michelle, usually so proud and so sharp, had suddenly become some shell of herself, the air empty without her candid voice.
"I'm – can I get changed?" he asked quietly, the afternoon sunshine casting long beams of light across his floor, catching the edge of her hand on the floor, making it glow bronze whilst she stayed in the shadow of the bed. It made her look like she was too scared to step into the light, for fear that her expression was too raw and vulnerable and bare than she could afford to deal with.
"Sure – whatever,"
She got up, passing him in the room as she stood in front of the door, back turned as she heard him rustling around behind her, the suit spilling onto the ground. Michelle bit her lip, wiping at her eyes – something was pricking at the back, but she didn't have time to accept what it was. It wasn't fair on him.
He couldn't have known that she'd liked him long enough to come to understand him like a map.
She didn't want Peter to start avoiding her for that.
Was he angry at her, but too polite to say it? Did he care either way?
Had she been too much of herself for him to accept how quickly she'd pasted his identity onto the masked vigilante?
Quite possibly.
She let out a deep sigh, turning her head just a little, to see the light from the window. Up this high, the golden rays of the sun felt like she was suspended in the air, staying in the exact place so that she ought not to fear falling. That was what it felt like in her own apartment – the height able to suspend reality when you looked out the window, but not down. She could always imagine, just for a moment, that she was alone in the sky, surrounded by her pale yellow walls and books, and forget – just for another moment again – that she could make the world wait for her instead.
"Wait," she said into the silence, and the rustling obligingly stopped. She turned around, smoothing her hand down her sleeve, not sure what to expect.
Peter stood there, his chest still bare, a pair of raggedy jeans on his legs, barefoot, hair tousled. It was something she'd never thought she'd ever see, completely against everything she'd learned about him. His face was too raw for her to look at directly – a face open and innocent but somehow still guarded.
She bit her lip, taking the chance.
She looked him squarely in the eye, making him flinch just a little bit in return.
One glance at his chest and she could see that what had been going on made him a boy she no longer knew.
He was toned – beautifully so, like a lean, Roman statue made to inspire poems and soliloquys – but it seemed to be marked, the smooth, lightly tanned skin riddled with fresh bruises and old scars, somehow casting some maturity onto his shoulders.
It made her want to say something she had vowed to never say to him.
"What the hell happened, Parker?"
This was not the Peter Parker she remembered from school.
This was Peter Parker, a boy no longer as such – more like a young man waging a war against the world that dared to keep him confined from helping people. This was Peter Parker, determined and resolved and hurt and scarred for what he did. The idiot boy was sixteen, seventeen in August, and it made her want to just stop and consider for a moment what made someone so young decide to be so hopelessly reckless, if it meant others would be safe for it.
It made her question what it was that made him who he was.
It made her wonder how long ago this boy had swallowed her very soul, making her wish too much and too often about being with him for as long as she could be allowed.
His expression seemed to crumble almost instantly, collapsing onto the edge of his bed in exhaustion, hands linked around the back of his neck as he hung his head.
Michelle couldn't take seeing him like this. He looked too old to be the age he actually was.
Where was his youth? Where had it gone?
"MJ, I – I'm sorry,"
Michelle started, looking down at him on the bed. He looked up, clasping his hands in front of him. She tried desperately to concentrate on his face rather than his bare skin and wickedly unkempt hair, and nearly succeeded.
Michelle didn't have a chance to reply, as Peter cut in again.
"This whole – thing that's been going on with me, it's – it's the craziest thing to ever happen to me. I mean – I'm just a kid with superpowers. That's not gonna change, MJ, but – it's different when I have to decide how to be that guy as well as Peter Parker. Ned found out by accident – and then May found out too. But I was planning on telling you, properly – just to be a good friend. You and Ned are everything I have in school, so – I just wanted you to know. Just - when I was ready,"
He looked up at her earnestly, squeezing his hands together. Michelle took a tentative seat in his chair, curling her legs up under herself. She put an elbow on one of the arm rests, looking at him carefully. He looked right back, eyes dark with the shadows and contrasting light. The room felt small, and intimate. Something unnatural and quiet and –
And new.
"How'd you get the powers?"
Obvious question. They seemed to be moving back into a more comfortable space, but it wasn't easy. Peter shifted on the bed, running a hand through his hair.
"Uh, I got bitten. There was a spider, like – do you remember that school trip to the OsCorp convention we went to?"
Michelle nodded absently.
"With the Recombinator thing? That was super weird stuff going on in that place,"
"Yeah, well – the spider bit me. It was crazy. I thought I was dying. It was on my hand –" he gestured the side of his hand, in the crook between his thumb and index finger, the tendons and long fingers strong but nimble; for a moment, she wished she had her sketchbook with her, just to mark down all the shapes of his body. She leaned in, able to discern a faint double puncture wound in the skin.
"It never healed up, but I was sick for like, a week. The world wouldn't stop spinning. I was vomiting, my head was light, I couldn't see anything. I thought I was going blind at one point." He looked a little haunted by the whole ordeal, his eyes staring blankly forward as he subconsciously rubbed the skin of the bite.
"It was radioactive, apparently. Some kind of experiments they were doing. But the pain? It was – it was insane. It felt like every cell was on fire. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe properly. I – I actually thought I was gonna die," he turned his gaze right to her, blinking slowly.
"I suppose you think that's pretty lame, right?"
Michelle shrugged casually in return.
"Dunno. I've had some serious cramps in the past,"
"Oh my God," he sighed, smiling a little. "Don't ever tell me that again,"
Michelle just shrugged again, waiting earnestly for him to resume.
"But – yeah. It just - went away. I woke up and suddenly – no pain. No nothing. Everything had just – stopped. But I could see. Like – I didn't need my glasses, and then this –" he gestured to his body, letting out a heavy sigh. "This just came out of nowhere. But then I realized that the whole climbing walls thing was pretty legit, and not some dream. And then –"
"Spider-Man," Michelle interrupted, making him raise his eyebrows briefly in agreement.
"Huh. I thought you'd taken some wack drugs or something," She mused.
"What? No," he laughed, but it sounded strained. Michelle smiled – just a little – at him, and he smiled back.
"But then the whole thing with the Vulture – I dunno. I just wanted to be out there, doing my thing. I wanted to prove that I wasn't a kid, so I went after him. Found the weapons, tracked him down –"
"That's why you ditched Liz at Homecoming," It wasn't a question, but it didn't make him cringe in shame any less.
"Uh, yeah. I didn't have my suit though. Mr Stark told me I didn't deserve it if I couldn't be anything without it. I didn't care – I just – I just wanted him to see that I was capable of the job. That I could do it without having to be looked out for like some kid in kindergarten, you know? I dunno, I just –" He waved his hand dismissively.
Peter let out another long sigh, hands one again clasped in front of him. Michelle watched as the muscles of his back clenched, the tension evident in his frame. Whatever was coming next was clearly a weight he had been carrying on his young shoulders for a long time. He looked broken and fixed, and hurt but still fighting. He looked too young, and much too old for his age.
Michelle waited.
He bit his lip in thought, staring at one corner of the door as he let his hands run through his hair as he tried to speak.
"I followed him," he said, finally, a pained but resolute expression on his face. "I tried to confront him – I tried, MJ, I really did. But he just –"
He breathed in carefully.
Michelle continued to wait.
"He dropped a parking garage on me,"
Michelle's whole body went stiff, her blood running cold in her veins. His face – oh God, his face –
The pain, the terror – that haunted look in his dark, usually warm eyes made her freeze. Peter looked pale at the thought, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he tried to find a way to say the words.
"He what ?"
"He drop – he dropped a parking garage on me," His words had gotten stuck in his throat, but he seemed determined to carry on.
"It just fell on top of me, and it was heavy – it was so fucking heavy and it was crushing my back and no one was there and I didn't even have the suit and I just – I had to push it up off of me because no one else could!" His voice had become fervent, almost panicked as he tried to convey the fear.
It was consuming his face – the way he furiously nibbled his lip, the nerve in his eye, the slow, deliberate breaths he was taking, chest rising and falling in jerky motions -ragged and unsure of how to function properly.
"I can't – it's not – MJ, I can't," He looked up at her imploringly, pressing his fingers to his lips in a prayer, hands pointing upwards, a very faint glaze in his eyes that suggested it was still as vivid a memory as it sounded. Michelle bit her lip along with him. He stared back, and stared, blinking once, one solitary tear sliding down his face.
He wiped it away with his thumb, breathing out again, like he'd been holding his breath underwater for too long.
"I can't keep doing this. Keeping secrets, and pretending it's all fine cause it's not. It's not fine. I wanted to tell you but you – you could've been hurt and I can't – I can't put you in that danger. I try to keep Ned out of it and May as well, because if I lose either of them I'll just collapse. I'll just –" His head dipped again, hair falling into his face.
Michelle watched on in anguish, not sure what to say. This boy – this precious boy was trying too hard to be everything; to be everything to everybody and trying to be so many things at once and it was –
"I can't keep doing this," he whispered, head still turned to the floor, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white.
She watched him breathe, taking each breath with care, as if he couldn't bare to think of taking one breath too quickly, for fear his whole ribcage would collapse in on itself, too afraid to think of what might happen.
For weeks, and months before, he'd been such a carefree, open guy – always smiling, and laughing. Nervous and awkward and a little unsure around her, but still happy. Still loved and comfortable where he was in life.
Had it all been a façade?
Michelle thought, pausing.
No.
It was just this. Just not being able to control things. One little thing and he'd begun to remember all the things he'd tried to forget.
Michelle breathed out, getting up from the chair, coming to stand in front of him. She put out a hand to brush his hair away, but retracted it before she could.
It was too much. Seeing him like this. With his bare skin bruised and cut, every lingering scar on his skin a stinging reminder of the fact that he was still breakable, and still alive, and still human. That his life could be ripped away from him before he'd even know what had happened, and it made something in her chest constrict, something too painful to recommend feeling.
She didn't recommend falling in love. Not at all.
She continued to stand in front of him until he looked back up at her, face placid once again, although that calm look was strained. She could still see the track of that one tear, having left a faint streak on his face. His hair was a mess – in need of a wash, really, and one day off being a total mess. The curls had gone wild, mussed from his nervous hands.
"MJ?" he asked, careful with her name. She frowned, but she didn't reply.
He watched her – watched her eyes, how they blinked slowly – and saw something change in them. From calm to somehow – sad, like she was sharing his pain with him.
And then, she was stepping forward, dipping down to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him into her – close to her – one hand finding his head and stroking his hair. He sat still for a moment, tempted to ask her if she was OK, because he certainly wasn't –
But he didn't.
His head fell into the crook of her neck, her flyaway curls tickling his neck.
He sighed.
He tried to comprehend it – how her hands smoothed over the warm skin of his back, how she stroked his hair with a care unlike herself, how her knee dug into the side of his jean-clad thigh as she half-sat on the bed beside him.
But he didn't.
He found his arms coming up around her, finding her frame slender but somehow small, holding her like a fragile piece of china he couldn't imagine for a second being allowed to hold, but he did anyway.
Michelle couldn't understand it. She could sense his stress, his heartache – yet in his arms, holding her to him with a gentle strength that she couldn't comprehend him having – she somehow knew that he was OK, even if he didn't look it. Even if he didn't sound like it.
Even if she knew, somewhere inside him, he would never be truly right again.
It was this: a moment held out over the roof of the highest building, suspended in time like it had never meant to exist in it.
It was this: a heart shared in pain between the two of them, too much of a confession even without the words, that made them both too aware of the other.
It was this:
It was Michelle Jones realizing that Peter Parker had only been, and could only ever be, the boy she could have fallen for.
He sank back against the wall by which the bed was backed up against, his strong arms still holding her to him, the warmth of his skin against hers, Michelle able to feel the steady thrum of his heart through the fabric of her t-shirt, strong and sure. She hadn't realized –
She hadn't realized how fierce he could be – passionate, and loyal, and ardent in everything he said and did.
His hand found itself tangled in her hair, Michelle sitting beside him as he lay back, holding her and holding her and holding her, just as she felt his face press into her shoulder and heard his breathing become ragged, the tears now coming.
They were long overdue, she thought. Much too long.
His sobs were muffled against her t-shirt, as he gripped onto her, breathing in deeply as he tried to let them pass unnoticed.
Michelle continued to hold him.
This was Peter Parker, right here: his smooth skin, and soft hair, and strong embrace, and breakable, fragile heart, too used to loving with everything he had.
She wasn't sure how long they sat there for – certainly not for a short while.
It was unusual, for her, to say the least. She'd never held anyone this long before.
But he needed it, and that was all.
When he finally extracted himself from her arms, his eyes had cleared, the skin more or less back to normal around his eyes, his sobs long since ceased. He looked up at her as she kneeled in front of him, looking slightly unsure of herself.
"Thanks," he muttered.
She nodded in reply.
Edging towards the front of the bed, they sat beside each other in companionable silence, Peter still hunched over, his back in full view. She studied his skin, tracing the lines of the scars with her eyes.
They all seemed so ugly. Barely there – faint like a memory you couldn't recall – but they seemed stark in the contrasting light, the clock showing half six. Michelle sighed to herself, turning to him.
"Will they heal up, d'you think?"
His head turned to look at her, one hand reaching up to brush away his hair.
"Maybe. Mostly they do – accelerated healing and all,"
"I can tell," she said, motioning to his eyes. He smiled slightly, looking out into his room.
Michelle joined suit.
They sat in silence for a little more, watching the light stretch and contract as the sun shifted across the sky outside his window, this little box of a place able to feel like it was the only place in the room. It seemed at peace with itself – that soft gold and the dark bronze falling across his floor, tinting his skin to a soft tan, showing the freckles on his shoulder blades and the auburn in his hair.
Michelle tried to contain herself.
It wasn't right – he was upset.
She breathed out, crossing her legs on his bedsheets.
"I'm sorry I kissed you," she said plainly, avoiding his gaze, even though she could see him staring at her from the corner of her eye. She brushed away her curls, playing with the cuffs of her olive green cardigan, still diligently wrapped around her waist.
"Don't be," he replied, voice plaintive, but when she looked to him, his expression was sincere, eyes gazing across the plains of her face with a practiced accuracy that she felt was too much like she was under scrutiny.
She made to change the subject.
"How'd you get each one?" She motioned to his back.
He blinked once or twice.
"Oh, um –" He hesitated, picking out the one on his shoulder blade.
"That was from today – the guy hit me across the shoulder as I flipped over,"
"Idiot," Michelle smirked, making him smile in turn.
"Him or me?" He snorted.
"Take a wild guess, Parker,"
He laughed by intake of breath, looking for another one. He jerked a thumb to his back.
"There's one back there – on my left, I think? – from the Vulture,"
Michelle peered round the back, dutifully but unsuccessfully ignoring the taught muscles in his shoulders, stretching and bunching as he moved. She hadn't realized he was so well shaped.
Focus.
She saw it instantly – a long, white line across his back, starting at his left shoulder blade. It looked like his back had been torn by a claw.
"How'd he do that?"
"His claw thingys," he clarified, making a gripping motion. Michelle nodded in understanding.
He went through the several other fresh bruises, pointing at them carefully, face screwing up as he tried to remember their exact origin. Michelle was at least glad that he wasn't crying anymore – it had been too much of a raw emotion to see in him to fully comprehend it.
He finally pointed to one on his chest – a long, thin line, sweeping under his collarbone.
"That was from – that was from the Vulture too, I think. When he pushed me into the ground. I wasn't all that well protected,"
Michelle huffed out a breath, reaching out a hand to turn him slightly, so she could see it better.
He looked straight at her, her hand on his shoulder, barely.
She stared right back.
He looked like he was going to say something, but he leaned a little closer, taking a fleeting glance at her mouth.
Michelle leaned away, shaking her head.
"Not now, OK?"
His gaze flickered past hurt, but it soon disappeared, replaced with understanding.
"Sure – uh, sorry," he muttered, grabbing a t-shirt as he pulled away, hauling it on over his head.
Michelle lamented the loss of his bare skin, but she said nothing.
Peter coughed.
Michelle stood up, grabbing her abandoned essay from the floor, waving it in his face as he searched for a pen.
"Ready to complete our thesis, Loser?"
He smiled up at her, brushing away his hair.
She wished, in some brief, unattainable moment, that she had let him kiss her – just like he had been - when he'd been bared and open, and painfully romantic.
He nodded, smirking a little himself.
"Yeah, of course, MJ. That's why you came here, right?"
They both avoided answering the question.
Hopefully that will keep you all going until the last chapter is posted!
Reviews and kudos are always appreciated, folks.