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Michelle has never been a morning person.
Honestly, who is? Who wakes up at 6 AM in the asscrack of dawn cheerfully and starts humming along to Crazy For You by Madonna that’s playing on the morning news channel while flipping over sunny-side-up eggs? Who doesn’t need at least 3 shots of espresso after they wake to function properly? Who smiles while waking up and listens to the cooing of pigeons (what sound does a pigeon make? She should know this, she’s a New Yorker, for God’s sake) while watching the sunlight leak through the crooked edges of apartment buildings?
Definitely not her. No, she stumbles through the hallway with her curls mussed and sits on her couch for a meaningless twelve minutes while rethinking her life decisions before a pigeon squawks outside or a squirrel rustles the leaves of the twisted tree next to her apartment window. If she doesn’t drink at least 5 cups of coffee, she would probably never survive a whole tedious day on campus.
But that was before she moved in with Peter.
Peter goddamn Parker. That one boy who she’d say “hey” to with the intention of doing laundry and taxes with for the rest of her life. He’s this cute dumbass kid who would say stuff like “The raccoons work for the CIA, Em, I’m positive of it” and she would still fall in love with him. ( Maybe you’re right for once and the raccoons do work for the CIA , she says one hour later while sipping Earl Grey out from her favorite Spidey mug and gazing outside the window at an accused CIA worker who's rifling through a dumpster. I’m always right, MJ, I don’t know what you’re talking about , he mumbles from the dinner table where he’s typing away at some essay for organic chemistry.) This boy whom she would watch the 2005 Pride And Prejudice and reruns of The Office with, play stupid board games like Monopoly with (she always wins, of course), slow dance in the rain and feel the salty beads of water drench her clothes with, run through flower beds and kaleidoscopes of water with, do all the most cheesiest, cliché things with even though she (claims to) hates those things.
Peter’s a boy who would tell her she’s beautiful at the most random times. He’s a boy who would turn everything she says into a science pun. He’s a boy who has his heart on his sleeve and would do anything for her. He’s a boy who makes her feel safer and warmer than the sun in the sky. He’s a boy who’s beautiful in and out, with a soul that could find magic and beauty in every little insignificant thing, a boy who could make her worry the shit out of her and yet still forgive him because he’s too good for this messy, overwhelming world.
He’s a boy who she’s overly in love with. She loves him to the moon and back beyond to the stars above.
God, that’s so fucking cheesy.
It’s like this—
She wakes up today to sunlight streaming through the window, to her limbs feeling like lead but also feather-light at the same time. The sheets are tangled against her limbs and when she feels Peter next to her, her heart swells a bit. His lips are parted, curls rumpled and splayed against the pillow, sheets pulled up to his bare shoulders. Streaks of light dance over his face, pool in dimple of his collarbones, orange and yellow and gold, like the sea of leaves in autumn.
She reaches forward to ghost her fingers against the curve of his cheek, and his breathing stutters a bit, but it evens out again. He leans into her touch unconsciously, slurs something that sounds like her name and continues to snore lightly.
One corner of MJ’s mouth quirks up and she sits up in bed, swings her legs off and abandons the warmth of the bed reluctantly, walking across their tiny hallway while only wearing one of Peter’s idiot science pun shirts, and her underwear (she will not specify on why). It’s a bit cold inside, because their window is wide open and the city is alive with the cool September air. September is a season of the stretch between late summer and early fall, the long drag of days of soft sunshine, of honey and dandelion fluff slowly transitioning to days of fog and drizzle in evenings, of little cobblestone streets and skies of gray. Michelle doesn’t want to see the summer go, but she’s also in love with autumn in New York, so it’s okay.
Michelle turns the vintage radio thingy that Peter had insisted buying from a flea market (it actually works, what the hell), and there’s some sort of slow, nostalgic song that’s playing, probably from the late 80s, and she slips behind the counter, watches the sunrise for a moment before turning to the contents of her fridge.
She’s never been a good cook. Peter almost gave himself food poisoning after trying to make oatmeal out of the box. Eating had mostly consisted of him swinging by Delmar’s Deli-Grocery after patrolling and frequent visits to a Thai restaurant Aunt May swears on.
So, bacon and eggs it is.
She takes an egg out of the carton absentmindedly while thinking about the start of the semester, of their sophomore year at Columbia. She wonders if she should change her art major into philosophy while knocking the egg against a bowl until a seam cracks through the shell, then thinks better of it. Art has always been her thing, no matter how strenuous it might be. You can tell by looking at the walls of their apartment— Peter had insisted on decorating their faded, scraped wallpaper with all her works. Some are abstracts, just colorful paints creating shapes and things she had brought from her wild imagination, some are models and sketches of people, just simply charcoal smears forming the body and shadowing of some random person, and some are landscapes. She blurred and mixed shades of gray, yellow, and dark watercolors to depict New York on a rainy evening, the city alive even if the weather is somber. It’s like an art exhibit, one only displaying her works.
“Hail Hydra,” a voice says behind her, startling the shit out of her and she jumps.
“Holy shit , Peter,” she huffs as Peter doubles over laughing. He’s shirtless (again, she won’t specify, but damn those abs and biceps), with sweatpants hanging off his hips.
“Sorry,” he shrugs. “Catching you off-guard is my kinda entertainment now.”
“So, what, you’re a Russian assassin now?” MJ asks, pouring the contents of the egg into the pan. Peter wraps his arms around her waist, hugging her from behind, lips brushing the skin beneath her ear.
“That would be awesome, but no. Ned and I were thinking up weird things to whisper in someone’s ear. I was gonna say ‘I killed Mufasa’ but that would’ve been creepy.”
“You and Ned are dumbasses.”
“Which leads to my question for you, Ms Jones,” Peter mumbles, placing his chin onto her shoulder. “Is it appropriate for me to throw myself out of the window after our AP Lit exam?”
“Absolutely not,” Michelle replies, smirking. “I would be the one shoving you out.”
“But then you’d have the guilt of attacking an Avenger, would you really want that to be on your conscience?” he counters. She’s taught him well.
“I don’t have a moral compass, babe.”
“You love me.”
“I hate you.”
Peter lets her go for her to cross the kitchen and get the bacon from the fridge. He leans against the counter, smile growing lopsided and a glint of something in his brown eyes.
“That’s funny,” he teases. “‘Cause I remember you were speaking really differently last ni— ow! ”
MJ slaps her spatula against his head, cheeks burning. “Shut up , you uncultured fuck waffle.” They are not going to talk about the ungodly things that happened between them last night. (Hormones really spike up at the age of 19, what do you expect?)
“Wow,” he giggles. “I think I prefer ‘bug-boy’ better.”
“Too late, you abominable shit pest,” she tells him, smirking.
“God, I love you,” he sighs.
“My ship has sailed.” She closes the gap between them, rests her hand on the slope of his neck. “I gotta say, getting a superhero to successfully fall in love with me has been one of my greatest achievements yet.”
“Damn, I should’ve known,” he whispers ecstatically, placing his hands on her waist. “It was all part of your evil genius plan to rule the world.”
“You watch too many pop culture movies,” she laughs, before pressing her lips to his.
Deja vu. Michelle remembers this moment almost a year ago, in Peter’s kitchen, kissing him just because she could. She knows the thrill of anticipation she gets while pressing her lips to his would probably never fade, because here she is. She’s repeatedly kissing the prettiest boy in the world inside the kitchen of their tiny New York apartment, the world shifting around her in shades of gold and the color of his eyes. She remembers all their kisses in fragments— their first one, on that half-dead bridge in London, his suit torn up and blood cutting his cheek, his lips tasting kinda metallic and of evil drone dust, fire erupting from flipped over cars around them, her hand reaching up to the nape of his neck. This one, though, is slow, probably because they’re not relieving the panic of the world crushing below them. It’s not awkward at all, because they’ve learned from each other better, spent three whole year together.
Here she is, living the whole cliché life of sharing a shabby apartment in NYC with her long-term(ish) cute idiot superhero boyfriend while in college. 14-year-old Michelle, a rebel with feminist agenda who proclaimed that fact that “I will never marry to any man” would be horrified.
But— she’s not that 14-year-old kid anymore. And Peter— Peter’s still that pretty nerd boy with a heart of gold, who would throw himself into danger to save some random person’s life just because he wanted to. Peter’s been through so fucking much , been through his uncle and his mentor’s death, been through a space war , been through some evil dude’s schemes involving a fish bowl helmet and drone projections, and yet he’s still strong, he’s still as caring and brave and beautiful in the first place.
“I love you,” she whispers against his lips.
“I know,” he whispers back.
“Ugh, never mind,” she says, rolling her eyes and pushing him away, but her mouth curves.
“I said it first, Em!” he protests. “No take backs.”
MJ smiles and brushes her lips against his cheek, resting her forehead against his. “Okay, let me cook in peace or else you’ll be eating burnt bacon for breakfast.”