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M.J. realises she wants to be a journalist when Tony Stark shares her blog post and captions the link: "how come no one told me i run the us govt. this is information i could've used to coerce pepper into matrimony years ago".
It goes viral, obviously, because Tony Stark; and it's weird because, like, yeah, cameras and 79% of the public don't just unqualifiedly love you while the U.S. Congress wants to tear your heart out and roast it over a spit, that doesn't just happen, that requires a calculated obsession with image and the ability to manoeuvre the press like checker pieces, i.e. the long-reaching machinery of Public Relations freaking ninja master Pepper Potts (either Pott's exponential power growth is an "emphatic win for feminism" [Buzzfeed], or the circumstances are "sending women's progress back to the pre-1920 era" [Bustle], but reductive hyperbole makes M.J. nauseous, and whatever, the way Potts dipped Stark and kissed him after he proposed? Pretty cool). So it makes sense that Tony Stark would have a small army of bots tracking every mention of his name on the internet. And occasionally find himself amused, the way vain people are with criticism that's too close for comfort.
But on the other hand: holy shit.
M.J. combs through thousands of comments, reads and responds to think-pieces on her piece, and watches the numbers on the hit counter climb. It'll only last a few days, but she feels electric.
The article itself isn't revolutionary or anything, but it uses this one specific term--state capture--a term that even the most hard-hitting columnists have been totally wimping out on outright saying. She doesn't have the time for clever titles (yet--when her word play skills get concise, oh, she will), so--'Paralleling the Influence of the Gupta Family and Stark Industries on Democratic State Structures'. Exactly what it says on the tin.
M.J. watched Adrian Toomes' court testimony live, "screw Tony Stark, screw him the way he's fucked all the blue collar workers trying to earn a damn living wage: right up the ass, and painfully" was a hell of memorable line, practically a gift-wrapped sound bite for the 24 hour news channels. M.J. printed out the entire transcript the day after and stayed up that night with a highlighter in hand and seven Chrome tabs open on her laptop. Exclusive contracts, monopoly on technology, hegemonising innovation. By the morning she had an outline, and she still thought Toomes was an unhinged mega dick, but with a more nuanced understanding about why.
She made a point to call Peter before posting the thing. Dissing a friend's previous employer on your WordPress blog that has, like, 3 followers--it's on the same plane as dating your friend's ex, obviously. You can't not give them a heads up. Journalistic integrity, etc., etc. That, and the fact she, like, like-likes him. In a lame-lame way. Despite the fact he's almost definitely a drug dealer. Or living a secret double life as a teen pop sensation (the jury's still out on that one, but she'll figure it out).
Peter was totally chill about it: sort of. She isn't the greatest at judging these things. It was the first time they'd ever spoken to each other over the phone; on the line, his voice sounds not-as-high. Intimate, somehow, like they have an inside joke going. M.J. likes it almost as much as the real thing.
He was taken aback for the first few minutes, mostly by the fact she'd called to ask, as opposed to the actual premise of her post; but nowhere close to disavowing their friendship for all of eternity. Then he said "You'll be on Mr. Stark's radar now." And--it sounded like he was smiling. Again, she wasn't the greatest at judging these things--
"About time."
"You're really good at that, aren't you?"
"Mm?"
"Getting on people's radar."
"Interesting." she said, because it was: "Am I on yours?"
"Um, yeah." Okay, definitely smiling. "I'm not suicidal."
Actually, the greatest thing about the day after Tony Stark promo'ed M.J. wasn't the shares, or WaPo's op-ed on the Toomes trial the next morning that used ‘state capture’ three times, or when their super uptight Pol Sci teacher Mr. Das said her arguments had made a "surprisingly nuanced" case against the merits of private sector efficiency. It was the part where Peter repeated "Surprisingly?", and loud too, like Mr. Das had gone whack and deserved to know. Which, Peter--M.J.'s maybe read three CFR profiles on Jacob Zuma, and the dude has a PhD in Political Economy from Northwestern--was pretty awesome. She drew Peter in a sombrero, balled the sketch up and aimed for his head during third period Spanish by way of saying thank you.
(Ow, Peter had mouthed, uncrumpling the paper: then, a quick look at M.J., then back again at the drawing, a half-smile of delight threatening to eat his face. Dork)
*
"Mr. Harrington, petition to use the buzzer for comedic purposes."
"Petition denied, Miss Jones."
"This is autocratic," Flash protests, which is surprisingly perceptive of him.
"Hah, well, that's my middle name."
Abraham looks up, confused: "I thought it was Eugene."
"We could overthrow you, sir," Peter adds, very seriously, bumping his elbow lightly against M.J's. They've been sitting next to each other all through the session.
"Peter's right, we have the numbers," M.J. says, and against her better judgement, bumps back.
“Miss Jones.”
"We're going to need our own handshake," Peter whispers.
"That's a hard nope."
"M.J," he says, like he's reminding her.
"No."
*
It's four moves long, and Peter's only allowed to invoke the right to use it once a month.
"Let's just get February over with right now, please." she says, extending her fist to Peter, who dodges. "Waiting for this is like knowing there's a serial killer in your house but not knowing where."
Ned looks appalled. "You can't just--! Look, a custom handshake is all about timing and mood, and every iteration is special--"
"Oh my god," M.J. says, and tries to bury herself in toast. Peter smiles at her, exceedingly malicious. It's kind of amazing.
*
The thing is--the brutal, inescapable, inconvenient truth of the thing is--M.J. knows what he looks like when he's into someone. She's had it broken down and classified, followed the trail all of last year from Liz Allan's smile to Peter Parker's face. And it's not--he doesn't. For her.
She would have noticed.
She's just the girl with a pocket full of one-liners. Just the good friend, just the decathlon team leader. Just--just.
Which is chill, whatever, except for the part where it sucks big time.
It's gym period and M.J.'s bench-pressing The Second Sex while deep in speculative thought. So, the way Peter's shirt stretches over his biceps and shoulder blades is not a joke. On the other hand, his eyebrows are always in the middle of an identity crisis, and his lips are kind of thin. His smile, though--really, really nice. First class, one might say. A solid, toothpaste advertisement smile.
Yeah, M.J's not doing great service to Simone de Beauvoir right now.
There's a scuffling sound next to her: Peter's pulling up a gym mat. He gives her a small wave. A single curl of hair is sticking to his forehead, and it's sort of adorable. M.J. makes a non-committal sound and returns to bench-pressing.
"Nice weights," he says, settling into crunches. "What is that, 50 pounds?"
"The patriarchy weighs infinitely on all of us, Peter," she says, tilting the book so he can see the cover. "Where's your boy?"
"My boy."
"Your boy, your man, your tender lover. Your partner in dweeb-crimes--"
"Ned," Peter says loudly over her, "is holidaying in Orlando." He pulls a face. "I've been abandoned for 3D rides."
"Interesting how you say that like it's unexpected." M.J. says, as Peter shoots her a look. "He has a street name now, so I'm pretty sure he's moved out of your league anyway." The day after homecoming, news that Ned had allegedly bailed on the dance to watch porn had spread like wildfire. Angela Huang, a junior (and member of the Traveller's Club as well as the Animal Rights Student Association, observed on various instances feeding leftover bread crusts to resident rodents [which makes her a credible source in M.J's book]) had reportedly passed by Ned in Principal Morita’s office during second period and witnessed Ms. Warren throw her hands in the air, turn from Ned to Principal Morita, and say: "I still don't understand why he needed three screens!"
By fifth period, newly released Ned Leeds had been back-slapped more times in the space of five minutes that he had his entire life, and was hereby christened by the people 'Three Screens Ned'.
Peter laughs: “True.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then: "Must be cool, a street name everyone knows you by."
"Sound wishful for yourself, loser."
His neck swivels towards her. "Lies," he says, but it sounds uncertain.
"Oh, you're going down. Ay, Coach Wilson!”
"Ay." Coach Wilson appears next to them, not looking very enthusiastic. M.J. puts the book down, sitting up. "I thought we mutually agreed to never acknowledge each other's existence," he says, sounding more resigned with the human condition than usual. "Keep crunching," he advises Peter, who's stopped.
"That's the detention time stipulation; in gym, emergencies have precedence. We established this weeks ago--" she explains to Peter, who has somewhat irritatedly resumed crunching, and then turns back to Coach, "--catch up, Coach. Anyway, Peter doesn't believe I have a street name, please disabuse him of this notion."
"She's called Deadpan, because her pan is dead. Lifeless, murdered. Stage three decomposition."
"I've never heard anyone call you that."
M.J. shrugs. "Coach calls me that."
"Well--uh! That doesn't even count, he's one person--"
Coach Wilson raises his eyebrows. "Kid, please don't be raising questions about my god-given ability to confer a street name. Please don't be raising those kind of questions to the man who has the power to serve detentions." Which--yeah, that's maybe the most intimidating Coach will ever be. Impressive.
Peter shuts up.
"All right! Cool, we're done here, thaaanks." M.J. says, syrupy sweet and blatantly insincere. Coach Wilson narrows his eyes, but abruptly calculates that he doesn't really care. He shuffles away, and half-heartedly blows his whistle at some kid who's wrapped themselves in their mat like a burrito (nice).
She turns to Peter, triumphantly: "Deadpan." Peter's lying down on the mat and looking up at her with an expression that's familiar, and that makes her feel electric, too, and her gut's catching up to something her mind hasn't yet--smiling slightly, she leans on her shoulder.
"What are you doing after school, loser," are the words she finds herself saying; and immediately, immediately regretting, because Peter's eyes go buggy and his mouth pops open, like out of some period drama. M.J. follows up, lightning-fast and airy, like it couldn't matter less: "Only since you're like, healing your broken heart in Ned's absence. But--"
"Uh--"
"--if you have any more sketchy phone calls to take, that's--", which is both giving him an out because what the hell M.J., and also she's hoping that he trips up on the 'sketchy' thing.
"No," Peter cuts her off, emphatic. "No, no, I'd love t--I mean--it would be really cool, like incredibly cool to hang out. And um, nope, no sketchy phone calls scheduled for today I think. So. Yeah."
A beat. "Okay."
Peter exhales. "Okay."
*
“Woah,” Peter says, examining the enormous black and white poster stuck behind the door of young Angela Davis smoking a pipe, grey tendrils curling around her face. “Is that--is this signed?”
“Yep,” M.J. says, hopping onto the bed and hugging her knees.
Peter walks carefully around the perimeter of the room, occasionally stopping and reacting to anything that catches his attention. He gawks at the bookshelf that stretches along the entire wall, floor to ceiling, and says, “Now that’s just scary.” Then, he picks up M.J’s second grade spelling bee award--which is a literal, plushy bee with huge felt wings that has ‘Michelle - Winner, Spelling Bee Contest. You did great, honey!’ sewn onto it. "Wow."
“I’m proud of that, for the record.”
“No, yeah, definitely.” He’s sniffing it.
“And it’s, like, eighty years old. The bee’s basically got national heritage status at this point.”
“Of course, of course,” Peter says, lobbing her bee into the air and catching it deftly. He’s grinning.
“I’m not feeling the respect, Parker.”
“Really? But it’s so palpable, Michelle.”
“I will hurt you.”
“I think you mean sting.”
Later, when they’ve put aside their spoons and the jar of Nutella, and have thoroughly finished arguing the finer points of why Nerdwriter is so right about Prisoner of Azkaban being the best movie in the series (among most things, of course), Peter points at the cork board hanging over her desk. “It really looks like a conspiracy board, not going to lie.” M.J. groans. "It’s like, where’s the red string, you know? Who’s the target?”
“That’s my current affairs research map, you dork.”
“Uh huh,” He half sits up, propping his chin with his hand, elbow sinking into the comforter. “Dork, she says, as she explains her current affairs research map.”
M.J. tugs one of the pillows closer, cradles it to her chest, and pulls a face at Peter. She feels sleepy and content. “Shut up, nerd."
"Literally speaking, you’re the nerd.”
“You’re the bigger nerd.”
“Your face is a nerd.”
"Yeah? Well, your face--" M.J. pauses, assessing, "-- is. Very nice.”
Peter takes a big nervous gulp at that, and it’s all going a little dreamy, a little Salvador Dali, except her vision is perfectly clear: the furniture isn’t melting, but Peter’s face is moving closer to hers, and that doesn’t seem quite right. He has freckles, and it’s a revelation. A whole scattering of them, across his nose and the tops of his cheeks, his chin. She’s never been close enough to see.
Clumsily, Peter brushes her bangs away from her forehead and cheek, and rests his fingers there.
“This is really weird,” M.J. whispers, because someone has to say it.
“Yeah,” Peter whispers back. She inches forward. “I could--”, he begins, then stops. His knees come up, she feels his toes brush against her shin, and he’s doing that trademark half-smile of delight. M.J. swallows, pushing her heart back down her throat. “I could probably pretend that you have Nutella on your chin. Or something.”
“Or something,” M.J. agrees, and kisses him.
It’s a press of lips more than anything else, but wow, she was ignorant, like, she was majorly missing out, because Peter’s lips are not thin, they’re soft and warm and malleable like clay. His breath tastes of chocolate, his fingers are cupping her ear. Her ear. And something about that fact feels so brave, because it’s not just kissing, it’s not just lips touching lips--it’s three fingers curled behind the delicate shell of her ear, declaring something else. She draws back and watches Peter’s eyes slowly come open; watches his gaze travel down to where she’s holding his other hand, like a determined pipe clamp. She’s pipe clamping Peter Parker’s hand. And yeah, he really does look starry-eyed (if she’s not mistaken) (but again--she’s never been the greatest at judging these things--)
“Woah,” Peter says, softly. His mouth is twitching, like he has to keep reining in his smile or things might go catastrophic. It feels like they already have.
M.J. smiles, wide and open in a way she hasn’t done for a while, and then hooks her chin over his shoulder. Peter must get the idea, because his arms come around her immediately, and they’re hugging, tight, and hey: this must be the cocoon they didn’t know they were building for themselves all afternoon.
“Your phone’s shrieking,” she mumbles into his collar, some years later. Peter makes a noise of protest. “Pick it up. Or I’ll.”
“You’ll.”
“…stab it.”
“’Kay.”
Peter sits up, reaches for the floor (yeah, the way his shirt stretches over his shoulders? Still not a joke), and puts the phone flat between both their ears.
“Hello?” Peter says, and M.J. snorts out loud.
What, Peter mouths at her, grinning.
Dork, she mouths back.
A tinny voice is coming through the speaker: “--yeah Bob, I don’t care if you have to go to fucking Timbuktu, just get it done--Peter? Peter, are you there? Jesus, how long does it take to pick up your phone? The repairs on your spider suit are finished, I’ll give you instructions for pick-up. And can you not jam the web shooters this time? The technician--shut up, Bob--the technician pleaded with me specifically to tell you to leave the web shooters alone--”
*
“M.J.”
“Mm.”
“You’re not freaking out and that's making me freak out, like I don’t know if you can tell, but I am. Freaking out. Say something. Anything, at this point, would be great--”
“No, no, I’m just--I’m trying to decide if this is better or worse than you being a drug dealer--”
“What.”
*
“So Tony Stark’s PA, this Dopey Hogan guy--”
“Happy. Happy Hogan. Though wow, thank you, how did I not think of that before--”
*
“Do I get to try on the suit?”
“Absolutely not, and Ned called dibs before you--"
"Ned's in Florida. Dibs don't apply cross-state."
"Oh, so you wrote the by-laws on dibs?"
"I co-authored them, yes--"
*
“Yeah, this definitely looks better on me than you.”
“Obviously, you’re like, a million feet tall.”
“Don’t be petty, Parker.”
*
“Four days,” Ned says. “I was gone for four days.”
“--and this is the folder of all your extra-curricular heroics sorted by time, location, and details, after you told everyone you were fired from the Stark internship, though we’ll definitely have to go further back to be safe. Peter: you, Leeds and I will go over these and classify them by potential urgency for a future alibi--oh hey, that’s peanut butter.”
“Yeah, um. I told Aunt May you like peanut butter, so she probably thought--”
“You--you told your aunt I like peanut butter.”
“It…looks like I did?”
“Oh.”
M.J. has a brief but violent internal struggle, and then she presses a swift kiss to Peter’s cheek before stuffing the sandwich into her mouth. Peter goes an interesting, interesting shade of pink, which she mentally files away for later exploitation. She turns to Ned, who looks like he’s on the verge of tears, and passes him a print-out of the spreadsheet.
Ned looks down. “This is about the Malaysian elections.”
“Oh, shit--I need that, hang onto it for a second while I find the other one--”
“Four days,” he repeats to Peter, who smiles at him sunnily.
“You should go on holidays more often.”