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MJ is just wrapping up a chapter of her library book, due back in two days, when she hears Peter come in. A gust of frigid air blows into the living room and she shivers, snuggling deeper under her blanket cocoon on the couch, socked feet tucked beneath her.
“Close the window!” she urges him, not looking up from the page, as she speed reads to get to the end. Their heating bill is worrisome enough without him letting out all the hot air.
Peter slides the pane shut. “Sorry.”
His subdued tone catches her attention. She looks up, slipping her bookmark into place and closing the book despite having only a few sentences left. Peter is still standing there by the window, holding his mask in his hands, and looking chilled to the bone after an afternoon of swinging through the city in miserable icy weather. His expression is odd, restless, like he has something to tell her.
MJ frowns. She feels a twinge of anxiety as she leans forward to put her book on the coffee table beside her empty mug of cocoa and the flickering pine candle she had lit earlier. She had refrained from making him cocoa as well since she wasn’t sure when he was coming home and didn’t want it to cool off, but she left his mug and the mix out on the counter for him.
“Peter? What’s wrong?”
Peter crosses the room and sinks down heavily onto the couch beside her. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
MJ watches him, feeling her heart thump nervously in her chest.
“Peter?” she asks again, taking his gloved hand, ice cold.
“I’ve got bad news,” Peter says, low and serious as he turns to look at her.
Oh god. Her mind starts to race, imagining the possibilities, most of them involving Spider-Man. His secret identity has been compromised. Felicia has exploited his guilt complex and good heart and roped him into helping her with another one of her crooked schemes. He’s going to have to go on another stupidly dangerous top secret mission that will keep her lying awake at night consumed with dread. One (or several) of his many enemies has escaped the Raft (again) and wants to kill him (again).
“We’re all out of mistletoe.”
MJ blinks.
“What?”
“We’re all out of mistletoe,” Peter repeats as he breaks into a stupid mischievous grin, dropping the act. “So I guess you’ll have to kiss me just because I’m cute.”
MJ stares at him. Then she reaches around behind her to grab the couch pillow she was leaning against and throws it at his face.
“Hey!” he yelps.
“You are such an asshole,” she says, glaring at him.
“What?”
“You scared me! God, I thought it was something actually serious. Like you were gonna say there’s been a prison break again and someone is out to kill you. Or you’re gonna have to leave again for some dangerous mission and I won’t hear from you for a whole week and have no idea if you’re okay or even alive…”
Peter’s eyes widen in understanding, mouth falling open. “Oh. Oh shit.” He looks suddenly ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking… I was just trying to be funny.”
She huffs and grabs the pillow, pulling it into her lap and rubbing her thumb over the fabric. “You just came in from patrol. Obviously my mind was gonna go there.”
“I know. I’m a jerk. I’m sorry.”
She keeps her glare fixed on him to make him squirm in guilt for a little bit longer. Finally she lets up. “It’s okay.”
Peter gives her a dumb, sheepish smile. He’s right that he’s cute, and it’s annoying.
“Although… maybe we should get mistletoe for the apartment,” she says thoughtfully.
He tilts his head, hopeful and eager. She loves him. “So we have more excuses to kiss?”
“Exactly.”
“But like I said, me being cute is also an excuse. And I’m cute all the time. So…”
“Hmm. Debatable.”
He pouts. She loves him. She loves him.
“Yeah well… I think you’re cute all the time,” he says, scooting closer, his thigh brushing against her toes under the blanket.
“And you’d be right,” she says and meets him in the middle for a kiss. His nose is cold as it brushes against her cheek.
MJ pulls back and presses her hand against his solid chest, over the spider symbol. “You’re freezing. Let’s hit pause until you’re showered and warmed up, okay?”
“Yeah, alright,” Peter says, getting to his feet. “Though maybe you should join me in there so we won’t need to pause. Just a suggestion.”
“No. I already showered earlier and I’m going to make you hot chocolate.”
“That’s very nice of you but I’d rather you join me in the shower,” he grins, boyish.
“And I’d rather we keep our water bill at a semi-reasonable level,” she shoots back. One would think showering together would save water, but it only makes the two of them less efficient and sensible.
Peter sighs melodramatically and peels off his suit, damp from the sleet. He dumps it in a pile on the floor just to be obnoxious. MJ rolls her eyes, unable to stop the smile tugging at her mouth as he walks away toward the bathroom. His stupid cute butt is distracting her and she’s only human.
❄❄❄
A short while later they’re both sitting on the couch, sharing the blanket. Peter is wearing a pair of her old sweatpants from Midtown, hair still wet. Outside it’s gotten darker and the wind is positively howling, but inside it’s warm and cozy and bright.
MJ has turned on the TV, some old holiday movie is playing on low, and Peter is slurping his hot chocolate. MJ has the bag of mini marshmallows open on her lap. Taking the whole bag instead of pouring out a handful and putting it away is a dangerous game and she’s probably going to ruin her appetite for dinner, but whatever. They can eat late. They’re adults.
“Throw me one,” Peter says suddenly.
“Don’t you have enough?” she nods to his cocoa where his generous helping of marshmallows has melted into foam.
“I want to catch them in my mouth,” he explains. “Reflex and coordination practice.”
Sure. Like Spider-Man needs practice.
MJ tosses a marshmallow at him anyway. It bounces off his forehead and she giggles. Maybe he does need practice. Or maybe she’s the only one who can catch him by surprise and set him off balance, even after all these years. It makes her feel fluttery and smug to know she has that effect on him.
“I wasn’t ready. Another one!”
She tosses one again and he catches it this time, but his movement causes his hot chocolate to slosh dangerously, almost spilling over the rim of the mug.
“Don’t spill,” MJ says. She likes her tartan wool blanket, a Christmas gift from her big sister from the year Gayle started college and MJ didn’t cope well with her absence. It’s also a pain in the ass to clean.
She cares less for the couch which has seen better years. They bought it second hand off Craigslist, and Ned and Flash helped them carry it up all those flights of stairs when they moved in, Peter feigning as a normal human being with normal human strength for the benefit of watching neighbors. It was the dog days of summer, the soupy humidity and sweat sheen on her skin now a distant tactile memory in mid December. She remembers Peter’s biceps in his tight t-shirt as he held the cold metal of a beer can against his flushed skin during a breather. She remembers later when she tugged him onto the couch after Ned and Flash had left for the night, unpacked boxes still scattered around the apartment.
“Oh yeah.” Peter sets his drink on the coffee table on a coaster. “Okay, hit me.”
MJ throws again and he catches it easily. Another one up high, then one down low, then one to his left that he catches on the tip of his tongue.
“I’m throwing a lot of things at your face today,” she remarks. She pinches a marshmallow between her fingers, watching him watch her, waiting for her to throw it, then pops it in her own mouth instead.
“I don’t mind,” Peter says. “You can do whatever you want to my face.” He gives her a suggestive eyebrow waggle.
“Oh my god,” she laughs and kicks gently at his side. He reaches under the blanket to catch her ankle, clasping the bare skin between her sock and sweatpants. His hands are warm now.
“Was that mistletoe joke original or did you steal it from somewhere?” she asks after a beat.
“It was on a Hallmark card,” he admits. “Maybe I should have bought it and saved it for you.”
“Yeah you should have. Why didn’t you?”
“I got you another card. And fair warning: it’s gonna be even cheesier.”
“Great,” she says flatly, like she doesn’t love his cheesiness, like it doesn’t make her insides feel squishy and soft like a marshmallow.
The first night of Chanukah he gave her a card that said “I love you a latke.” She knows that the store selection of Chanukah cards is pitiful compared to the abundance of Christmas cards, and she’s pretty sure he spent a good five minutes deliberating on the best one to get her.
Thinking back, it’s funny how younger, teenage MJ used to try so hard to be uncaring and blasé. Older MJ knows better now, knows that being soft and vulnerable and silly, and sharing that silliness with the people she loves most in the world makes life all the more better. And with people like Peter, with the difficult, unpredictable life he leads, she knows that if they don’t laugh they’ll cry.
She leans forward and he does too. Cupping his jaw, she kisses him, soft and slow, tasting the hot cocoa on his lips. Peter kisses her back, hands ghosting up her sides over her sweater. They kiss and kiss and kiss, and she lets herself melt into it, skimming her fingers through his hair that’s starting to curl as it dries.
At last they break apart to breathe, and Peter leans his forehead against hers. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Then she reaches into the marshmallow bag, bites one in half and presses it against his forehead where it sticks.
Peter freezes and then cracks up in startled surprise. He peels the marshmallow off and holds it up for inspection with all the solemn intensity and focus he might use for one of his scientific studies.
“What,” she asks, amused. “Are you thinking of trying to add marshmallows to your web fluid formula to make it stickier?”
“No, but that’s actually an amazing idea,” Peter says, looking genuinely thoughtful. “The gelatinous consistency could be a total game changer. I should run some tests.”
“Well, if it actually works you’d better give me credit for the idea,” MJ says.
“Obviously. The world needs to know and recognize Michelle Jones-Watson’s genius.”
They’re both being silly, joking about the webs, but she knows he means that. And that means a lot. She deals with a lot of patronizing blowhards in her program and while she doesn’t let herself get discouraged, it’s nice to have that shoulder to lean on when she’s frustrated and cheer on her accomplishments.
“Thank you,” she says. “But if it fails, then it was all your idea.”
He narrows his eyes as she laughs. “Wait…”
Shaking his head, Peter eats the marshmallow, then reaches forward and snatches a fresh one out of the bag. “Okay, now your turn.”
“Oh no, I’m good,” she says, putting up her own hand. “I don’t need practice.”
He tosses it at her head and she ducks as it goes sailing over the edge of the couch and disappears somewhere behind her. He laughs as she fake-glares at him. “Guess you do.”
“I’m not picking that up.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Just like you’d better pick up your wet suit you left on the floor.”
“I already did!”
She knows he did this time but sometimes she likes to remind him to do things he’s already done to be just as annoying back. Because sometimes he doesn’t remember to pick up after himself and even though she knows his double life is hectic, it’s still not an excuse and it’s still not fair to leave extra work for her. Saving the city is important, but MJ is important too, and so is doing the dishes.
She appreciates that he’s trying though, making more of an effort lately to be a good partner. A good roommate. A good lover.
MJ doesn’t want to live in mess, but she knows living with and loving Peter means life will be messy. Messy and silly and scary and unpredictable and wonderful. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed but she hopes they’ll grow together and she’ll get to see laugh lines on his face one day.
She leans forward and gives him a peck on the mouth.
His eyes are soft and fond as she sits back. “What was that for?”
“Being cute, dummy. Remember? Your idea?”
“Oh yeah,” he says. “I try.”
“You don’t need to.”
He doesn’t.