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“I would totally fuck Shane.”
Unabashed, unashamed, and unprompted, Gwen’s announcement has Michelle snorting into her wine mid-sip.
They’re gathered at Gwen’s apartment for their traditional Halloween spook-fest, which tonight consists of copious amounts of alcohol and a Buzzfeed Unsolved marathon. The supernatural kind, naturally. The lights are dimmed, throws and blankets draped artfully over chairs to create a low ceiling above their heads. Cushions surround them in shallow walls. It’s a perfect, safe little fort to protect them as they recline with their cups and get their creep on. Gwen, three glasses down, has apparently opted to take this literally.
She leans forward to pluck her wine glass from its perch on the edge of the coffee table. The reflection of the television dances in her eyes in the dimly lit room. On screen, the object of her affections continues to taunt the Goatman. He stands on a bridge in the middle of a forest, eagerly inviting the wrath of a demonic entity that may or may not exist, and caring little for the repercussions. Gwen watches with an analytic eye, tips back the last of the dregs at the bottom of her glass, and nods decisively. “Yep. One hundred percent. I’ve decided.”
“It’s that time of the night already, huh.” Michelle says, grinning.
“Oh, shut up,” Gwen says, and chucks a purple velvet cushion, which Michelle snatches out of the air with less grace than she’d prefer. “Like you wouldn’t.”
“Oh no, I absolutely would.”
“Right?” Gwen sits up, eyes bright in the darkness. “He’s just so… I don’t know, blasé about the whole ‘putting his immortal soul in peril’ thing. It’s sexy, in a fatalistic kind of way. I’d do him.”
“Is there anything you wouldn’t do right now? Seriously, what is it with you after a couple of glasses of wine? You turn into a pest.”
“It’s called having needs, MJ.”
“It’s called having a ridiculously low alcohol tolerance.”
“And yet, nonetheless, impeccable taste,” Gwen says, raising her empty glass high and puckering her lips. Michelle throws the pillow right back at her face.
On the other side of the blanket fort, Ned nods sagely. “Hmm. Yeah, figures.”
“Figures?” Gwen turns her head. “What figures?”
“Nothing, nothing. I’m just not surprised, is all.”
Gwen sits forward, cross-legged and fully attentive. “No, no, come on, I want to hear this. Spill.”
“Me too,” Michelle says, though Ned’s got that look in his eye that tells her maybe this is going to end up as a curiosity and the cat situation.
With a sigh, he rolls over and raises his hands, counting off on his fingers. “Okay so, disregard for personal safety, runs his mouth when he probably shouldn’t, actively and enthusiastically seeks out situations most sane people would avoid. Remind you of anyone else we know?”
Gwen’s brow creases. “Uh, no?”
Knowing this is something she can never unlearn, Michelle takes a casual sip of her wine and says, “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Gwen looks at her, looks at Ned, looks at her glass. Her nose wrinkles. “Are you— wait, ew, are you talking about Peter? No offence, MJ.”
“Please,” Michelle waves her off, “absolutely none taken.”
“I mean, you did date him,” Ned says. He looks at Michelle. “And you are dating him. I’m just making observations.”
“Well, stop!” Gwen says.
“You said you wanted to hear it.”
“And now I’ve changed my mind. Now all I want is more wine.” She shakes her empty glass for emphasis. “And nachos. How long’s left on the timer, anyways?”
Silence.
“Ned!”
“Sorry!” Ned says. “In my defence we have already established that this show is distracting.”.
Gwen clicks her tongue. “Useless.” She stands, half-crouched to avoid disturbing the ceiling of their little nest and extracts herself, taking a couple of slightly wobbly steps towards the dark hallway before pausing. “Um. Someone come with?”
“Can’t,” Ned says, reclining back against the cushions. “Useless.”
“MJ?’
Michelle grins at her. “Why? Are you scared?”
“And so what if I am?” Gwen flicks her hair over her shoulder. Michelle raises an eyebrow and waits her out. “Yes, all right? The light is out in the hall again. And I need a friend to protect me from the kitchen demons.” She bats her eyes. “Be my hero?”
Ned snorts. “Cool, so I’ll just stay here on my own with the living room demons, then. That’s nice. That’s totally fine.”
“You volunteered yourself for that,” Gwen says with a shrug. She reaches out a hand and Michelle laughs as she takes it and lets her pull her up. On her feet, her cheeks feel warm and her head spins pleasantly and god, she really loves her friends.
“You guys are such a bunch of dorks,” she says. “There are no demons, oh my god.”
“MJ.” Gwen pins her with a serious look, the effect of which is slightly mitigated by the three quarter bottle of Chardonnay she’s put away so far. “You have literally with your own eyes witnessed a man form out of, and then disintegrate back into sand, and you’re going to draw the line at demons? Really?”
“Yes. Because like you said, I’ve seen the sand guy.”
“First time for everything,” Ned says.
“Yeah well, hopefully it won’t be tonight.”
She prods Gwen between the shoulder blades, urging her forward, and admits only in the safety of her own head that she’s grateful to be bringing up the rear instead of leading the charge into the gloom. She’s a rational person, she doesn’t believe in ghosts or demons, but a night full of creepy entertainment still has a way of getting under the skin, and hers buzzes with a spooky thrill as they head down the dark hall.
“Wait, are you scared?” Gwen teases in a whisper as they leave the safety of the fort behind and Michelle presses in against her back. But her hand reaches out again, squeezing tightly around Michelle’s and pulling her closer.
Michelle smiles as she tucks her chin over Gwen’s shoulder. “Shh, you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll—hic—I’ll keep you safe,” Gwen says. Then, chillingly: “I hate this hall, I always feel like I’m being watched.”
Michelle’s skin prickles with the phantom sensation of eyes. She squeezes in closer. “Gwen, what the fuck.”
“Sorry,” Gwen whispers. “Just, these buildings are so old it makes you wonder if anything is hanging around, you know? Like, stuck or whatever. If you believe in that sort of stuff”
“You really want to talk about this right now?” Michelle hisses.
“No. Shit, I don’t know what I’d do if I actually saw something.”
They fall silent. Michelle finds herself staring at the back of Gwen’s fuzzy blue jumper out of the sudden ludicrous fear she’ll see a pair of red eyes blinking back at her from the darkness at the end of the hall if she looks up. She doesn’t even believe in this shit. It’s just the night and the spooky TV and the wine and—
“Bring the bottle!”
They both startle at Ned’s shout from the lounge, but it’s Michelle who yelps and jumps forward into Gwen, which makes the both of them startle more than the shout itself. They barely manage to keep upright as their legs get tangled in the darkness. Michelle slams the hand that’s not latched onto Gwen’s onto the wall for balance and Gwen fists a handful of Michelle’s shirt as she twists and attempts to halt her downward momentum. She doesn’t quite manage it.
“Ned!” Michelle snaps. Then, “Shit, sorry!” as she tries to steady Gwen. Her heart is going a mile a minute but Gwen is laughing — laughing laughing laughing as she loosens her grip on Michelle’s shirt and gracelessly slides to the floor.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, we’re so stupid,” she gasps out between giggles, pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks. Her laughter is bright like bells, infectious, and Michelle can’t help but start laughing too as she covers her still-racing heart, chasing away the jitters with every involuntary shake of her shoulders.
“What is it?” Ned calls out. “Is it the demons? Did they get you? That was fast.”
Michelle and Gwen lock eyes, and the giggles burst free all over again. “Stop,” Michelle says, doubled over. “Stop, stop, I need to pee!” And, when she finally catches her breath, to Ned: “We’re good! No demons.”
“So that’s not brimstone I can smell then?”
Gwen’s eyes fly wide. “Crap. The nachos!” she says, and scrambles to her feet to take off running down the hall.
Crap, the nachos, indeed. But it’s not too bad. The unexpected pit stop in the hallway means they’re slightly burned at the edges, but with their glasses topped up and a fresh wine bottle ready and waiting on the coffee table, the charred taste is more than palatable. Settled back in the nest, Michelle scarfs down the carby, cheesy goodness, certain she can feel it neutralising the alcohol sloshing around in her stomach with every swallow. Her bladder is empty, her glass is full, and her fluffy-socked feet are propped up on Ned’s thigh. Life is good. Life is great.
“This episode has always freaked me out,” Ned says, dropping a chip into his upturned mouth and closing with a crunch. “Like, I know they probably just turned the flashlight half on and kept filming until they got a good take, but damn if I don’t get chills when it— yeah, that right there.”
Dramatic music fills the room as the entity featured in the current episode turns Shane and Ryan’s flashlight on when goaded into doing so. Then off. Back on again.
“Freaky,” Gwen breathes.
“Freaky,” Ned agrees.
“Staged,” Michelle says, just because someone’s got to be controversial and it might as well be her. She tosses a chip into her mouth and grins at the twin looks of fond irritation thrown her way.
The flashlight flickers back on.
So does the broken hall light.
The three of them freeze.
Michelle chokes down her half-chewed mouthful of nachos like it’s turned into glue. “Gwen…” Her voice is nowhere near as sturdy as she’d like it to be.
Gwen’s eyes are like the moon. “Oh my god,” she whispers, high and thin. “What the fuck.”
“It’s fine, guys,” Ned says, sounding like it’s anything but. “It’s probably just—“
The light flicks off again.
Gwen whimpers. Michelle draws her feet in towards herself. Ned hits pause on the TV, muting the suspenseful score that plays over the creepy visuals. They sit in silence, eyes trained on the hallway, looming dark and ominous like an open mouth.
“Is now a bad time to admit that I really hate being scared?” Ned asks after a moment. “Like I love our spooky nights, I love you guys, but now I’m freaked out and I don’t like it.”
“Me too.” Gwen lets out a nervous giggle. “Oh my god, why do we do this to ourselves?”
“I’d like to remind you both that I suggested Practical Magic,” Michelle says.
“Practical Magic isn’t scary.”
“That’s the point.”
Ned hunches in on himself. “Do you think the hallway demons saw what the Sally House demon was doing with the flashlight and tried to copy?”
“Ned!” Gwen squeaks.
A shiver runs down Michelle’s spine. “That’s it, give me the remote.”
She’s just leaning forward for it when there’s an almighty thump against the living room window. The tandem scream let out by the three of them is loud and shrill enough to make Michelle’s wine glass vibrate in her hand, and the sight of a bloody, smeared handprint on Gwen’s eighth story window nearly makes her piss herself in fear before a pair of wide, white eyes pop up at the bottom of the pane. Beside them, the gloved hand that created the gory display rises in an awkward little wave.
“Jesus Christ.”
Heart still battering against her ribs, she uncurls herself from the floor nest and makes her way over to the window, unlocking it and hauling it up. An arm hooks over the sill, then a leg, and then the rest of Peter Parker comes tumbling into the room in a gangly red and blue heap. Michelle catches him around the waist, suddenly feeling remarkably steady for the amount of alcohol she’s consumed over the past few hours. But then again, there’s nothing quite like a moment of butt-clenching terror to chase away that fun tipsy feeling.
“Heeeeeeeey,” Peter says, sounding pretty sheepish. His shoulders are hunched over and he’s got one arm curled around his middle as he tries and fails not to lean too much of his weight onto Michelle. “Sorry for crashing the party, guys. Uh, literally, I guess.”
“Peter?” Gwen’s hand is still pressed flat over her heart, her eyes wide.
“Hey Gwendy, hey— wait, Ned?”
Ned raises a hand in greeting. “Hey, man.”
“I thought this was supposed to be girls’ night?”
“It is,” says Michelle.
“Girls’ night isn’t gender exclusive, Peter,” Ned chastises. “It’s a mood.”
“Oh.” Peter nods. “Right. Right.”
“You scared the crap out of us.” Gwen says. Her voice is still shrill with residual panic.
“Yeah, my bad.” Peter reaches up to pull his mask off with a groan, and Michelle winces at what’s underneath it. His face looks like it went three rounds with a hammer, and his chin is streaked with dried blood where his lip has split and crusted over. “I was gonna just swing home, but then I remembered that I’m out of antiseptic. And band aids. And, uh, food? Ha.” He grimaces, pressing a hand against his side. “Plus there's the tiniest chance I might have nicked something vital. So, uh, yeah. Surprise.”
There have been enough instances of ‘nicked something vital’ that Michelle is pretty sure they’re good right now, but she still starts to mentally triage. Even pupils, regular skin tone, no slurring of words and at least enough common sense to remember his way to a safe house. He’s probably fine, but the red streak on the window and the dark stain on the suit right under where his hand is now pressed to his side speaks to further investigation.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Ah, just, usual Tuesday night. Some asshole in a furry costume decides they want to fuck shit up, then I try and stop them and they decide they want to fuck me up, and I’m just like, sure, why not break my nose for the tenth time? Come at me, bro. Hit me hard enough and I might not have to pay back my college tuition, you know?” He flashes a pained grin that reopens the split in his puffy, swollen lip. Michelle looks at Gwen, who blinks back with wide, doe eyes, then at Ned, who simply arches a knowing eyebrow.
“Alright,” she acquiesces. “I see your point.”
“Huh?” Peter asks.
Michelle rolls her eyes fondly. “Never mind. Come on, bathroom. Gwen, you still have that apocalypse-grade first aid kit, right?”
“Of course. In the cupboard under the sink.”
“Great.” Michelle hitches Peter’s arm up over he shoulder, mindful of the little grunt of pain he lets out at the stretch, and starts to guide him toward the hall, demons be damned.
“Oh no,” Peter says, looking down at the droplets of blood that plink to the hardwood floor as they move. “Sorry, Gwendy.”
Gwen waves a hand. “My asshole of a landlord is gonna find a reason to keep my security deposit anyways. Might as well give him a legitimate one.”
In the bathroom Michelle helps him peel off the suit to assess the damage. This one doesn’t have a quick release button so involves a lot of sticking (Peter) and swearing and griping (her) and makes her reconsider every sexy fantasy she’s had regarding stripping him down after patrol. Until it’s off, that is, and she’s met with the abs. Just— abs. She should be used to them by now, but never let it be said she’s one to take things for granted, and especially not the perfectly toned planes of her boyfriend’s stomach.
On reflection, maybe she should stop giving Gwen shit for being so horny when alcohol gets involved.
Peter’s torso is covered in bruises right now, though, and accompanied by a pretty gnarly looking gash in his side, which is admittedly quite the mood killer.
“Ugh, yeah, I’m gonna need a new kidney,” he says, grimacing down at the wound as he pinches the edges together. “Sucks. I kinda liked this one.”
Michelle bats his hands away. “You don’t need a new kidney, you need stitches. Up.”
He hops onto the counter with only the slightest of hisses, moving Gwen’s overspilling make-up bag to the side to make space. Michelle, meanwhile, rifles through Gwen’s first aid kit, pulling out sterile wipes, antiseptic, gauze, a curved needle and thin dissolvable thread. Side by side, she lays them on the counter then pulls on the nitrile gloves. When she straightens, Peter is grinning at her with that dorky grin of his, and in doing so he’s managed to split his stupid lip again.
“Have I told you how much I like it when you play nurse?”
Michelle lifts her hand, needle gripped between her thumb and forefinger and glinting silver under the bathroom fluorescents. “I feel the need to inform you I’ve had almost a whole bottle of wine.”
“So it’s nurse Ratched, then.” He shrugs. “Eh, I can work with that.”
There’s a light rap on the door, the click of the handle. “Here.” A pretty, manicured hand appears through the gap in the door, holding a pile of soft clothes. Peter’s of course, washed and dried and smelling faintly of Gwen’s detergent. They’ve all learned over the years to keep a supply in every home. Peter has a habit of crash landing. They can’t do much to help him out on the streets of Manhattan, but whatever safety net they can provide on nights like this, they will. They do.
“Thank you,” Peter calls as the door closes again. He looks to Michelle, who is readying the antiseptic.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Ready.
She works methodically, pushing and pulling the needle through skin in even, neat little lines, only deep enough to hold the wound closed for the couple of hours it’ll take for Peter’s advanced healing factor to take care of the rest. Just the way May showed her to. Just the way she’s been doing for years now. Peter takes it like a champ, only hissing a little when Michelle tugs the thread to tie it off. “Sorry,” she murmurs. He just shakes his head.
With the main injury dealt with, she checks on his lip. The split isn’t deep or wide enough to need stitches, thankfully, but the cut above his eyebrow gets two, much to her sorrow. She hates when it’s anything to do with his face.
“Who was it?” she asks as she wipes the blood from his temple, his chin.
“Mm?” Peter’s head is tipped back against the mirror, his eyes closed as she works. They crack a sliver at her question. “Oh. Rhino. I think Alexei is having a bad day.”
“I think Alexei might want to try therapy instead of throwing my boyfriend around like a ragdoll,” Michelle says dryly.
Peter shrugs. “We’ve all got our issues.”
She’s not happy about it, but never let it be said that Michelle doesn’t know when to push and when to let go. Quietly, she lifts one of his hands, then the other, inspecting the grazed knuckles and dabbing antiseptic where needed. A bandage, and then she steps back, peeling off the gloves and dropping them into the trash. “All done.”
“Yeah? How do I look?”
The bruises are already yellowing at the edges. They should be gone by morning. But for tonight, his skin is going to remain an oil spilled landscape. “You want the truth?”
“Oof, you know how to make a guy feel special.” He catches her hand and pulls her in. She allows it, wrapping her arms around him, feeling his squeeze her in return. Gentle, always gentle with her.
“Hey,” she murmurs, “you okay?”
“Who, me? Always.” Peter leans forward, knocks his forehead into her shoulder.
“You want a shower?” she asks, running a hand down his back.
Against her chest, Peter makes a muffled, noncommittal sound. “Actually, I just kind of want to sleep.”
“You stink,” she advises.
“Hazard of the trade.”
“Johnny never smells.”
Peter pulls back. “That’s because he’s cripplingly vain and burns off anything that isn’t three hundred dollar skincare the second it touches his skin. Cut the rest of us a little slack.”
“At least he knows what hyaluronic acid is,” Michelle says, thumbing the little dry flaky patch between Peter’s brows.
His eyes cross as he focuses on her hand. “Isn’t that what turned Matt into a bat?”
She lets out a laugh and flicks him between the eyes. “You know it’s not.”
He grins, cutting it short when it starts to pull at the scab on his lip again. “Hey, help me with those?” he says, holding an arm out toward the clothes piled on the cabinet.
Once he’s dressed in fresh clothes, the Spider suit stashed in a carrier bag for repairing and cleaning later, they head out back into the living room. Someone has already cleaned the blood from the window, and the smell of fresh popcorn wafts through the air. Gwen and Ned have selected a new Unsolved episode in lieu of the more rom-com style chills Michelle was gunning for, but she finds herself A-okay with that. Something about having someone in the room who can bench press a bus makes everything else just that little bit less scary.
Mindful not to disturb the sheets draped overhead, she helps Peter down into the nest, taking the bowl of fresh popcorn Ned passes her way as she leans back against the armchair. She pulls Peter down in front of her, into the vee of her legs.
“Everything okay?” Gwen asks.
“Peachy,” Peter says as he settles back against Michelle’s chest, “Oh nice, Buzzfeed Unsolved?”
Michelle hums an affirmative, letting her fingers slide into his hair and bury deep. It’s a little sweaty and carries a faint whiff of something that may or may not be river water, and it probably says a lot about her and her stupid heart that she doesn’t mind it in the slightest. Her nails scratch lightly across his scalp, and she feels his responsive sigh of contentment as if it blooms within her own chest.
“The good ones,” Ned adds. “You know, from before Shane and Ryan left.”
“Awesome.”
Ned presses play and they sink into a comfortable quiet, dispelled only by the muted crunching of popcorn or clack of glass being set back onto a table. Michelle feels grounded, here with her friends close by and Peter’s solid weight leaning on her, his warmth, always a couple of degrees higher than her natural temperature, seeping into her skin, his breaths even and slow.
She finds herself focusing less on the screen and more on that steady in and out rhythm, the one that’s somehow become the metronome of her life. Once, that would have been scarier than anything that’s happened tonight, but now – now it feels like safety. Like home.
She thinks Peter has drifted off, and is halfway there herself, but then, against her, a small exhale, a laugh.
“What?” she asks, feeling the corners of her own mouth tick up. A pavlovian response. She can’t even bring herself to be mad about it.
“Nothing, just thinking,” Peter mumbles sleepily. “I’d totally fuck Shane.”
Beside them, Gwen starts to cackle.