we could call it even
“And that’s how it was throughout college. When they were both in New York, they would fall into bed, and soon they weren’t just hooking up, they would talk and hang out and it would be like it used to be, but then she would get on a plane and he went back to being the ex she slept with sometimes. When she was at school they barely spoke. They slept with other people. (They didn’t talk about it, but they both knew. Assumed.) They compartmentalized. Peter could only be hers in Queens; over time, as she visited less often, he became less hers. She decided that it was better that way.”
a Peter/MJ fic, feat. the extended friend universe, ignoring most of MCU canon. 1/?
I haven't written for this fandom before, and I haven't posted fic in like 5 years. So be gentle? Treat this first chapter like the pilot - there's potential, but it's gonna get better as the writer's room finds its footing.
I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about these characters.
Heavily inspired by Taylor Swift's 'tis the damn season. among other songs. I have a playlist, so a new other songs might make their influence known eventually.
put there by the ache in me
She can feel the cold seeping through the window as soon as the pilot comes on to announce their final descent. She knows it’s probably bullshit, just a figment of her imagination. These plane windows are heavy duty. The draft she’s feeling as she peers out the window and at the setting sun over the city she once called home – it’s probably got little to do with the temperature outside.
But it’s her first time back in the city since – well. Since the funeral. She hadn’t really had a reason to come back before. Or at least, she had better reasons to avoid it. Plus, living in California had its perks. Friends were more than happy to come to her. And since –
So this is her first time back since the funeral, and sure, she’ll be right back home, staying in her old room in her dad’s old apartment that her sister and nephew now call home, but it’s different, and she’s different.
She braces herself as the plane lands, jerky and loud and unsettling in a way she’ll never fully get over. (There’s a flash of a memory, of a boy with callused hands over hers and a bumpy landing on a different runway in what feels like a different life.) She keeps her headphones in as the flight attendant welcomes them to New York, thanks them for flying Delta, asks them to remain seated if they don’t have a connecting flight to get to. Let those in a rush exit first. Most of her neighbors ignore this, but Michelle stays seated. Switches her phone off airplane mode, watches as the time clicks over and the notifications begin streaming in.
Her sister. Work. Junk email. CNN and the LA Times. Candy Crush.
(hey, hope you have a good flight. I’ll have my stuff out by the time you’re back. Happy holidays.)
She leaves him on read and puts her phone in her pocket, the plane almost empty by now, and gingerly stands up, grabs her bag from the overhead and the coat she’d shoved under the seat in front of her. She smiles and thanks the flight crew as she finally deplanes.
As she steps off and onto the gangway, she feels the chill for real. The crisp smell of the cold and the sharp smell of the city. She takes a deep breath.
