Chapter Text
“Where the hell did they go?” Michelle mutters, glancing around her bedroom before her eyes spot a glint of silver in the shallow crack of floor between her nightstand and bed.
She’s already going to be late for the date, but she’d rather make it fashionable than just plain rude if she can manage it. Especially when it’s the first one.
The guy’s name is Harry, and they’ve been flirting by text on and off ever since they met at a journalism postgrad mixer between CUNY and ESU the month before. He’s lanky with dark hair and a mischievous smile, and would be her exact type if he was about four inches shorter. Michelle likes to be the tall one.
Anyway, Harry is cute and nice, but Michelle already has a feeling it’s not going to go anywhere too serious. None of her relationships ever do. She calls it having standards. Ned and Gwen call it being too picky. They’re probably all three right, not that she’d ever admit that to her two best friends.
She doesn’t think Harry will mind her tardiness much, but she will mind and that’s what matters.
Hastily Michelle leans over, grabbing for the keys and tossing them into her purse before heading into the kitchen and finishing off the last of the green tea still left in her mug from hours earlier. She’s mildly annoyed to see the TV in the living room is on—Gwen knows MJ hates when she leaves things like lights or the television on before she heads out for work—but at least she left it on mute. All the better since it’s the news reporting live about some big fight in Greenwich between Spider-Man and two villains, Michelle not even bothering to watch long enough to see who they are.
Thank goodness the date is in Harlem.
She gives herself a look in the mirror by the front door before glancing in her purse. Keys, check. Wallet, check. The small bottle of pepper spray Ned’s lola bought her as a stocking stuffer last Christmas, check.
Her phone is in her dress pocket and she pulls it out to check her weather app. No need for a jacket. Perfect.
“Time to be charming and irresistible, Michelle,” she tells herself with one last glance in the mirror, going to open the door when–
***
“My friends call me MJ.”
***
“You look really pretty.”
“And therefore, I have value?”
“No, that's not what I meant at all.”
“I was just messing with you. … You look pretty, too.”
***
“Were you only watching me because you thought I was Spider-Man?”
“Yeah. Why else would I be watching you?”
“Doesn't matter. Just thought that maybe–”
***
“So I lied. I wasn't just watching you because I thought you were Spider-Man.”
***
“Sorry it's broken.”
"I actually like it better broken.”
***
“What's up?”
“I don't know. I just feel like if you don't—if you expect disappointment, then you can never really get disappointed.”
“Come on. It'll be a fresh start. And, we'll all be together.”
“Yeah, no, you're right. Fresh start.”
***
“I’ll come find you, okay?”
“You better. If you don't, I'm just gonna figure it out. I've done it before, I can do it again.”
“I promise I’ll fix this.”
“I love you.”
“I love—”
“Just wait. Wait and tell me when you see me again.”
***
It’s like some kind of weird magical deja vu washes over Michelle in waves as she relives a million moments from her past, only this time with the truth superimposed, dozens of missing puzzle pieces suddenly slotting into place.
She remembers everything. She remembers Peter.
AcaDec practice. DC. Prague. London. Her bedroom. Midtown’s roof. The Statue of Liberty.
Peter had been there with her at all those places. Peter, the boy she once loved, and who had loved her in return even though she hadn’t let him say it back at the time. Peter, who was supposed to find her and tell her the truth, and only say he loved her then. The boy who promised but who never came through.
Peter Parker, who is Spider-Man.
Her every cell is wired with an electric anticipation, as if the onslaught in her mind is simply too much for one small body to hold.
Why now? Why does she remember now, five years later? Why, unless Peter somehow managed to break the spell? Or maybe it just broke on its own? But how–
The light from her television casts changing colors against the door she’s still leaning against, silhouetting her in shadow.
Oh god. No. No.
Michelle viciously shakes her head, tears already filling her eyes as she brings a hand up to her mouth.
Slowly, carefully, she turns around to face the TV behind her.
Everything outside her is quiet, the device still on mute, but the words painted on the screen could not be louder as she reads the news channel ticker.
Her hand drops from her face, a sound as animalistic as any she’s ever made ripping itself free from her throat.
Michelle’s phone starts to buzz in her other hand and she lets it drop to the floor, her purse on her shoulder limply following suit as she staggers forward, managing to stay on her feet only long enough to get directly in front of the screen before falling to her knees in shock.
SPIDER-MAN KILLED IN MANHATTAN ATTACK
Michelle traces over the letters with a trembling thumb once, then again and again. As if she could wipe them away as easily as she had the tears from Peter’s face, on what ended up being their last day together.
But there’s no erasing these words.
The spell broke because Peter—the boy she once loved—is dead. Michelle hadn’t even remembered she loved him until he had already been gone.
Every look, every kiss, every touch. It’s all back.
Michelle wants nothing more than to forget all over again.
Michelle sits Ned’s lola’s couch, Ned beside her. They’re not speaking, just holding each other’s hands lightly. Ned sniffles every once in a while but Michelle is quiet, all out of tears.
The television is off now but earlier it was on CNN, Anderson Cooper listening intently as Matt Murdock defended Peter Parker, pointing out the many contributions Spider-Man has made in New York City alone, the majority of them after the memory wipe.
“But if he was as good a person as you claim, Mr. Murdock, why did he make us all forget? Why go to that trouble—and I have to think it must have been quite the trouble—to erase the memories of the entire world, months after his name was cleared?” Anderson had eventually asked. That’s when lola had shut it off, saying something in Tagalog about this being a time for mourning, not dishonoring the dead, and disappearing into the kitchen to make sandwiches.
With the television off, Michelle can hear where Gwen is tucked away in one of the bedrooms with Michelle’s phone, yelling at some asshole from the Bugle to lose this fucking number or I will personally maim you .
Michelle’s lips turn up grimly, a mockery of a smile. And to think she had planned to apply for a job there following the completion of her Master’s. If she ever meets J. Jonah Jameson in person now, well—Michelle thinks she shouldn’t be held liable for whatever happens next.
It’s only been a few hours since Peter died, but it didn’t even take that long for the media to figure out what building near the CUNY campus Michelle Jones-Watson lives in. Gwen had thankfully gotten there before any of them could get inside, hugging Michelle fiercely and making a genuine offer to smuggle Michelle out in one of her trunks. In the end they had simply snuck out a side alley door, only getting spotted by a few reporters before managing to speed away in Gwen’s old Civic.
Which is how, eventually, they had ended up at lola’s, a place everyone feels pretty confident the media won’t think to come to, at least not right away.
If only it was as easy to run from the gaping hole in her chest. But no, Michelle will have to sit with this hurt for the rest of her life.
Why, Peter? Why didn’t you find me? she thinks, only to shudder at the ensuing silence.
It won’t just be the hurt she’ll have to sit with, it’ll be that and the unanswered questions. For someone as observant as Michelle, someone who needs to know and speak the truth like others need water or air, it feels like a lifelong prison sentence.
She’ll never know why Peter didn’t find her, or Ned. She’ll never understand why he broke his promise. Every conclusion she’ll ever come to will only be educated guesses at best, because the person who has the answers is gone, and this time they’re not coming back.
She’s brought back to the present when Ned squeezes her hand a little, Michelle turning to look at him, her own eyes turning watery once more when she sees how red and weary Ned’s are.
“Do you,” Ned starts to whisper, clearing his throat when his voice gets stuck, “do you think he knew? That if he died, that we would…”
Michelle slowly, somberly shakes her head, before leaning it on Ned’s shoulder and squeezing his hand tightly, Ned squeezing just as hard back.
“No, Ned. I don’t,” she says, closing her eyes before she can start crying again. “I don’t think he ever meant for us to know at all.”
The joint visitation and funeral is a small and fairly informal affair, not having been widely advertised for fear of paparazzi showing up.
Happy Hogan had made most of the arrangements, though Michelle knows Ned had helped a lot with everything personal to Peter. Both of them had made it clear that Michelle was more than welcome to be involved too, but she had declined, not ready to make decisions on things like flowers or what should be on the headstone when she could barely make sense of how she felt toward Peter or what he did in the first place.
She knows the time is coming when Ned or Gwen or both of them will try to force it out of her, but for now they let her keep things bottled up, for which she’s grateful. It’s not something she can easily articulate to herself right now much less say aloud to someone else.
Because underneath all the sadness and grief, Michelle can feel a far more monstrous emotion only just beginning to emerge: anger.
For the time being though, her ire is directed mostly at Stephen Strange, who is conspicuously not present—Wong looking rather irritated himself as he steps through a portal.
“Stephen is unfortunately otherwise engaged,” he says when Michelle and Ned crane their necks past him, clearly waiting for Strange to appear. “He sends his condolences.”
“He’s being a coward, you mean,” Michelle says plainly, Wong grimacing but not refuting the accusation. She doesn’t press the matter. It’s not Wong she’s mad at, after all. Instead she nudges Ned. “Well, tell him.”
Ned looks sheepish for a second, before starting in on an awkward explanation of the magic he’d been able to perform when everything had gone to shit, the portals he had made and how he’d found the other Peters. Feeling confident Ned will be alright by himself for now, Michelle leaves them to it, looking around for a moment before slowly making her way toward the small visitation room with the open casket—only to be stopped by Gwen, who gives her a gentle hug.
“You want me to go with you?”
Michelle shakes her head. “No, I need to do this by myself. Say… say goodbye.”
Gwen nods, hugging her once more before drifting back into the crowd while Michelle goes inside.
The small viewing room is empty but for Matt Murdock, who appears to be peering directly at Peter’s face even though Michelle knows that’s not possible. He steps away as Michelle gets closer, saying nothing but tossing a silent, somber nod in Michelle’s direction as they pass.
There’s a deeper connection there of some kind, something Michelle can sense Murdock knows beyond what she’s seen him say on television or during their few interactions before the spell, but Michelle is too preoccupied to follow up on it—something seizing in her and causing time to stop everywhere but in this small, quiet room as she finds herself at Peter’s side for the first time in years.
He looks like she remembers, maybe a little older and a little more filled out but still with the same haircut, and the same small nose, and the same distinct jaw. He’s dressed in a simple, tasteful black suit and while he clearly has make-up on, whoever did the work did a good job, none of the bruises or cuts Michelle knows he sustained right before his death visible even to her observant eye.
All things considered, Peter looks peaceful.
He also looks deeply, inescapably alone.
Just like she feels now.
Michelle knows it’s an irrational thought, but she's suddenly filled with the urge to climb in the casket, wrap herself around Peter and close the door tight. They’d still be alone, both of them, but at least they’d be together alone, instead of Michelle being stuck in this new reality she has no choice but to find a way to survive in now.
She has no choice, because Peter didn’t give her one—Michelle almost turning away with the fierce swell of furious despair that flares up in her at the thought.
But even with her hurt, and her anger, and her confusion… she still can’t leave Peter like this. Maybe that was the choice he made, and the one he took from her, but now for the first time ever, it’s in her power to do something about it—to make things a little more bearable for them both, even if they will forever be apart.
She’s unclasping the pendant from around her neck before she knows it, the same one she’s barely taken off for years even though she hadn’t known why until a week ago.
Michelle lets it dangle in front of her for a few moments, watching the way the muted light from the curtained windows hits the jagged edges just so. Then she reaches out with her free hand and turns over one of Peter’s chilled own, letting the necklace pool into his palm before tightening his fingers over it and gently turning it to rest once more on his chest.
After one long, last look, she makes herself walk away.
It’s only later, as Michelle’s watching the casket be lowered into the grave next to May’s, that she realizes she never did say goodbye.