#itsmjcnes

It took Peter far, far too long to pick which suit he wanted to wear. He had.. what, five of them now? May was working on ideas for a special drawer or compartment somewhere in his room where he could keep them all hidden-- which was definitely a practical idea, but he had a feeling she was enjoying the brainstorming process more than he was. 

Anyway, he didn’t need to worry about that right now. Tonight was the 4th of July, and that meant fireworks with Michelle. After finally deciding on a suit ( his stealth one-- because it really was easier to sneak around in, and a small part of him knew that she would have some comment about how ironic it would be if wore blue and red tonight ) he said goodbye to May and left his traditional way-- out his bedroom window.

He swung up to the roof of his apartment building and perched on the edge for a second to send Michelle a text that he was on the way to their meeting point. He didn’t have a problem with texting and swinging. But everyone else did. So he was trying to break the habit-- it was a slow process, but after he sent the text he tucked his phone away with a proud smile before leaping off and away. He was trying, at least.

“spider-man’s name— is peter parker!”

mysterio’s voice echoes in his head after the video ends and peter blinks, pulse racing. everything seems to be moving in slow motion and there’s a crowd forming on the street and his heart is pounding and oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my—

“there he is!” “spider-man!” “traitor!” “murderer!”

his palms are sweaty and his chest hurts and it’s getting really hard to breathe in the mask and he’s almost positive he can hear mj’s voice in the crowd calling out to him, but he’s not one hundred percent positive and the screaming citizens drown her out and - a sharp intake of breath - before peter can divert one ounce of brainpower to thinking of his next move, he’s launching himself away from the chaos— away from the crowd, the yelling, the noise.

Holy shit that had been a long day. One of the longest days ever, he guessed. Peter said that a lot, though. Rough days had a knack for being super long. And Peter had a lot of rough days.

After talking to Amadeus, Peter made sure to text May. She never ended up answering, which meant she was either asleep or on another late shift, but he had told her before that he might not make it home tonight. Even communicating when you’re an Avenger was exhausting. Half the time he’d forgot his phone existed and the other half he’d be too deep in the next mess to be able to answer. The amount of times he had gotten back from a day full of Spidering around only to see that Ned had blown up his phone with freaked out texts-- in all caps-- was starting to get ridiculous. But it just meant that he cared. People knew about his second life and they worried about him. Things could be worse.

This fight was different. Peter had been to space before, so it wasn’t that they all had a giant get together on the moon. That wasn’t getting to him. But that big blast at the end-- it scared the hell out of him. It left him walking through the halls of the Compound in a haze, mind blank but also stuck. His mind kept going over the last big battle with Thanos, over and over and over again. He could hear the explosions as clear as if he were still there. It made him want to hide, throw his arms over his head and duck and cover.

Handling the mutants forced him to concentrate but once that was over it was like his feet were moving without him. He was tired, shaking, worn down and trying to figure out why the heck he couldn’t just focus. On his way home from the compound he texted MJ but before he made it up the last flight of stairs to his apartment he could barely remember what he said to her. Something about going to the moon and wanting to sleep for twenty years. Also something about not wanting to be alone. It was a blur.

Peter got out his keys. Opened the door. Dropped his bag by the couch. Made it to his room. Dug around for some clean clothes. Then stumbled into the bathroom after he picked out an outfit that most likely didn’t match.

He could have been in the shower for five minutes or five hours-- he really wouldn’t have known the difference. His eyes barely stayed open the entire time he was in there. The hot water practically burned his skin off but he couldn’t get warm. It was like his bones had turned to ice, freezing him from the inside out.

Some time later he got out, dried himself off, put on whatever clothes he had brought with him and then exited the bathroom with his hair still dripping wet-- dark soppy curls landing over his eyes. But he couldn’t care less.