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you-guys--are-losers · 3 years

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Secret Santa!

Happy holidays, everyone! I hope you’re staying safe and healthy and that you’re feeling the love this year!

This is my Secret Santa gift for the incredible Jess! I love you, your kind heart, and your persevering spirit. <3 Hope you enjoy, and hope this brings you a smile to start to make up for all the smiles you’ve given me!

@spideychellesecretsanta

Merry Chrysler

Characters: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones, Karen, Mac Gargan as Scorpion

Warnings: Endorsement of vehicular assault, Peter says h*** (!!!!)

Word Count: 4,074

Summary: There are many ways to a man's heart. Why can't running over his rival with a Town and Country be one of them?

“Hey... Karen?”

The words sail from Peter’s mouth into the earpiece, carried there by the velocity with which he ricochets from building to building. Snow stings his face, and no bells ring or holiday crowds babble in the streets. Sirens wail instead, lingering at the edges of his perception as he replaces loose gravel on from a roof with the smooth glass of a corporate building.

The dusk causes a delay, but eyes lock on a figure moving through the streets. It’s hard to follow the emerald glint of his metallic armor, but Peter doesn’t give himself the time to think of losing it. Instead, he fires at the hulking shadow.

“Yes, Peter?” Karen’s voice is pleasant and unruffled, even as Peter’s projectiles find their target and fizzle away, ineffectual.

Even in the patchy fluorescent lighting, Peter sees it laugh. “Wanna tell me why my web fluid is dissolving when it hits him?”

“Of course.” Karen is silent for a few moments as Peter resumes the chase. Wherever Mac Gargan is going, he isn’t being subtle. Maybe he doesn’t care. The disturbance Peter responded to was irrational, reckless. Whatever the unhinged ex-con wants, he doesn’t mind if Peter knows it.

Peter contacted the NYPD, and they helped many civilians evacuate to avoid the path of destruction. Most of the rubble created by the synthetic tail falls into empty streets, though several car alarms wail as the appendage slices a lamp post to ribbons.

“It appears Roxxon has created a synthetic membrane layer which encompasses the updated Scorpion suit. The membrane contains components of the solvent used to dissolve your web fluid, making it-”

“Ineffective. Right.” Peter grits his teeth as he watches the dual strands of webbing he fired experience varying levels of success. One strand winds around the support beam of an archway, holding it stable, while the other sparks and pops into nothing more than steam against the Scorpion’s suit. “Thanks, Karen.” He means it. It’s not her fault the sociopath he’s fighting is well-funded.

“You’re welcome, Peter. On your left.”

The electric air screams at him from his periphery as she speaks, and Peter’s eyes widen as a jagged projectile launches from Scorpion’s tail, shot in his direction. Warnings from both his senses and Karen allow Peter to evade the line of fire. A crack splits the air as the spike embeds itself in the glass of a windowed wall behind him. Lines of fracture lattice the corporate building’s windows before his eyes, and the synthetic weapon at its center is pouring freezing steam even in the winter night. Peter is sure if he touched it, the frosted stinger would burn him.

“Right,” he breathes. There’s no time to let his adrenaline course through him. A few more similar hits could endanger the structural integrity of the building. The streets are clear, but Peter knows such an attack could cause casualties. At least no one is immediately in harm’s way.

“Heat signature and signs of life detected.”

The soft beeping of Karen’s visual technology zooming in does little to hide the stream of expletives from Peter’s lips.

He can see the figure, thanks to the new green tint to his lens. A van crawls in the road beneath him, apparently running exclusively on prayer and clean-living. The form of the heat-signature is a skinny blob making slow, careful progress down the street, moving so slowly Peter did not detect it. It must have escaped Scorpion so far by relying on its pace and the falling snow to mask its movement, and the very same wind which swallowed Peter’s curses hid its motor’s rumble from hero and villain alike.

It’s a little old lady, Peter tells himself. Just someone he can point in the right direction before swinging away. If he’s lucky, it’ll just be a pit stop.

Peter is never lucky.

He swings lower, and the closer he comes to the car, the better he sees the figure. She’s no old lady. Instead, he makes out the face of a woman around his age in her early twenties. Several curls of dark hair are escaping her ponytail, which she impatiently brushes away. Her eyes are deep brown, focused — and as Peter lands next to her car they latch onto him with a grim determination, leaving no room for surprise.

What the hell is she doing? After a few seconds’ examination, Peter can tell she completely understands the situation. So why, why isn’t she running?

Peter gestures for her to lower her window, but he realizes it’s not automatic. Before she finishes cranking it with the handle at her side, Peter is shouting. “Ma’am? Ma’am!”

He risks a glance over his shoulder, looking to see if Mac Gargan’s hulking form is nearby. Without the a bird’s-eye-view, his powers are more distracting than helpful. He doesn’t have time, but he can’t let an innocent get hurt. “I’m gonna need you to get out of the car, ma’am!”

The wind tears away his voice, causing the girl to furrow her brow behind the window. His enhanced hearing allows him to hear her confused response.

“What?”

He shouts as loud as he can. The icy wind chisels his throat raw. “Get to safety!” The car lurches to a halt.

“Things are about to get really, really-“

A sudden gust carries the shifting of rubble to his ears-- close. Peter’s veins flood with electricity, but dread sinks in his stomach. It’s too late. Still, he turns in time to see a pair of vicious, leering eyes covered by membranous goggles. A robotic tail of deep green metal plating sweeps around Mac Gargan, colliding with Peter’s side.

The point digs into his side, opening a shallow cut through his suit before launching him across a street littered with glass. Peter collides with a nearby lamppost, and his head slams into its base.

“-dangerous.” The end of the sentence is a weary moan, not audible to the woman. He’s definitely concussed, though his accelerated healing abilities will make sure it only lasts a few hours. Well, unless he dies.

At the moment, death is a likely possibility. Snow crunches beneath metal-plated feet as Peter struggles to lift his head, forcing himself to stare into eath Scorpion’s eyes through the headache. He flexes his hand as though to activate his webshooters, but the twisted amusement rising in his enemy’s eyes tells him any attempt to fire them is futile.

The tail sways behind the criminal as he strides over to Peter, planting a foot on his ribcage and bringing the tail’s point to his forehead. Its sharpened tip runs down his brow as its commander leans in close enough to reveal puckered flesh around his right eye. His laughter is a wheeze, and the cloud of his breath fans Peter’s face in the frozen air.

He draws back his lips in a smile that bares his teeth. Peter barely breathes to prevent the tip from piercing his skin. He’s sure there’s lab-created, incurable poison on the tip.

“You’ve made some very powerful enemies, Spider-Man,” he rasps, licking his lips. “None as powerful as me, of course. But deep pockets make up for that.”

Peter swallows, managing not to gasp as Scorpion increases the pressure of the armored boot on his chest. “You don’t… Have to do this.”

Both the bloodshot eye and the unmarked one narrow in an instant. A crazed spasm overtakes his face as he leans closer, spittle flecking the transparent, shielded membrane of his mask. “You think I don’t know that?” The point presses deeper into Peter’s skin, so close to breaking it he has to stop breathing. “I’m not like you, kid. I don’t care where the money comes from.” Peter is convinced Mac Gargan will spear his tongue on the tip. The criminal sucks in a breath of freezing air, licking his lips compulsively. He calms himself before he speaks, lifting the point to rest over Peter’s Adam’s apple instead. “Not as long as it gives me what I want.”

Now he can breathe, Peter feels brave enough to toss out one of his carefree quips. “That suit? Pretty expensive mid-life crisis.”

The Scorpion’s eyes narrow as a derisive scoff creates a puff of misted breath. “Revenge.” He draws the end of his tail so it hovers a centimeter from Peter’s eye. The blade at its end whirs in a circular motion.

“And you’d better believe I’m gonna enjoy every-”

“Move!”

The shout comes from behind the Scorpion, causing his body to stiffen. Peter doesn’t think. His body electrifies, and his arm shoots up to grab just below the point of the tail. Everything that follows happens in the space of a few seconds.

Peter puts all his body weight behind that arm, jerking the tail so that the rotating point plunges into the ground next to him. Mac Gargan snarls as Peter hooks his leg behind his enemy’s knee, jerking him to the ground. As the metal suit slams into the snow, Peter rolls to the side. Scorpion scrabbles away from him, trying to pull himself to his feet — until a revving engine drowns it.

The Town and Country plows into Mac Gargan. His tail smacks the windshield and crumples van’s front, but even a high-tech super suit answers to physics. Peter’s opponent is sent flying, landing several feet forward onto the ground with a crunch. Peter’s gasps for breath as the van surges over his enemy, crumpling his armor beneath its weight. Snow crunches as the van slows, pulling up several feet short of Peter.

The driver is the girl with the wild ponytail, eyes wide and lips parted. Her expression is more one of surprise than of horror.

A breathless cry rasps against Peter’s throat. “What the hell?”

His voice jerks her back to the present. The window is cracked, so he has no problem hearing her shout. “You okay?”

The concussion is catching up to Peter; his head is still spinning. “What?”

“Are you good?”

“Yeah, I…”

Before he can finish his thought, Peter detects movement from the other side of her car. Through the space beneath the van, he sees the dented mass of green metal twitch, pulling its limbs from the snowy debris.

“Behind you!”

“What?”

Her eyes widen, locking on the rearview mirror. Peter drags himself to his feet, but her reaction time is much faster. She sets her jaw and jerks the gear shift, slamming the gas in a blur of snow and churning wheels. Bits of freezing slush splatter Peter as her car reverses violently, pulling Gargan’s body beneath it one more time.

The van slides a few precarious inches along the slippery asphalt, brakes whining in protest before it slows. By the time Peter stands, the vehicle has screeched to a halt.

All he can hear is his own breathing and a few cracks of her splintered windshield. Peter’s brain is an icy mess of slush; he is incapable of doing much more than staring at the wild-eyed brunette as his thoughts wobble along the thin ice of his concussed brain.

She takes a moment as well, drawing in a deep, incredulous breath. The stranger focuses on the events that Peter can’t process yet. Her eyes prod at his own impatiently, pressing him to hurry and reboot. “Should I hit him again?”

He blanches. “Huh?”

“Is he gonna get back up?”

“I, uh…” He grasps for her insistent words, using the impatience in her tone as a grappling hook to yank himself from his stupor. “Karen?”

“Scanning for signs of life.” Peter’s mechanical eyes explode with an array of sensors. A list of level measurements scrolls down his right-hand periphery while the technology analyzes the amorphous blob of heat signature visible through her car.

It only takes a handful of seconds before his vision clears again and Karen updates him. “He appears to be breathing, but brain activity points to unconsciousness. There are signs of internal injury. Would you like me to call an ambulance?”

“Um, yes. Yes, please. I… Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” A few chirps, and then Peter’s earpiece is quiet. Instead of allowing himself to sink into the silent haze, Peter fixes his eyes back on the girl in the car.

“Uh, you’re good, ma’am. He’s… He’s unconscious.”

Her face remains unchanged, but Peter doesn’t miss the way her shoulders relax with relief. “Cool.”

Her eyes travel over the dashboard and the destroyed windshield of her car. Peter worries she might try to get up, but after some consideration, she leans back into her seat instead.

She tips her head back, testing her neck. Peter realizes that the impact might have been painful. “Are you okay?”

“Huh?” She pauses in the movement before realizing. Peter finds her expression oddly serene as she nods in understanding, even though she’s sitting in a van with a Scorpion-shaped imprint on the front end. “Oh, yeah. I think I’m good. A little sore, but better than him.”

She studies the side door and twists the crank, attempting to lower the window further so they can hear one another. Peter lets out a huff of incredulous laughter.

“I told you to get out of the car.”

There is a crunch as she turns the handle, then the glass between them shoots down several more inches. She glances at him with a raised eyebrow.

“All things considered, I think you should be glad I didn’t.”

He tips his head to the side. “Yeah.”

Now that she has surveyed the damage to her own car, Peter is next. Her eyes run over his dented suit before she takes in the wreckage in the street behind him. “Are you usually this bad at nabbing supervillains?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Not an answer.”

Peter sighs, running a hand along his sore neck. “Yeah, this isn’t the first time things have gone this way.”

“Huh.”

The vocalization is more contemplative than judgemental. She ponders the lump of supervillain behind her in her rearview mirror. Peter is happy to let her. Something about this girl is oddly compelling, but having his brains shaken loose isn’t super conducive to deep contemplation.

Easy silence lapses over the two of them as she examines Mac Gargan. Snow drifts through the window, settling in the curls of her left temple.

“That suit looks a lot better than my car.”

Peter glances through her back window, nodding in agreement. “Uh, yeah. It’s really durable so most projectiles and bullets won’t work on it.” An interesting thought occurs to him. “I actually think it might have been the impact on his body that conked him out.”

She nods, matter-of-fact. “From my car.”

“Yeah, from your car.”

In the brief pause, Peter and the girl search each other with their gazes. There’s uncertainty in the air, but it’s not unpleasant. It’s about searching for the right question.

Peter finds it. “Why didn’t you get out?”

“Your webs weren’t working.”

His eyes widen. “You saw that?”

“I’m observant,” she replies. She gestures over her shoulder. “Besides, if they were, you would’ve gotten him back there. So I figured you might need backup.”

“From your Town and Country.”

“Vigilantes in Morphsuits can’t be choosers.”

This time his slight laugh is genuine. “Hey, I wasn’t complaining.”

“Hmm.”

Her expression of focus relaxes into a slow, small smile. Peter likes it. Her eyes crinkle at the edges and gleam with a warmth that makes him forget the cold. Her grin is lopsided, sardonic. His concussed inner monologue informs him it fits, and a perfectly straight smile would look wrong on her face. He wants to prompt more of those smiles.

“I was just thinking of replacing my taser webs with a fleet of minivans.”

She laughs this time, but a soft hiss of pain replaces it. Peter watches as she raises her fingertips to her hairline, prodding the skin hidden by several strands of brown. When she pulls them away, they’re red.

Peter sees the outline of a cut. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh.” To her credit, she reacts calmly. She brushes aside the hair, craning her neck to see it in her mirror. “Is it deep?”

“Let me see.” He frowns, striding to the car door. Even through the scent of exhaust and a hint of smoke, he catches a whiff of the lemon air freshener clipped to her vent. He shoves aside the urge to breathe it in and instead moves to lean in, bringing his fingers to her brow. Through the suit, her skin is chilled to the touch as he displaces several twisted locks of dark hair.

Her sharp inhale distracts him from the task at hand, but he refocuses. He pulls away but remains just outside the window. “It looks like it’s just a scratch.” Peter realizes that’s probably not the best thing to say to a person in pain. “Not that it, uh, doesn’t hurt-”

Her eyes gleam with quiet amusement, and the smile returns. It’s a smirk, and now Peter’s chest is warm.

“It’s fine. You should see the other guy.”

“Not funny.”

“Liar.”

He can’t keep his face straight for much longer, though she can’t see his grin through the mask. It doesn’t matter; that self-satisfied curl of her mouth doesn’t look like it’s going away. A few moments of quiet elapse; Peter leans against the car door and surveys the wreckage.

His eyes linger on Mac Gargan’s form. A bitter taste rises to his tongue. Better not to think about semantics. It was self-defense.

That doesn’t mean it feels any better.

Instead of thinking about it, Peter turns his attention to her. “There’s an ambulance coming. I bet the paramedics can take care of it.”

She nods. Her eyes linger on his for a second. “You don’t have to wait. If you don’t want to.”

The dark brown irises send a shiver down his spine. “Huh?”

“I can wait for the paramedics by myself. So they don’t catch you.” There’s a deliberate note in her voice, but Peter also hears a twang of suspicion. His heart skips as he realizes she’s not sure why he’s still here.

“Oh.” All the English he knows has left his brain. It has nothing to do with the concussion. “I, uh, I wasn’t hanging around for them.”

“No?”

“Nah.” Her pointed stare prompts him to continue. The snow drifts down as a thought slaps him in the face. This is his chance.

Peter takes a deep breath, surprised at the spontaneous excitement rising in his chest. She’s waiting. Why not try to flirt with a bruised brain? The concussion thinks it’s a thumbs-up decision. He presses on. “I was actually hanging around for someone else.”

“Yeah?” Her eyes narrow. Yeah, definitely suspicious.

“Yep. I’m waiting for the police.”

The teasing note in his tone releases the tension in her shoulder. She leans back. “Really.” It’s not a question. Peter wonders if the twitch of her lips might be a repressed smile.

“Someone has to report the crazy person who almost hit me with her van.”

He knows immediately that it was the right move. She cocks an eyebrow in challenge, eyes dancing. “I could always give you a fake name. You’d never know.”

“Hey, Karen?” Peter raises Karen’s volume, routing it to project through the minuscule speaker on his reconnaissance drone rather than his earpiece.

“Target identified as Michelle Jones, twenty-three years old. Date of birth June 10, 2001. Resident of Queens-”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay. Point taken.”

“Thanks, Karen.” His voice is breathless. Peter can’t help it. Concussion Brain really wants to talk about how pretty her name is. Like her, even though she’s been in a car wreck. Actually, maybe it’s because she’s been in a car wreck. She pulls it off. Peter never understood the whole “apocalyptic grunge” aesthetic before this, but now-

Karen’s voice is a bucket of cold water to the temple. “Happy to help, Peter.”

“It’s MJ, actually.”

His eyes snap to Michelle, and his “Huh?” is a few seconds late.

Michelle hesitates, uncertain. That’s not the right word; ‘vulnerable’ is better, Peter decides. This is the first time she’s not one hundred percent in control, reacting to an immediate crisis or firing off a one-liner. Now, she’s unsure whether to volunteer the information.

“Only my mom calls me Michelle. My friends call me MJ.”

The mechanical eyes whir as Peter’s eyes light up cheerfully.“So we’re friends now? Nice.”

Is she blushing? It’s really cold, so that’s probably why her cheeks are flushed. But she might be blushing. Now Peter’s blushing a little, and he’s glad for the mask.

“I mean, I hit someone with my car for you,” she mentions. Her fingers fiddle with the sleeve of her jacket, and he grins. “You don’t have a choice at this point.”

“Fine by me.” There’s a beat so that Concussion Brain can examine the implications of her admission. “So if we’re friends... Can I ask you if you wanna see a movie?”

“What?” Her brows shoot up into her hairline. Caution creeps into her expression, but it’s not discomfort.

Peter shrugs, leaning into the whole ‘cool, chill guy’ thing. “I mean, that’s what I do with my friends. I dunno about you.”

Her gaze pierces into him. “You’re messing with me.”

“Maybe I just like girls who are into vehicular manslaughter.”

MJ doesn’t laugh. Instead, she continues to scrutinize him in the silence. Peter doesn’t rush her.

When she finally speaks, he’s glad she didn’t. Her voice is careful and slow, but a grin edges across her lips. “I think the, uh, nanotech might raise a few eyebrows at the ticket check.”

“Who says we’d go to the movie theater?”

“General capitalistic practice. They’re the instrument of the entertainment industry restricting movies so they’re only available with people whose expendable income can go into tickets.”

Peter grins at her fired-off response. He pauses for a moment. “Do you like old movies?”

She hums thoughtfully. “What are your feelings on black comedies?”

“Decidedly for,” he informs her. He glances over more of the information Karen rounded up in her background check, zeroing in on several pages outlining the design of a building.

“Especially if they’re being played on a projector on top of your apartment complex.”

“How do you know we can even access the roof?” she challenges.

Peter thinks he might have crossed a line. His face heats. “Kar- Uh, my suit’s AI pulled up the schematics of the building when she was running an identity check on you.”

A beat of horrible silence passes before she begins to laugh. She’s definitely laughing at him, but Peter can’t bring himself to mind as he exhales in relief.

“You could’ve just told me you could swing up there,” she points out.

“But then I wouldn’t be able to show off how informed I am,” he replies with a sheepish grin.

“You’re a stalker.”

“You hit a man with your car.”

“And I’ll do it again if provoked.”

“I believe you.”

MJ’s eyes brighten as if that is the best compliment he could have bestowed. “I’m free tomorrow night.”

“I’ll be there,” he promises.

She studies him with an inquisitive tip of the head. “No bad guys to catch?”

“I can always bring them with me. Have ‘em operate the popcorn machine,” he says. Her eye-roll is almost better than her smile.

Almost.

Karen’s report scares away the butterflies in his stomach. “Paramedics are one block away. Estimated time of arrival: fifty seconds.”

Suddenly, exhaustion courses through him, along with a small bit of disappointment. He does his best to hide it, even though his voice falls. “I have to go.”

“Wait.” He’s in position to fire his webshooters when a question crashes into him. “Does it really not bother you that I can just pull up the blueprints for your building?”

He turns his head over his shoulder to gauge her reaction. MJ just shrugs. “The average human is caught on camera about seventy times a day. Welcome to the era of mass surveillance.”

“But I could go through your records if I wanted.”

“So could anyone with enough money and connections,” she answers, and Peter knows she’s right. But MJ has one last point to make. “Besides.”

He straightens up a little taller. “Yeah?”

“If you find something I don’t want you to, I’ll just hit you with my car.”

#spideychellesecretsanta #spideychellesecretsanta2k20 #spideychelle secret santa #secret santa #love you jess!#love this beautiful fandom #michelle jones #peter parker #spideychelle #petermj #mj x peter parker #mj x peter #peter x mary jane

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