friendly neighbor | michael jackson
spider-man! michael jackson x f! neighbor reader
you’re new to the big apple— the last thing you had expected was for your new neighbor to be so friendly, always hearing horror stories about how rude new yorkers were… oh, and you were pretty sure he was a super hero
cw/tw: spider-man au, fluff, 1980s, neighbors, angst if you squint, insecurities, bad communication, mdni/suggestive themes if you squint
wc: 6.2k
Spider-man lived in the building.
This wasn't some wild conclusion you were jumping to. Not some crazed delusion of a woman who lived in a high rise apartment in New York City. It took months before you were sure that yes, Spider-Man was indeed your neighbor.
Not only that.
Spider-Man was Michael Jackson.
Part of the reason it took you so long to accept this is because it simply didn't seem feasible. Michael Jackson? Slouched over, shy, ridiculously goofy Michael Jackson?
To be fair, you didn't know him very well. You were cordial, as neighbors go. You two had completely different lifestyles. He worked as a journalist for the Daily Bugle, (something you were only aware of because you’d see his articles in the papers), and you worked from home doing data analytics. You assumed his profession was the reason for his odd hours of arrival. You could hear him leaving or arriving at sporadic times. The walls were thin. And even then, he was hardly ever home for long. Half of the time you weren’t even sure if he slept there.
Meanwhile, you were always curled up at your desk. Blanket wrapped around you and some movie playing in the background for noise. Your eyes hurt from hours of looking at numbers. Your cat the only one to keep you company as it brushed along your legs or hopped up on your desk.
It wasn't abnormal to see Spider-Man swinging past.
Most of the time you just ignored it. Your eyes caught on the blur of blue and red for a moment before returning to your work, nursing a cup of coffee as you did so.
Everyone in the city was used to seeing him now.
As long as the threat was a few blocks away, you didn't care all that much. What were you supposed to do?
You remembered the first time you had met Michael.
You were moving in, pushing a box with your full body weight through the door because if you tried to pick it up you knew you’d injure yourself. You barely heard the door a few feet down the hall open before a polite voice rang out.
"Would you like help with that?"
"Yes, please." You sighed before looking up. Not caring who it was, exhausted.
But when he neared, your eyes danced up. Christ, you remembered how jarring it was when you realized he was tall. Like, properly tall. His lithe build stretching him in a way that felt imposing, but not intimidating.
He smiled at you, all charm and dimples. Dark curly hair a mess and reading glasses perched on his nose. He was wearing an M.I.T. crewneck and jeans, followed by a pair of mix matched socks.
You felt ridiculous for being speechless. Staring at him with lips parted. Watching blankly as he bent down and picked up the box like it was nothing.
He gestured for you to go first and you felt like you were walking for the first time as you stepped into your apartment.
Boxes were everywhere. Stacked in tilting towers with unintelligible scrawl written in sharpie to label what was what.
"Where do you want it?" He asked.
You blinked again like a deer caught in headlights. Speak, you idiot. "Um, on the counter is fine."
He set it down, his eyes catching on the content inside and he smiled. "You like to read, I take it?"
You shrugged, not knowing why you were blushing. "Most of these boxes are books, if I'm honest."
He laughed, the sound easy and warm at the edges.
"Thanks—“
"I can help move the other boxes in?"
Biting the inside of your cheek, you considered him. Your new neighbor. Your kind, wickedly charming new neighbor. And the thought of having to move the rest of the boxes alone was exhausting. Not to mention putting furniture together, but you’d get to that later.
"I really appreciate it, thank you."
He held out his hand. "I'm Michael."
You looked at his outstretched palm a moment before shaking it. His skin warm and calloused. Larger than yours.
When you said your name and he repeated it back to you, as if committing it to memory, you did your best to ignore the butterflies going on a rampage inside your stomach.
That was nearly a year ago.
There were moments in between.
Muttered hello's in the hall or sometimes a goodnight.
When Michael had come over to help fix the sink because he was far more reliable than building maintenance. And of course he just knew how to do that.
He had also come over to help you build a new bookshelf you had got. Really, you could've done it yourself. In fact, you tried to. You were in the middle of such an attempt when you dropped one of the shelves with a loud bang and not five seconds later was there a knock on the door.
The first time you saw one of his articles in the Daily Bugle, you stopped him in the hallway. "I didn't know you were a journalist. And a photographer, it’s impressive.”
He shrugged a shoulder sheepishly, his hair still damp from a shower.
The one week you went home to visit your parents and he'd offered to watch your cat. When you got back from that trip, you laughed but were a little offended that your pet didn't want to let go of him. Your cat had a habit now of bumping headfirst into Michael’s leg, asking for pets.
You once set off your fire alarm while baking some cookies and Michael had practically bulldozed through the door. It had been a few months at that point and you didn't think to ask for your spare key back from him when he'd watched your cat– part of you didn't mind. You trusted him, ignoring how you might’ve just been being naive.
Michael Jackson smelt like fresh laundry and a hint of cedar. A little bit like cinnamon too, you noticed. Probably because you often saw him chewing Big Red gum. It hit you like a punch to the gut when you were in the elevator together. You were hardly ever this close or in such a small space. He had smiled down at you, muttering a Morning with a hint of a rasp to it. You blinked down dumbly at the stick of gum he was offering you. Your fingers brushed as you took hold of it.
The first time you noticed something odd, it was a late night of you working on a deadline. Probably well around two in the morning, when something out of the corner of your eye caught your attention. Blue and red. You were about to dismiss it like always but... he wasn't swinging by like you were used to.
You watched in bated breath as Spider-Man approached the building, at level with your floor. Closer and closer and... why was he now perched on the fire escape outside of Michael’s apartment?
He disappeared from your view as he neared the window and not a moment later you heard some movement on Michael’s side of the wall.
You knew he was one of the few and rare, if not only, journalists Spider-Man gave the time of day. When you’d tried to ask him about it he shrugged, like always. Blushing when you mentioned how impressive that was and how good of a journalist he had to be if Spider-Man was giving such exclusive interviews.
Not wanting to intrude despite your curiosity, you turned up the volume of the movie you had playing.
The first time you ever saw Michael look dumbstruck was on Halloween. You had gone out with some of your friends to a bar, and not having anything to really wear for the festivities, you bought a Spider-Man t-shirt from a small corner shop. It wasn't anything crazy. The cotton was bright red and had the infamous spider ironed onto the front. The rest of your outfit was lazy, you could admit that.
You were dancing on the edges of intoxication as you made your way down the hall, digging blindly in your purse for your keys when you heard a door open and shut.
"Happy Halloween– oh."
You looked up, your head spinning a bit with the action and it took your eyes a moment to adjust.
"Hi, Michael." You beamed, the alcohol giving you a little confidence boost.
You weren't sure if you were seeing things right but it looked like he was blushing as he looked at your shirt.
Looking down at it, one finger traced the logo. "You like it? I know you and Spider-Man are buddy-buddy and all that. I couldn't think of a costume to wear. Though to be fair, this isn't much of a costume. I just look like a groupie." You rambled.
At his silence, you looked back up. He was definitely blushing.
"You alright, Mikey?"
He blinked, your drunken nickname for him seeming to snap him out of whatever trance he was in. "Mikey?"
You nodded once. Like it was obvious. "Yeah, rolls off the tongue."
Michael smiled at you, his dimples devastating.
"I like the shirt." He muttered as he walked past you and towards the elevator.
Barely a week later you saw Spider-Man swing into Michael's apartment again.
You didn't put much thought to it.
Till it happened again a few days later.
You looked at your cat as if to ask, you saw that too, right?
Paying more attention to your view out the windows now, you took note of a few things. One, it wasn't every night. Two, you never actually heard Spider-Man and Michael talking. Three, Michael’s apartment was strangely silent up until Spider-Man entered.
The thought that they were the same person entered your mind suddenly, but briefly.
It can't be.
One cold morning as snow began to fall on the city, you were just returning from a coffee run when Michael was leaving for work.
His suit jacket was a little on the baggy side but his white button-down fit him snugly underneath. His hair was still damp and his glasses were sitting a bit crooked on his nose. He slung his bag over his shoulder when he looked up and spotted you, that easy smile tugging the corners of his lips up.
"Morning—“
"Why does Spider-Man come into your apartment so often?" Your head tilted to the side innocently as you asked the question. Taking note of the flicker of shock that rippled over his face.
"I- what?" He still had one hand on his doorhandle, looking at you as if you just smacked him.
"Spider-Man. I see him going into your place sometimes."
His lips parted, looking as though he was about to say something but he apparently couldn't think of anything.
"Are you like, together?" It was honestly one of the only things you could think of.
"Together?" He balked, followed by a laugh. "No, we're not–"
You shrugged. "I was just curious. He seems to favourite you is all. And like, come on, your apartment?" To be fair, you felt like you would definitely hear Spider-Man if they were–
"He meets for interviews." Michael said, cutting off your train of thought. "He couldn't come to the Daily Bugle, all the journalists there would want an interview with him."
You smiled and shrugged again. "Just curious." It was clear he didn't want to tell you, but who were you to pry? "Have a good day at work, Michael." With that you handed him the other coffee cup you bought (you knew he preferred tea) and disappeared behind your door, memorizing his dumbfounded look to keep in your mind.
The first time you ran into him outside of the apartment building, it was like a shock to the nerves. Michael must've been on his lunch break as he turned around and you ran directly into his chest. Your drink spilled over both of you.
The whiplash from the situation made you speechless as Michael grabbed hold of your waist to steady you, an apology stumbling from his mouth before he realized who you were.
You blinked up at him, dazed.
"Sorry, sweetheart."
Well, you definitely weren’t going to be able to function if he was calling you that.
"Your coat," was all you managed to get out. Forcing yourself to look away from his face, which was blushed from the cold and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck. His wool coat now had coffee soaked into it. "I'm sorry, Michael. I didn't–"
"It's alright," his hands were still resting on your waist. Large, warm even through your own coat. He looked painfully romantic with snow catching in his curls and his dark eyes glinted behind his glasses. "Let's get you somewhere warm."
You hadn't even realized you were shivering, and you knew it wasn't from the cold.
Your heart raced as he led you down the block, the Daily Bugle standing tall and daunting.
The moment you stepped inside, warm air brushed against your face and you felt like you could breathe again as you followed Michael through the lobby. Watching him as he flashed his badge before taking you to the elevator.
"Where are we going?" You asked eventually.
"I'm going to wash the coffee out of our clothes and you're going to eat something."
You turned to look at him. "I'm not–"
"Have you eaten today?"
You pursed your lips, the answer clear. How did he even know that?
He led you to his desk, which was cluttered but organized and after taking your coat, he left to get you something from the vending machine. You sat there motionless. Your eyes danced around the newsroom and the chaos of it. Everyone seemed to be moving. Hands flying over typewriters. Arguments over phones. People running to and from printers. TV's mounted on walls, each playing a different news channel.
You knew an office environment wasn't for you. You loved working from home. You could set your pace, your own volume. You liked being in your own space. Then again, if you did work in an office you’d probably have better social skills. You had two friends you talked to on a semi-regular basis and...Michael. Whatever he was. Your neighbor.
As if summoned, he approached, now coatless, and his blazer fit him a little loose. You didn't know why he bought clothes too big for him. It made him look smaller than he was. You remembered the first time you saw him in a t-shirt as he took the trash out, not quite sure if you were drooling at the sight of his arms.
"I got you an egg sandwich and those spicy chips you like." He also set a water cup down next to your makeshift lunch.
"How'd you know I like those?" He seemed to know everything.
"How'd you know I like tea?" He asked in return, smiling knowingly at you.
It was your turn to blush, but at this point it seemed like a permanent state. "I just pay attention is all," you muttered as you took the top slice of bread off and layered up some chips. You liked making your sandwiches have a crunch.
You ignored the way Michael was looking at you.
"Michael?” Someone said and you both turned.
The woman was stunning and she leaned back in her chair, "who's this?"
"Oh, Betty, this is my neighbor." He scratched the back of his neck as he said your name and the woman, now known as Betty, smirked.
"Oh, this is the girl?"
Your brows furrowed as you looked between Betty and Michael. “What?"
"Betty–"
"He talks about you. Often." She rolled her chair over, ignoring the helpless look Michael was now wearing and held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you."
You shook it, sure your face was now melting in embarrassment. "It's nice to meet you, too."
When Michael walked you outside to get a cab, you couldn't help it as you grinned up at him. A little bashful. "You talk about me?" Before he could get a word out, you added, "often?"
He shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. "Not that often. I really talk about your cat."
"Ah." You mused. Why can't you stop smiling?
When you got in the cab, Michael held the door open for you and handed you some cash, despite your protests.
"I'll see you at home– later. I'll see you later." He corrected before shutting the door. As the cab drove off, you saw him shaking his head at himself before going back inside.
Home.
Despite the slip-up, he meant it.
The hour was late, but there was a knock on your door and you opened it to find Michael standing there with your now clean coat and a bag of take-out. He smiled at you, lopsided and shy. "Can I come in?"
It didn't mean anything.
You knew that.
He was just being nice. Neighborly.
The next time you saw Spider-Man crawl into Michael’s apartment, you thought to call him. Only to then realize you didn't have his number.
You remembered the time you first met Spider-Man.
You had just left the vet, your cat in your arms as you tried to call for a cab when a nearby explosion knocked you off your feet.
It was bound to happen, living in New York. You were bound to be caught in the crossfire eventually. You shouldn't be shocked, but you were. You had the naïve thought of that could never happen to me. Of course everyone thinks that, until it's their lucky day.
The pavement was sure to leave bruises on your back and your cat's claws dug into your skin from the fright. You barely saw the figures flying past in the sky, a blur in your dazed vision.
You groaned, getting up to your feet and your ears rang but you told yourself you had to move. People were running, so you assumed wherever the danger was, was coming from the opposite direction.
Your apartment was across town and you knew a cab right now would be impossible.
You just had to– there was another ear shattering bang and you screamed, clutching your cat closer but before you could feel any shrapnel tear into you, you were suddenly yanked off the ground. For the briefest of moments, you thought you were dead.
But wind was ripping past your ears and you were being held tightly against something. Someone. Gravity coming and going, your stomach dropping on a loop that made you a little nauseous.
Cedar greeted your nose but before you could even linger on the thought, pain tore into your arms as your cat continued to claw at you.
What must've only been seconds passed before the wind stopped roaring and you were set gently down on something soft and plush. A couch probably, but your eyes were still screwed shut.
You thought you heard your name, but your ears were ringing loudly.
Someone gently rested gloved hands against your face. The fabric durable but with a hint of softness. A voice eventually reached your ears as your hearing cleared.
"You okay?"
You forced your eyes open, your shock from what had happened nearly doubling as you realized Spider-Man was kneeling in front of you. Dirt covered part of his mask, his concern obvious even through the disguise as his head tilted down.
"You're bleeding–"
"My cat." You offered numbly.
Looking down, your pet was shaking but was slowly calming down, nudging its head against Spider-Man’s side.
Weird, your cat only ever did that with Michael.
Your eyes flicked up. He was still cradling your face and you were trying to come to terms with the fact you were this close to Spider-Man. Your head was hurting as you tried to take note of how familiar he sounded, but you couldn't place it.
"There's a first aid kit under the sink, I gotta go. Will you be alright?"
"I..." you sucked in a breath as his thumb gently scraped against your skin beneath your eye. "Yeah, I'm fine."
He nodded, appearing to hesitate a moment before he stood. He scratched your cat behind the ears once before walking to the window and stepping out onto the fire escape, jumping off of it a moment later as a web shot out.
After your breathing finally calmed down and your cat hopped off your lap, you walked to the kitchen and looked in the cupboard. Just like Spider-Man said, there was a first aid kit.
You looked down at your arms, grimacing at the deep cuts but you couldn't find it in your heart to be mad.
Taking your time cleaning them and wrapping gauze around your arms, you let herself look around the space you were in. It was clean. Neat. There was a bookshelf on one wall that looked overfilled, but it added some character to the familiarity of the layout.
It took you an embarrassingly long time to realize you were in Michael’s apartment.
Your brain short circuited when it dawned on you.
Why did he take you to Michael’s? Did he know you lived next door?
The thought that Spider-Man was Michael Jackson crossed your mind again.
But it just couldn't be.
You didn't mean to, you really didn't.
You had fallen asleep on Michael’s couch. Your knees pulled up to your chest, curled in on yourself as usual. You grew up having to share a bed so your body tried to take up as little space as possible on instinct.
When you felt something drape over you, your eyes slowly opened. Taking a moment to adjust to the low lighting. It was night time now and Michael was kneeling in front of you.
He smiled a bit. "Breaking and entering?"
Your eyes looked to the blanket he'd given you. "Doesn't seem like you mind."
He laughed quietly before reaching down to pet your cat, who was nudging its head against his leg.
"I think my cat has a type," you muttered, watching in amusement.
"What do you mean?"
"Tall, dark and handsome."
His smile deepened to a grin as he looked at you, his dimples painfully beautiful.
"Handsome?"
You rolled your eyes as you sat up. "Don't flatter yourself, my cat was all over Spider-Man, too."
Michael hummed, looking like he wanted to tell you something but decided against it. "He brought you here?"
You nodded, toying with the frayed edges of the gauze wrapped around your arms.
"You okay?" He gently took hold of your hands, his fingers trailing over the tops of your own.
You were a little breathless, being so close to him. The sight of him kneeling in front of you was overwhelming.
"It stings a little, but I'm fine."
He sighed, looking slightly angry which you weren’t used to seeing. "I'm sorry this happened to you."
"It's not your fault. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
His jaw clenched, brown eyes looking darker behind his glasses.
"I should've–"
"Michael," your own hand came up and gently took hold of his chin, directing his eyes up to you. "I'm okay."
Eventually he nodded, seeming to lean into your touch but you tried not to dwell on it. It didn't mean anything.
He stood up and started to walk to his kitchen and you tried not to let the disappoint at the sudden distance show on your face.
"You need to eat something."
And then he made you dinner. Pasta. Something quick. He sat down next to you on the couch and put on a movie you loved.
"How did you..."
All he did was smile at you.
It didn't mean anything.
You were just friends. Neighbors.
You woke up the next morning in his bed. Your heart stuttered at even the mere flicker of possibility but you knew nothing happened.
You were curled up in a ball again beneath his comforter. The smell of cedar engulfing you and your cat was curled up next to you. Michael nowhere to be seen.
Sitting up on your elbows, you looked around. The comforter was a deep blue and his sheets white cotton. He had some articles from the newspaper framed on his wall, as well as some pictures you could only assume were with his relatives.
Some clothes were tossed on a nearby chair. You recognized his M.I.T. crewneck among the pile. Looking to the nightstand beside you, you saw a sticky note and a key.
Picking it up with nimble fingers, you took in the slight slant of Michael’s handwriting.
Figured you needed some rest. I left for work but here's a spare key to my place. I figured it's only fair since I still have yours. Here's my work phone if you need anything. And my home number for future use.
He also drew a little smiley face at the bottom and you felt your stomach churn.
You liked him. You really, really liked him.
You were so screwed.
You never called him. Ever.
What were you supposed to say? Any time your hand itched to tell him something funny that had happened, you’d pause, wondering what the point was. He wasn't interested. He'd likely reply to you with polite interest but why would he care?
Your life, besides Spider-Man swinging by now and again, was painfully uninteresting.
Michael probably talked to fascinating people all the time as a journalist. People doing remarkable things with their lives. Meanwhile you were just... there. Sitting at your desk, looking over data, and sobbing at some rom-com you stupidly decided to watch to stave off your own loneliness.
No, there was no point in calling him.
Michael was just your neighbor.
You didn't see him for a while.
Okay, maybe you were avoiding him. It didn't seem like he noticed, why would he?
One morning you had waited till you heard him leave for work before deciding to go get your mail downstairs. You barely made it into the hall before you paused, hearing a woman with a slight midwestern accent mutter something to herself close by.
Close by meaning a few feet away. You blinked at the older woman.
It took you a moment to realize she was the woman in most of the pictures Michael had hung up.
"Hi, do you need help?" You said before you could think better of it.
"Yes, actually." The woman said, half-heartedly glaring at the door. "I’m here to visit my nephew and he said he left his key under the mat but it's simply not there."
"Oh, that's no problem. I have a key."
Michael’s aunt blinked. "You do?"
You blushed so hard you thought your face would catch on fire. "For...emergencies."
A few more days passed before you fortunately but unfortunately got stuck in the elevator with Michael.
The space was silent for a few moments, your smile tight and awkward as you greeted him.
"So, I met your aunt–"
"Are you avoiding me?"
You stared at each other for a moment and you prayed he'd talk first.
As if taking pity on you, he relented and nodded. "I know, she told me. Said you were really sweet.”
You hummed. Not wanting to answer his question but of course he asked you again, but different.
"Why are you avoiding me?"
"I'm not avoiding you, I'm just...busy."
He raised a brow at you. "You're busy?"
"Yes," you stuck your chin up a bit. "I do work, you know. I don't just rot in my apartment all day."
Michael’s eyes narrowed, only a little bit. Looking hurt more than annoyed and guilt chewed at your insides as he left the elevator without a word.
Later that night you didn't see Spider-Man arriving at Michael’s place, but leaving it.
You weren’t thinking. Not properly, at least.
Not thinking at all as you took hold of Michael’s spare key and walked next door. Not thinking at all as you unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The door shut softly behind you and you listened for any sign of life.
"Michael?” You called out.
Nothing.
You walked to his bedroom and took note of his clothes that he had been wearing earlier were thrown in a pile on his bed.
Walking down the hall, you knocked on the bathroom door before trying the handle. Empty.
You let out a breath of disbelief.
Later that night, much later, the clock on the oven said it was nearing four in the morning, you saw Spider-Man swing onto the fire escape before stepping back into the apartment next door through the window.
Biting at the inside of your cheek, you debated for a moment. If you confronted him, you doubted he'd tell you. Why would he?
Your eyes glanced at the newspaper that was flipped to a page with an article Michael had written about Spider-Man. You had been staring at the article for hours. Picking apart the diction and thinking about his voice until you felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner.
You thought about leaving him a voicemail while he was out and about.
I know who you are.
No, that was too ominous. Dramatic. You didn't necessarily care that he was a super hero. Didn't care that he was Spider-Man. Yes, it was baffling. Looks aside, Michael was just so... gentle. In every sense of the word. It was hard to imagine Michael punching people through buildings and shooting webs from his wrists as he swung through the city. Hard to imagine him catching cars and throwing criminals up in the air like it was nothing.
No wonder he wasn't interested. It was negative to think, but you told yourself it was simply pragmatic. What would a hero want with a person like you? So painfully not extraordinary. Not interesting. Not anything.
You were just his neighbor. A person on the blurry outlines of his secret identity. Sure, he still cared on the basic level of simple common decency. You didn't think he was faking anything. It wasn't fake kindness. It just... didn't mean anything.
It didn't mean what your hopeless romantic self wanted it to mean.
You sighed, rubbing at your eyes. Why even tell him that you knew? What would be the point?
You froze.
What if you ruined everything if you told him you knew? Would he have to move? Get a new job? Would he be angry with you? What if he thought you were in danger? What if you were? So many people were after Spider-Man’s actual identity, what if someone powerful found out and went after you? No, that would be dumb. Egotistical, even. Who were you? You hardly ever left your apartment. Why would you be important enough to even pique the interest of—
There was a single knock on your door.
With stiff limbs, you got up from the couch and walked to the door, not bothering to look into the peephole. Who else would it be?
Taking a breath as your hand landed on the doorknob, you willed yourself to open it, blinking against the bright light of the hall.
As anticipated, it was Michael.
Standing there in his college crewneck with a pair of sweats on and... "You own slippers?" You asked.
He blinked at you. It was probably the last thing he was expecting you to say. "Yes?" He looked down at them, they were simple. Black.
You finally looked up at him and you realized he wasn't wearing his glasses.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you considered him. It was nearing five. "What are you doing here, Michael?”
"I need to tell you something."
You raised a brow at him, though not at his request, it was his expression. "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. But I just, I need... I've been waiting to tell you but I just haven't—“
Without thinking, you took hold of his arm, gently tugging him inside. You’d never heard him struggle to say something before. Not knowing what words to use. "Take a seat," you said once you shut the door, gesturing vaguely behind you as you walked into the kitchen.
You opened the cabinet and grabbed a mug, followed by filling a kettle with some water before setting it on the stove. You ripped open the box of new tea you had bought a few weeks ago. You didn't know why you did, you just... did.
After a few minutes it was ready and you padded into the living room, taking note of how he was sitting. Leaned forward with elbows on his knees, his chin perched on his hands. Looking deep in thought. Debating. You had a strong inkling you knew what this was about.
He still wasn't sure if he should tell you.
You came to a stop in front of him and handed him the mug. It was a little chipped and had a landscape painting of Bar Harbor on it. You loved it there. Once you were done with, well, everything you supposed, you wanted to move there.
Michael looked at your outstretched hand for a moment. His eyes taking in the mug and the steam billowing from the top. "You made me tea?”
You shrugged, repressing a shiver as he took the ceramic from you and your hands brushed.
Clearing your throat, you sat down next to him. "What's on your mind, Mikey?"
That got him to smile, at least a little bit.
He took a sip of his drink, humming in content as the subtle sweetness hit his tongue. "I'm not really sure how to go about this."
You bit at your lip, looking down at your hands as you twisted them. You didn't want to stress him out. It was probably the last thing he needed. Spider-Man shouldn't have to be pacing back and forth wondering how his neighbor is going to deal with the fact of him being a super hero. To some, a masked vigilante.
"Listen, Michael.” You said as evenly as you were able. Not wanting to look at him despite feeling his eyes watching you intently. At that moment, you wished you would've made your own cup of tea even though you preferred coffee.
"I," you wrung your hands so hard it nearly hurt. "I know."
"You... you know?" He echoed quietly.
You still couldn't look at him. "Yeah, I know. So you don't have to worry or anything. You don't have to tell me. I know."
When he said your name lowly, your body practically jumped into flight mode. Standing up and an excuse about the bathroom was about to leave your lips when his hand caught hold of your wrists. Firm but gentle. If you wanted to break away from him you could. He was giving you the opportunity to leave if you wanted.
Instead you stood still. Your brain not quite comprehending he was touching you again. God, were you really that touch starved?
Michael stood himself, tugging at your hand to turn you around. A small sigh left him when he noticed you were looking pointedly at your feet.
Your heart leapt when his fingers gently took hold of your chin and tilted your face up. Your eyes met his with what felt like a jolt of electricity.
You couldn't read his expression. Couldn't if you tried, if you were to be honest. Everything about him was a puzzle you hadn’t figured out yet.
"Why would I worry?" He asked. Voice quiet and dancing between you, his breath warm against your face.
"You seemed worried."
"I didn't want you to hate me."
Your brows furrowed. "Why would I hate you?"
He shrugged. "I can never tell with you. Sometimes I think you like me, sometimes it seems like you can't stand me."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Michael shook his head. "You don't need to apologize. I didn't exactly make it any easier, either."
"You actually made it kind of obvious."
He narrowed his eyes but the annoyance was feigned. "I didn't think you'd be able to see me from any angle in your place."
It was your turn to shrug. "I think I'm just an observant person."
His eyes flicked to the tea briefly. "I know."
It was quiet for a moment. You were sure he could not only feel, but hear your heartbeat tripping over itself.
"Listen, Michael, I won't—"
His mouth softly pressed to yours. Warm. Slightly tasting of vanilla.
You blinked. Not understanding. Your mind spinning with why why why...
Michael leaned back, his other hand coming up to cradle the side of your throat. His smile gentle and devastating.
"I know, sweetheart," he whispered.
You wanted to ask him why you? But he kissed you again and effectively told your mind and self doubt to shut up. Silenced it with the way you felt him smile into the kiss the moment he felt you melt against him.
Not a thought occurred to mind as he picked you up like you were nothing. His tongue sliding against yours as you gasped from the sudden movement.
You didn't think at all as your neighbor, Michael Jackson — Spider-Man, backed you into the wall. Feeling your sanity slip from your fingers as they buried in his hair, his hips pressing in to yours and his sweatpants not leaving much to the imagination.
michael jackson masterlist
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