Scooby-Dooing This Shit
Peter arrives at MJ's workplace before she does, and so does Ned. He's decided to wait for her before they start rebuilding the LEGO set, not only because it felt strange to build a spaceship while her coworker was in but also because the donut shop is busier than usual since it's a Sunday afternoon. He approaches Ned, his mind working overtime to try and appear casual. It seems no matter how much of an internal pep rally he threw himself on the way here, this was still going to be nerve wracking. Peter inhales through his nose.
"Hey, Ned."
"Hey! I---" Ned swivels towards him in the barstool, face falling as he sees the stuffed LEGO box. "Oh no, what happened?"
"I'm sorry man, I dropped the set and basically destroyed all of our progress." It's not lost on him that the conversation they're about to have feels like it’s own crashed LEGO set, wiping the slate of what little progress he made with Ned.
Calm down. You know Ned, you know Ned.
"It's fine dude, don't worry. We can just start over. I dropped that LEGO Death Star I had once. Tragic, but hey. That's the beauty of LEGOs, we get to do it again and again."
The sun shining through the donut shop windows doesn't reach where Peter is, but the back of his neck is hot as if he were standing under it for hours. He winces.
"Well, uhm. Before we start, is there any chance I could talk to you outside? About something kinda private?"
Ned's surprised, as he expected. "Sure, man. Whatever you need."
Peter places the LEGO box under the counter before he and Ned step outside. He walks to the edge of the building where there's an alley for the business's trash, too narrow for people to do shady dealings in but room enough for him to stand inside so he and Ned don't take up the sidewalk. Plus, there's something about being between narrow spaces that made him feel safe, like he had somewhere to climb away at any moment. Ned is patient, leaning against the brick and giving Peter his full attention.
He doesn't know where to start.
"Is this about what happened yesterday?" Ned asks, voice soft as always. He spoke in hushed tones, even when he was excited.
Peter nods. "That guy is, uhm, bad."
"I gathered that, sorta. Is he like an evil cousin or something? I don't know, sorry," Ned laughs, trying to put Peter at ease.
"Uhm." Peter licks his lips and stares at the office sign across the way. "Think of the worst criminal you can imagine. I guess it's worse than that? Or maybe not worse, just somewhere along those lines, I don’t know."
Ned splutters. "What the hell man? Do you know nazis? He looks like a nazi. Straight out of a history book, I mean his hair—"
Peter laughs, dragging his sneaker along the cement as he shakes his head no. He'd missed Ned with more than he could put to words.
"No nazis? Okay, is he like, a serial killer?"
Peter's eyes sting. "Uhm, close. You could say serial pedophile?"
Ned's appley smile is gone in an instant. Peter continues to toe at the cement, and his fingers are sticking to the brick behind him.
"Dude. Dude, I'm sorry. What the hell."
"I know, it's okay," Peter says.
"It's not okay. Wow. What the fuck." Ned runs his hands through his hair and glances up at the sky before looking back at Peter.
"Uh. Thank you for telling me, man."
Peter rubs his waterline with his index finger. "About that. There's a reason I’m telling you, uhm, all this. This guy has decided he's gonna keep screwin' with us whenever MJ's working. And I've just got a gut feeling that he's up to no good all around, you know?"
"Of course, dude. This is awful. But what are we gonna do?"
"I have an idea. I'll tell you more about it whenever MJ has time later. We should probably go back inside, she'll be here soon and we can get cracking on the Millenium Falcon. I just wanted to give you a heads up before we got into it this evening."
“Yeah, I get it. Thanks. And like I said earlier man, whatever you need. Except for a million bucks, I don’t have a million bucks.”
Peter chuckles as he opens the door for Ned and they step back into the donut shop. Soon enough MJ has clocked in and Peter and Ned busy themselves with the spacecraft, chatting about movies and Ned's family. The anxiety of Skip's pending arrival simmered within him, but Peter was otherwise happy just to be spending time with Ned like this for it to get to him, especially now that he had a goal in mind for dealing with it. Ned clicked a blaster onto the half constructed ship and Peter's mind drifted to his morning. He'd awoken warm and serene, had breakfast with MJ, and now he was building a LEGO set with Ned. If he could just continue to ignore the undercurrent of doomsday throughout his nervous system, he could enjoy this.
He'd keep them at a distance this time. He’d get it right. He reasons with himself that he's human, it's not like he can live without friendship, but no one needed to know he was Spider-Man. What happened at MJ's apartment can't happen again. He can do this somehow, still be faithful to his promise and keep them safe.
The man in the front corner aggressively taps at his space bar, his laptop must be giving him trouble. It's distracting. Ned expertly places LEGO pieces exactly where they should, not checking the directions.
Damn, how long would this last? Would he ever get married? Maybe he'd stop being Spider-Man when he was 40. Or 45? Would the world still need Spider-Man by then? 45 is pretty old. Old enough. Stop thinking about this. Oh God, would he marry MJ? Relax. College hasn't even begun. He doesn't want her to know again. He doesn't want anyone to know again. He'd thought sharing Spider-Man with them would lift the burden, distribute the weight on his chest, but his lungs remained ever-tight as the pressure had grown around his loved ones like a tumor.
Other-Older-Peter had said life worked out, in some way.
Peter stops fidgeting, head propped up by his hands as he watches MJ concentrate on the espresso machine. The silhouette of her face is backlit by the glass outer walls of the donut shop. It's a muddled shadow, her features not entirely distinguishable because she doesn't tuck that floating clump of curls behind her ear.
Other-Younger-Peter seemed to have lost everything.
There were no guarantees in life, he knows. He frowns. This was getting weirder and weirder to think about, yet he thought about it all the time. Thought himself into headaches, thought himself into mixing up DoorDash delivery addresses. But he never missed a punch, never missed a landing, never missed a swing, not anymore. So Peter will stick with what is sure about life right now, and hope for a safe way to breathe and feel somewhat okay in between.
Bells chime, in comes Skip, and all thoughts of normality and space to breathe dissipate from Peter's mind as if they were never there. Ned tenses, now that he's in on what's going on. Which is exactly what Skip wants them to be: tense, uncomfortable. Uprooted. He casually orders as much food as a soccer mom with a van packed to the brim with ravenous twelve year olds, probably to keep MJ annoyed and busy. The bussinessman in the corner recognizes Skip and gives Peter a strange look, definitely remembering the last time when Peter bolted to the bathroom and later snapped the door handle off.
"Hey man, you haven't put a piece on in a while." Ned looks at Peter reassuringly, and he realizes what's going on. Ned is relaxed now, carrying on like Skip isn't there at all, which is the best course of action at the moment. How did he live without Ned these past months?
Ned passes Peter a brick, and he searches for where to place it on the ship. Skip crowds the front counter, awaiting his unnecessarily complicated order. Two more customers stumble into the shop.
Peter clicks the plastic into place and Ned starts talking about the Millennium Falcon. MJ's working as fast as she can, and Peter feels horrible. Every minute that passes seems to stretch the boundaries of just how long a minute really is.
"Peter, did you hear me?" Ned prods him back to the present. "How did you feel about the Han Solo movie?"
"Oh," Peter clears his throat. "It was great, I think. I'm like 80% sure. The action was fun."
"Right, right. Like there were parts I enjoyed, but also like, did they have to explain where his name came from? That felt a little corny."
"Oh, my God," Peter agrees, "you're right. But I like the part with his dashboard dice."
"Yeah, that was great."
Skip tip-taps his fingers along the counter before sauntering towards the back of the room. Peter full body clenches, not with fear but with resisting ending Skip's life right then or there. Or at the very least, the man's ability to walk. Skip halts, glaring in annoyance because the bathroom is closed. A single piece of duct tape holds the splintered door shut and a sign in Peter's handwriting reads Out Of Order.
Skip huffs dramatically. "Do you have another bathroom?" He calls back to MJ.
"No," she cuts him off, running over his whining. "You can go next door, though. Our's should be fixed tomorrow."
Skip makes a show of being petulant. "This is such bad service."
The other customers seem generally uncomfortable; no one wants to be in the same store as that one guy who makes a scene or is weird to employees.
"Hey!" The quiet man on his laptop barks from the corner. Peter and Ned whip around in their stools, eyebrows equally drawn up with surprise, and Skip is pointing at himself with a "who, me?" look on his face.
"I don't know what your problem is, but quit comin' in here and bein' a fuckin' weirdo."
Skip balks. "What are you talking about?"
"I just said, I don't know what your problem is, buddy, but you better cut the shit or get outta here," the businessman jabs a finger at him, head angled down so that he’s staring Skip down from over his glasses.
Skip doesn't move. Peter blinks---he sure didn't see this coming.
"You come all up in here, bein' a freak, makin' people uncomfortable. I'm not fuckin' stupid, boy, I don't know what you're up to but you're weird as fuck n' I know you're messin' with that kid over there somehow. It's your damn fault the door is broken. Go piss somewhere else n' stay there. If you wanna start drama, do it on the streets, not where we're trynna work n' have coffee n' enjoy our fuckin' evenin'. You understand me?"
At this point, the other customers look at Peter and Ned, seeing as they were the only two who could be "that kid over there".
Skip locks eyes with MJ, like he's daring her to say something. He doesn't leave, though. Instead he sits in the farthest booth from the businessman, facing away from him. Peter and Ned exchange looks, because now they know Skip is never going to be able to make a scene as long as the ever-present corner businessman is there, which is fantastic because that man does indeed seem to be ever-present. If Skip tries too many times, MJ will have enough reason to call the police, and there’s too many witnesses against him to defend himself otherwise.
The establishment comes to a standstill, the remaining customers not approaching the counter as Skip stands his ground, silent in his booth. Minutes slug by. Finally, Skip slides out of the booth with a huff and storms out of the shop. Peter wonders if he should thank the businessman but one of the customers, a man in a puffy coat and a tray full of coffees, thanks him instead.
"It's no problem," he replies. "Guys a fuckin' weirdo and I'm not gonna put up with him ruinin' my day or you guys’ either."
Customers filter out and not many others show. It's not even been an hour into MJ's shift.
🕷🕷🕷
Peter, Ned and MJ stand in the back of the donut shop behind the counter. MJ is still visible from the front door in case a new customer walks in, but no one is in of course except for the businessman, who minds his own business.
"Okay," Peter begins his brief, "if we're able to pull this off, it'll be great if we get results but it's also, just maybe, a little bit illegal."
Ned's eyes widen. "But we're trying to catch a pedophile so it's like, the good kind of illegal?"
"Oh yeah, yeah, yeah" Peter nods vigorously and MJ gives him a thumbs up. "It actually might not even be that illegal, it depends how far we get in our initial searches. You're a tech guy, right?"
"Yeah, I'm a tech guy." Ned lights up.
"So this guy, Steven Westcott, got bailed by his uncle, but I looked up the case and the bail was ridiculous. Like, this uncle is either Elon Musk 2.0 or a crime boss, is what I'm saying. And on the sex offender registry, it won't list that he was bailed, but he told us he was---"
"So that means something is definitely up," MJ supplements, encouraging Peter and leaning in towards Ned when she speaks. "You know, I don't think he'd even qualify for a bailout, depending on his charges."
"It'd be awesome if we find out who his uncle is, because not only do I think his uncle is a criminal, he's definitely an enabler. But right now, it’s not the priority. I think Skip is going to continue on his merry little way if we don't do something, but we need proof."
Peter's jittery. He has to do this as Peter, because it would be beyond suspicious if Spider-Man landed Skip in jail after their encounter. Not only would Ned and MJ peg him instantly, he bets even the businessman would know who he is too. But now that he's confident of who Skip is---someone who moves through life hurting whoever they wish, not afraid of consequences---it's his responsibility to put a stop to it.
"So we just have to like, snoop around until we find dirt? That'll be easy," says Ned. "Wanna do it at your place?"
Peter considers his options. He doesn't want Ned and MJ to know where he lives, but he also doesn't want any of their addresses compromised if Skip's uncle or anyone else posed more of a threat than he's anticipated. They talk out a few more details before Ned and Peter pick a booth instead of the counter to sit out the rest of MJ's shift, but not before doing as much pre-cleaning as they can so they can hurry to his apartment after closing. She joins them when she can, and to everyone's delight, they actually manage to complete the Millenium Falcon. Ned offers to carry it back to Peter's apartment himself, but he's so excited that it would be no surprise if he dropped it along the way.
It's only when they enter the stairwell of the building (the elevator is broken) that Peter realizes the picture frame with Ned and MJ in it is still up on his shelf, he'd forgotten to store it away after he left MJ's.
"Uhm, let me just run in and clean up real quick."
He fumbles with his keys and falls into the room, leaving the door cracked so they're not locked out but it's closed enough to hide their view of him as he puts things away. MJ and Ned wander in and glance around his studio apartment. He still hasn't unpacked most of his boxes, he's got everything that he needs out so there isn't much of a point. At least he made his bed. Peter opens the laptop on his desk and turns it on, wishing he'd told Ned to bring his own laptop so they could work faster. MJ tentatively sits on the bed.
"Ok," he claps his hands on jeans. "Let's get started." Peter hovers over his chair while Ned clicks away, encrypting whatever safety measures are necessary and other things before really digging in. MJ is lying back on his bed, legs hanging off at the knees as she holds her phone above her face.
Peter can't hold still watching Ned on the screen, so he searches on his phone that he's encrypted to function for his Spider-Man needs since he can't afford a burner.
It was dark when they got to his place, but enough time must have passed between then and now for it to be late because Peter can hear his annoying next door neighbor preparing for bed.
"Do you have anything?" MJ asks.
"Not yet." He doesn't really know how long he expected this to take. Hopefully not all night, because he still has to Spider-Man at some point. Does this count as Spider-Manning?
"I think I've got something," Ned finally announces. A few more clicks and images Peter doesn't recognize appear on the screen at first, but then a LinkedIn profile loads with Skip's face, however, the name is fake. The account reads "Certified Substitute Teacher" recently hired at Old Bay Middle School ---the middle school down the block from the donut shop.
Oh. Oh fuck. That's probably why Skip ended up at MJ's workplace in the first place.
Ned reads the information aloud, but doesn't seem to recognize it. "Does anyone know where that is?"
MJ and Peter exchange looks of pure mortification.
"This profile is so recent," Peter assures. "It's not like he's been able to work there for long. He might not even be in yet, he might just be preparing for the job. And now we're going to stop him."
"But it's not like we can go to the police with this LinkedIn account that we found for some totally unsuspicious reason," MJ says, stressed. "How could we explain it?"
"I don't think we have to tell the police exactly how we found it, we can just leave an anonymous tip." Peter exhales, rolling his tense shoulders and searching for relief. "I can't believe all I've got to do is make a call and it's over." He stills, a new, unsettling thought forming in his mind.
"Unless his uncle is still in the game." He wonders if whoever bailed him is even really his uncle. "He could be involved in more crime than we thought."
Ned hums in response. "Do you wanna look for it?"
"Nah, no. This is enough. I don't think he'll even qualify for bail again, if he ever did in the first place."
MJ gestures at the laptop screen in disbelief. "The fact he's even trying to do this---the audacity is mind-boggling, really."
Peter sits on his bed next to MJ, waiting for that wave of relief to crash over him but it doesn't. Why doesn't he feel better?
MJ sits up, supports herself on one hand and squeezes his shoulder with the other. No one says anything, the three of them just smile triumphantly at each other until MJ pats his back before standing up to speak.
"Celebratory dinner? We didn't eat after I got off, and I'm really hungry."
"I could go for Chinese or something," says Ned. "We could even order it here, because no offense Peter, but your shelves are literally empty."
There is exactly one jar of peanut butter on the floating shelves above the sink.
Peter indulges in the idea of having dinner with the two of them, maybe a stupid movie playing on his laptop, talking about nothing, or the future (for him, that sort of felt like nothing anyways). But he needed to get going to leave both the FBI and the police tip, he wanted to go as Spider-Man and use a payphone to protect his cellphone. He regularly used payphones as Spider-Man, and he sure hopes New York City never gets rid of them.
"I've actually got stuff to do, I'm sorry. You guys can go out for Chinese though. I don't really have an appetite."
Ned and MJ agree reluctantly, not wanting to contest his decision. This night was probably so fun for them, overflowing with the catharsis of catching an awful person and putting them in their place. That odd power trip that lasted a moment but didn't mean much in the long run because the institutions enabling all of the harm remained. That feeling Peter experienced every night of the week before he crashed all over again.
"I'll see you guys Tuesday," he says as he crosses the room and opens the door for them. "Thanks so much for your help today. I can't believe we've done this, I can't believe we really got him." Peter smiles, so genuinely grateful, and hopes they can feel it.
They both turn to smile in response as they make their way out the door. "It was no problem,” Ned says. “I'm thrilled, dude. I'll be waiting for the news report on this catch, because it's gotta at least be announced in our area."
Huh, Peter hadn't thought of that. He's right. He waves at the two of them once more before gently clicking his door shut and diving under his bed for the box with his suit in it. Soon enough he's out the window, swinging around for a payphone not too close to his home. He's wise (as he can be), he thinks, not paranoid, but sometimes the two mix.
A payphone in an empty enough area finally springs up, surrounded by brick buildings with only a few lights scattered amongst the windows. Peter lands, punches at the number keys and picks up the phone, jittery both from swinging and what he's about to do.
"I'd like to leave an anonymous tip," he breathes.
The wind blows and Peter twirls the phone wire in his fingers. The authorities on the line ask few questions as he divulges everything he knows. The call ends, he hangs up. The relief creeps up on him, he feels it coming, and he wants to welcome it but tingles down his spine tell him to turn around and so he does. The silhouette of someone approaching from the opposite sidewalk is distinguishable, but they're definitely too far away to have heard his phone call. Closer and closer they walk. Finally, Peter recognizes him, suppresses a frustrated scream and smacks his forehead on the plastic payphone case, denting it by accident. It's Skip. Of course it's Skip. Who else would it be? In all of New York? Far from the donut shop and far from his apartment. Sure, why not. Peter silently throws up his hands and argues with the air. Skip's close enough now, and he's staring at Peter, confused as hell, because who wouldn’t be if they saw Spider-Man having a heated mime-debate with a broken payphone box?
"Uh," Skip says.
Peter balls his fists and uses them to massage his temples under his mask, and finally groans aloud, straining himself to not make too much noise. It's not like he can just beat Skip up and suspend him from the nearest building by his toes. Well, he could, but he can't for all the other reasons.
"Spider-Man?"
Peter faces him. What on earth could he possibly want?
"What are you doing down here, Spider-Man?"
Did Skip live around here?
"Because there definitely isn't any crime around here, I would know, I just came from around the block. There definitely aren't some typical shady guys, fingerless gloves and all, dealing fentanyl and who knows what else a block away from here."
Oh. Alright.
Peter marches towards Skip, who stumbles back in fright but doesn't make it far because Peter webs him right up against the brick wall.
Skip's face is whiter than the dirty snow in the street. "What the fuck, man?! I just gave you a tip."
"I don't need your tips, and I know that's not all just by the look of you." Peter tries to change his voice, make it unrecognizable, but he's never been that good at it.
He smirks. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Peter huffs.
"If you mean that I'm potentially in hot water and was hoping you'd let me scratch your back so you could scratch mine, then that's definitely what I'm asking."
What? He puts both his hands on his hips and stands at an angle, tries to look imposing.
"What did you do? What do you want?"
"I didn't do anything that serious---" Peter scoffs, interrupting him.
"I didn't do anything super illegal," Skip tries again. "I just might have been visible at the scene of a robbery, and my hair really stands out. I think the police are combing through Nordic blondes like me as we speak and I've already got---I've already got a small record, more of a warning than a record, really, and I just don't wanna be implicated."
"Were you part of this robbery?"
"Sort of. A little."
Hell, what does Skip even get up to?
"And how am I supposed to help you with that?"
"I was thinking," Skip licks his chapped lips, "that you could just, I don't know, tell the police that it isn't me or something. You're Spider-Man."
Peter rolls his eyes under his mask. "You know like twenty percent of this city thinks I murdered some guy in London for no reason? And I---"
"Well I don't think you killed that guy, you're literally Spider-Man. It doesn't add up."
Peter sighs, exasperated. "The point is, I don't work with the police, dude. I'm a vigilante. Don't you know what that means?"
Skip's face droops, cocky charade finally gone. "What?"
"You really are this stupid," Peter laughs. He says it louder than he imagined it would come out in his head.
"So now you've told me of a crime down the block, which, thanks by the way, because fentanyl is dangerous. And you've told me you robbed some place." Peter gulps. "Any other crimes you wanna confess while you're at it?"
Skip doesn't say anything. But Peter wants to hear it, he wants to hear him confess. He doesn't even know why.
Skip shakes his head, mouth tight.
Fuck it. Whatever. When Skip gets home, the FBI could already be waiting. And Peter will hopefully see a news report in the next few days. He notices how uncomfortable the angle is that Skip was plastered to the wall in. The webs will dissolve, eventually. Peter breathes in, breathes out. Breathes in, breathes out. Skip watches him.
"You're not gonna let me down from here," he says. Doesn't ask.
"Yup," Peter says with a pop.
Then up he goes, through the air and out of sight in an instant. He breaks up the drug deal, webs the offenders right in front of the nearest police precinct and swings on his way, giddy. He thinks about how when the authorities arrive at Skip's place, he'll think Spider-Man ratted him out for the robbery after all. Then he'll be told what charges are against him, and he's done for life. Peter hopes, at least.
He continues swinging, flipping about like a kid on a trampoline but the trampolines are made of cement and steel. Victory stretches through his veins, but not quite relief. He needs to get all this energy out. A triumphant shout, why not, he deserves it. No one can hear him. He can sing, scream, it doesn't matter up here. But they can see him, a shiny red blink through the night sky, and they (mostly) love him. And he's grateful for that.
Peter doesn't know what time it is when he gets home, but he knows he doesn't want to sleep. He notices a white sheet on the floor near his door, and finds a note that must have been slid under it.
I left my charger here. I have a spare at home, so don't worry about it if you're busy. Bring it Tuesday. Maybe we'll get good news by then and we can celebrate :) -MJ
Ned and MJ don't have Peter's number, and he wants to keep it that way for now. Just seeing them in person is fine, it keeps a good distance. If they ever bug him about it he'll make an account for whatever social media platform they both prefer and use that. Peter looks under his bed where she had been that night and her phone charger is there, just as the note says. But something else is too. She had a tote bag, and things must have spilled under his bed when she placed it on the floor earlier. A crumpled dollar bill, a tampon, and folded notebook paper. He scoops them up and places them on the desk, eyes not leaving the tempting notes. It would be really bad if he opened that, wouldn't it? It's probably a grocery list. People definitely still make grocery lists. He's done so good, feels so good, he shouldn't do some weird, invasive shit like reading someone else's notes.
Peter doesn't actually have left overs to eat, so he'll just eat tomorrow. He knows he's running on empty. He's brushed his teeth, showered (too long) and now flopped on his bed, unable to bring himself to open his laptop and play something to distract him from sleeping. It’s not that he’s afraid of dreams, except it is. He’s afraid of dreams.
Peter gets out of bed and unfolds the notebook paper.
There's some words in English, a doodle in the corner, but the rest isn't in English. It's not in Spanish, either, or French, or anything he could recognize. Peter reads what he can over and over, perplexed. There's question marks after most "sentences". It has to be in code. Why would she write in code?
"Because she's paranoid like me," he chuckles aloud. That's why she's using pen and paper for her thoughts in the first place instead of a notes app.
He doesn't feel very bad about opening the note anymore. He sits back on his bed, holding the note under his lamp and amusing himself with it more. There's three things scribbled out and he squints at them.
That definitely says Peter. He's not just willing it to say Peter because he wants her to think about him, he holds the paper closer under the lamp to be sure---100%, it says Peter. She probably wrote this throughout the day at work, jotting down whatever thoughts or questions came to mind after he spent the night. She was always reading and writing, reading and writing. Of course she has questions, he still does too, how she would act so unlike herself and bring a guy into her apartment with no background check. He's more and more sure that whatever happened with Doctor Strange's spell erasing their minds can't have been as clear cut it should have been, but he buries this thought, because damn is it frightening.
Peter kicks at his blankets so he can slide under them, lay awake, battling his thoughts. Putting off sleep. He plays out hundreds of scenarios, consequences of his actions, horrible things happening to anyone associated with him. Thinks about promising, over and over, to find MJ and Ned. Thinks about lying to them. Plots about lying to them.
Relief doesn't come.
He wills himself to sleep to avoid the headache that comes with weeping for too long.