By Moonlight (P.P + M.J)

When Tony left, Peter put his mask back on and found his packpack. His chest was burning from the scratches left by Werewolf's steel claws, and he wondered how he would get home. Ned lived in Manhattan, over the bridge, so he couldn't crash at his house. He didn't dare call May, because she might never let him go out again, especially with the shape he was in.

Dragging his book bag, he walked down the street, calculating that it would take him over an hour to get home. He would have to cross the Brooklyn Bridge, which had just reopened after they finished cleaning up Werewolf's mess. Peter didn't think he'd make it, since his wounds were still bleeding and he had no one to turn to.

Peter, Michelle's house is four blocks away. I would advise going there.

At first, he resented the idea. He didn't want to show up at her place all beat up. But he knew he couldn't make it home. He gave the idea a lot of thought before deciding that it was best. He didn't know how MJ would react, and he thought about maybe calling her in advance. But she might not even be up. It was almost one in the morning! But one of the interesting facts he learned about her was that she would stay up until the wee hours of the morning to finish a book. So he had that going for him.

He walked the four blocks, limping from when Werewolf had swung him by the leg. He hoped no one was going for a late night run and saw him. That would be embarrassing.

Finally, after he felt like his leg was on the verge of giving out, he saw her townhouse, in the middle of a row of others. He decided to go to her balcony, because he didn't want her entire family knowing he was there. Holding his aching ribs, he shot a web and pulled himself up into the trees. He hit the branch, shooting a fresh dose of pain through his body. It took everything in him not to cry out, but he took deep, steadying breaths. Ignoring his agony, he jumped from branch to branch until he got to the tree that was level with her balcony.

He peered through the glass doors. She hadn't drawn her shades, and through the darkness of her room, he could've sworn he saw a light. It looked almost like a night light, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw her sitting up in her bed, aiming a flashlight at her book.

Wow, she wasn't kidding, he thought to himself before webbing over to her building, wincing as he made contact with her wall. Careful to be silent, he moved to her railing and jumped down on her balcony, pulling off his mask. He knew for sure that he might scare the living daylights out of her, but at this point, he'd be passed out before she could scold him for it.

With a shaky hand, he knocked softly on her window, leaning his head against the glass. Her head flew up and she shined her flashlight on him. It took her a moment to process what she was seeing. Eyes narrowed, she got out of bed and went to the door, sliding it open. She was wearing her pink pajama pants again and a gray sweater. He gave her a quirky smile before she went to him. MJ supported his weakened frame as she helped him inside her room.

After slipping off his backpack, MJ put him on the floor, his back against her bed, and she turned on a lamp. She used her hand, tilting his head from side to side so she properly inspect the damage. She seemed unimpressed but still somewhat concerned about his bruised face, pushing his curls out his eyes. His hand moved up and pressed on the spider emblem on his chest, and his suit loosened, falling off his shoulders. MJ gave him a peculiar look, raising an eyebrow.

"Woah, buy me dinner first, Parker," she snapped, but her gaze softened when she saw the horrible scratches across his torso.

"Don't move," she ordered him before leaving the room, and he half-chuckled to himself. He couldn't move even if he wanted to.

As she was gone, he looked around her room. He smiled at the pictures she had pinned to her wall, drawn by her own hand. While some were of students she had sketched in detention, several were of Spiderman. One of them that caught his eye was him hanging upside-down. She had a gift for detail, and he greatly admired her skill. The best Peter could do were stick figures.