"Michaela—"

"Peter, I can't do it, I just. Straight up cannot do this."

Peter, sitting on the closed toilet seat, lets out a loud sigh and tips his head back, as if he's looking for some sort of divine intervention. This is probably the – eighth time he's done that in the past twenty minutes. Michaela would feel worse about his obvious frustration but she's a little preoccupied with the ordeal she's been trying to escape for just as long.

Leaning forward, Peter snags the box sitting on the edge of the sink and rattles its contents meaningfully, though Michaela's careful to avoid eye contact even when he scoots over to shove the box in her face. Scowling, she bats his hand away and crosses her arms under her chest, trying not to feel like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum and failing miserably.

"Michaela, c'mon, it's not that bad," he says, grinning a little sheepishly at her, which. Fuck. She's weak to Peter's smiles, has been ever since she saw him without the mask. And he knows that now, or at least he's starting to cotton on to the fact that he could convince her to do almost anything if he brings out the puppy dog eyes, so really, it's only a matter of time until she caves. She'll deny that for as long as she can, though, and if there's one thing she's good at it's lying for herself. "Wanda already did mine and it looks fine!"

Michaela cuts him a suspicious look, because. Uh. Peter's definition of fine does not inspire confidence in the slightest.

About an hour ago, when Michaela and Peter were teaching Wanda and Pietro about all the memes they'd missed while Sokovia was a literal war zone, Steve had dropped by with Bucky in tow, and they'd tossed a shopping bag onto the table with instructions on what to do with the contents. The contents being – to Michaela's abject horror – several boxes of cheap hair dye. What Steve said makes sense: they're all pretty damn recognizable, seeing as, in the aftermath of the Brooklyn fight, Steve and his group's pictures were plastered literally everywhere, and it's not like Steve and Bucky weren't internationally famous before that. Michaela and Peter got unmasked when they were arrested, and their faces became just as infamous within a few weeks, what with social media being the addictive beast that it is.

It's more than reasonable for them to alter their appearances – it's necessary if they want to avoid getting hauled off to the nearest super jail, or worse, getting killed on sight.

That doesn't mean Michaela's all that happy about bleaching her fucking hair.

See, here's the thing. Dying her hair outrageous colors in an ill-advised and ultimately useless act of teenage rebellion? Been there, done that; her mom could not have given less of a shit what she did with her hair, and her dad was only worried about the impression she'd give to potential employers and college officials. The real horror-story is the hell she put herself through with the actual dying process, and for nothing. Nothing! It didn't even look good, Christ, she'd wasted time and money and all she got out of it was looking like a fucking troll doll for about a month. Her hair is fine as is and it's childish, okay? She gets that, she does, but she's not budging on this.

Peter, sweet summer child that he is, is trying to help. She appreciates that. But he really could've gone with a better argument than his hair looks fine. Because it doesn't.

Wanda did a good job with dying it, that's not the issue. The issue is that Peter Parker should never be a blond.

There's something just – wrong about his hair being that particular shade of gold. Like, she's pretty sure he picked the color that's closest to Steve's hair, which. Don't even get her started on the implications of that, she's planning to talk to Bucky about it later when she's not freaking the fuck out over this. The shitty fluorescent lighting of the bathroom highlights the freshly washed shine of his hair and the contrast between his dark eyes and the gold strands. And, okay, it's not terrible but – he reminds her of Peeta from The Hunger Games, like, Josh Hutchinson's Peeta, and she was never a fan of that guy as a blond.

She's not going to tell him that, though. Michaela is willing to do a lot, more than she'd ever thought, honestly, but putting Peter Parker down is not on her list of acceptable shit.

She takes a deep breath. "You do not wanna see me as a blonde, Pete, trust me on that."

"Okay, no blonde, then." He sets the box down on the floor between them and picks up another one, squinting at the label. The way his whole face brightens isn't encouraging. "What about this? Rose gold! Girls like that, right?"

Michaela sort of – twitches. Has to suppress the urge to slap the back of Peter's head. "I mean. Sure, it's a good color for like, your phone. Or jewelry, or whatever. Not exactly what I'm looking for in a hair color, though, kid."

He frowns, nodding slowly, then switches out that box for the next one. "Red velvet?"

"The idea is for me to be less noticeable. Actually, why did Rogers even buy that? That's like the Black Widow circa 2012 and, let's be honest, her hair's the first thing you notice about her when you see her on the news or whatever."

"Uh. I doubt that's the first thing most guys notice..."

"Ugh."

"Okay, okay, no red. Got it." Peter hops down from the toilet seat and crouches next to where she's sitting against the opposite wall. He spends a couple minutes rifling through the boxes Steve brought back, then sits back on his heels with his latest choice cradled to his chest. "Just. You could go with a lighter shade of brown? This one's maybe a step down from Wanda's hair color, that could work, right?"

Michaela considers it. She has a hard time picturing herself as anything other than a dark-haired brunette, partly because she got her eyes and hair from her mom and it's nice to remember that every once in a while, partly because the only other colors she's had it are bleached-blonde and electric, neon blue, which. Yikes. But she's pale enough that a lighter brown maybe wouldn't look horrendous on her.

While she and Peter are bickering over the merits of one color over the other, ever-so-slightly different color, there's a knock on the bathroom door, then Wanda peeks in, her eyes flitting around the room until she settles on them. There's a pinched expression on her face, equal parts annoyed and amused, and Michaela understands why when she slips into the room, dragging Pietro by the hem of his shirt after her.

She and Peter share a commiserating look and, hell, Michaela would be offended, should be offended, but. Ugh. She knows she's being an absolute drama queen about this for no real reason; it's hair, it'll grow out, this is by no means permanent and therefore should not be hitting her shit hard. And yet.

At least she's not alone in her tantrum.

"Wanda," Pietro whines, and he'd deny it, but that pitch? Drawing out Wanda's name like that? Pietro hit whine territory and drove another thirty miles past the border. "This is ridiculous, and I'm older than you, you can't order me around—"

Wanda's eyes flash red, her magic swirling pointedly around the hand she raises towards Pietro. He balks, gaping at her, like he couldn't believe she'd have the audacity to threaten him with her powers. As far as Michaela knows, that's normal sibling behavior – she's an only child, yeah, but her cousins were around the same age as her growing up and they were like, the textbook definition of that meme, god, what was it? My relationship with my siblings is either I'll help you hide the body or don't even breathe in my direction. There is no in between.

In any case, Wanda doesn't budge, and Pietro ends up flopping down dramatically onto the floor next to Michaela, pouting. Snickering a little, she nudges his shoulder, earning a frankly adorable huff, but then he sighs and cants his head to meet her eyes.

"I'm in the same boat as you, kid," she says, smiling ruefully. There's not much space between but she slides a little closer regardless, offering what little support she has at her disposal. It's not much, and Pietro isn't shy about letting her know that (his smirk is infuriating and good lord does Michaela understand Wanda's near-constant urge to chuck him out the nearest window), but she's trying. That's gotta count for something. "And you know as well as I do that if we don't pick a color by ourselves, Steve is gonna shove both our heads under the sink and choose for us."

Pietro rolls his eyes. "He'd have to catch me first, no?"

"Yeah, don't sound so smug, Energizer. He's got Wanda and Peter on his side; I'm pretty sure between the two them they'd be able to keep you still for thirty minutes, or however long this takes to set in." That has Pietro grimacing, and she nudges him again. "That's also not including Bucky. You wanna get on his bad side over something this dumb?"

"I see you haven't folded yet," Pietro grumbles, tugging at a strand of hair that's escaped from her lazy braid. He's deflecting, and it's not even a good deflection. Michaela hasn't dyed her hair yet but she was probably a sure thing, no matter how much she'd love to claim otherwise. Peter and his wheedling, fucking hell, she never stood a chance.

"Don't be a brat. We'll get through it together, yeah? Misery loves company, anyway, we might as well pair up for the suffering."

A few seconds of silence pass; Peter and Wanda share another look that Michaela chooses to ignore. The Pietro groans, loudly, and flaps a hand at Wanda, apparently signaling that he's given in. She smirks and turns to Peter, who's already brandishing two boxes of – honey brown? Michaela can live with that. Probably. Whatever, they'll find out eventually, and if she has another meltdown during the whole thing then, well. Won't be the first time these guys will have seen it.

_____________

Michaela learns something else that day. Two somethings, even.

Steve Rogers can definitely rock the brunet look, the man looks even better than he does as a blond.

Bucky Barnes, on the other hand, is firmly in the Josh Hutchinson camp.