Chapter Text
By the most generous of standards, you were a spider person. Really, truly, you nailed the main two prerequisites.
Get bit by a radioactive spider. Check.
Develop new abilities. Check.
Become an incredible superhero with those new abilities… not so check.
You yelp as you trip over a rug, the large stack of paper coffee cups you were holding tips out of your grasp and scatters on the floor. Groaning embarrassed you kneel down trying to corral the biodegradable drink holders to your grasp. It's moments like these that you feel the envy for your coworkers creep up again, longing for the agility, super strength, just… wanting. Wanting to be a real spider person.
It's not that you don’t appreciate your gift, it is cool you suppose, in an artsy fartsy way. It just pales in comparison to those who surrounded you, watching in the corner as Peter Parker’s bench press busses, scale walls, and create near indestructible webbing from thin air, all while you… knit.
Well, in all fairness, it was more than knitting. Sewing, macrame, crochet, embroidery anything having to do with textiles you had mastery over. You could create ornate rugs one handed, gossamer gowns with your eyes closed, so so so many blankets. (You went through a phase when you started experimenting with your 'powers'.)
You have actually been able to contribute to your cause you allow yourself to admit, redesigning your spider brother and sisters suits. - all of who give you glowing reviews. “It perfectly suited their needs in battle." “They didn't know what they were missing.” “Couldn't fight without it now.”
It did feel nice to be helpful, to be so good at something, but it didn't change the pitying looks you got when you were winded on the second flight of stairs. The awkward pauses after being asked to grab something on the ceiling. It didn't stop that ever-present nagging voice whispering ‘imposter’ over and over again.
You bend down and stuff the first sleeve of cups into the water cooler. Checking the paper products and wiping down the counter before you leave, while suit design was your main job at HQ, you had some spare time in between mending tears and liked to make yourself useful. Someone had to help keep this place running, remember to rotate the weekend kitchen staff, give the cleaning crew up-to-date key codes, and order more toilet paper. It helped you feel useful.
It also helped stall you from your other unofficial official job, director duty, Miguel manhandling, dancing with el diablo. Spider sitting. You were in charge of trying to make sure Miguel O’Hara didn't kill himself trying to preserve the cosmic threads of the multiverse, even if it killed you.
“Hey Silkworm!”
Swiveling your head around you search the cafeteria for which Spiderman was using the moniker Lyla gave you. (No matter how many times you tried changing it nothing else stuck.)
Peter B swings down in line, baby carrier devoid of a little red-headed spider baby, you startle when she falls from the ceiling into her father's waiting arms.
“Silky, my girl,” He slips an arm over your shoulders while using the other to slip May back into her seat, “ Someone may have set Mr.uzzyfay on irefay.” He clumsily reaches into the diaper bag while trying to cover Mays's face, pulling out the singed tarantula stuffy you have seen many times before. Ripped, stained, chewed, half vaporized, and now burnt. You push the mutilated stuffed animal in your bag while May claws her dad's hand off of her eyes.
“Is there any way he can be done before,” he covers May's ears and yet still mouths the words, “nap time.“ She chews on the strap of her carrier, oblivious.
“Yeah no problem,” you duck when May webs a pudding to her, pinching the baby's chubby cheek as you mentally reschedule your suit repairs.
You reach to grab a water and check the calories on the chicken salad, before ordering one, no super metabolism to keep you in shape.
Peter starts to walk away before yelling, “Also Jess said Miguelhasnteatenallday. Okay, thanks bye.” He is out of the cafeteria before you even process what he said. It sinks in.
You groan and thunk your head against the Glass partition before ordering two more salads, and a Reuben, he is a big man after all.
It was hard to admit you knew why you were tasked with pestering Miguel day and night, but you did, you were... expendable. While no one wanted to voice their concerns for the stoic director, there was the chance that the man who kept the weight of the world's on his shoulders would one day snap, and they couldn't risk the casualty being someone important.
Jess hadn't worded it like that when she asked you to ‘keep an eye on director O’Hara,’ but the circles under her eyes and slash mark on her suit made it clear he wasn't in the best head space, she ruffled your hair and placated that you were ‘just too cute to mess with.”
Cute, weak, what’s the difference, it didn't matter, you owed Jess. She was the reason you were here. The reason you had any semblance of purpose, this pseudo-family.
Hesitating before the doors you work up your courage, he had been more… Miguel these last few weeks, anomaly after anomaly cropping up giving him no chance to breathe. Sometimes webbing the food tray up to himself and digging in voraciously- ignoring the utensils, others refusing to acknowledge you concentrating on the computer screens until you left. Some days, the bad days you've taken to calling them, he just roars “leave.” loud enough to stop your heart, hand faltering mid-air outside his door.
You take a deep breath and wave your wrist in front of the menacing black scanner that opens the menacing black doors, menacingly… Leave it to that man to find the most dramatic way to decorate. (All he was missing was some fog and thunder.) It did the job though, you swallow the spit suddenly thick in your mouth. Breathe in. Breathe out.
You walk into the dark cavernous office, “Knock, knock,” you say and immediately regret it. Doors swishing closed behind you.
Silence.
“Lunch delivery, for a Mr. O’hara.” you cringe again and look around eyes trying to focus on the big dumb platform, screens glowing on top.
Silence.
Your hands sweat on the plastic tray, “Come get it while its hot, or - cold. Theres really a- a- mixture here so come get the food at its best… respective… temperature,’ you trail off your last word echoing in the cavernous chamber.
You hear a click and the screens up top turn off, plunging the room into darkness, well almost darkness, two twin flames peering down at you, scorching you.
You don't brake eye contact as you start backing up, “Not a good time, huh, ill’ your voice cracks and you clear your throat, “ ll come back later.”
You blink and hes gone.
Your heartbeat picks up, still stumbling backward tray shaking. Your brain tells you he's a good guy, saved millions, but your gut churns with something akin to fear.
The silverware clatters off as your hand begins to shake, as your ears pick up on the shrieking sound of slicing metal, then, once again that dreaded silence.
You take a deep breath you must be feet from the door, the moment you're out there in the artificial light of the hallway you'll realize how ridiculous this panic is. You just need to get out there.
Breathe in. Step. Breath out. Step. Breath-
Smack. Your back hits the wall and you sigh in relief, rebalancing the tray in one arm as you swing your hand backward for the panel to open the door.
You don't remember the door being warm, rippling under your palm, breathing on your neck, or smelling like cinnamon and campfires.
You lurch forward tray slipping from your hand and clattering to the floor, feet tangling as you follow suit, that is until an iron band wraps around your midsection. Jerking you backward and up against Miguel's chest, heart stuttering, his breathing grows ragged.
Slowly craning your head backwards wide eyes meeting his bloody ones. You count one, two, three heartbeats.
Silence.
“I.. I.. brought you lunch.”
Silence
“It’s on- on the floor now”
He makes a noncommittal noise and leans closer, you freeze.
Heart leaping into your throat as he leans in and… inhales?
Your brain short circuits and you gasp for air, trying to figure out how to tread water in this unfamiliar ocean. Statue still for what feels like lifetimes but could only be a handful of seconds. He just keeps huffing you in, trapped in arms of iron you can do little to resist. A beeping noise comes from above and he stills. The distraction is enough to catch your breath, fortify yourself, count to three before you speak-
“I guess ill go and”
He makes a noise between a growl and a whine and pulls you closer, you feel something sharp graze the skin above your navel, the breath ghosting the top of your head migrates down as he pulls you up, feeling near weightless, you stop moving as hot air wets the junction of your shoulder and neck.
He leans down mouth open and you swear you feel something wet and soft lathe at your shoulder, when-
“Boss? Category 5 anomaly-"
Lyla's warning blurs together as you move at a speed you didn't even know was humanely possible, then again the man you were dealing with wasn't technically human. Lurching into the air you're thrown through the now open doors out into the hallway and your stomach churns- bile pushes up your throat- it's over in a second you stumble slightly forward before falling on your ass a bright red web on your chest doing little to slow your fall. (It's the thought that counts though, right?) You stare wide-eyed as Miguel disappears in a flash, catching only the tail end of hissed cuss words echoing around you.
Your ass hurts as you sit there slack-jawed on the floor. The only proof that wasn't a dream a pink blotch on your neck and an odd feeling swirling in your chest.