Chapter Text
Do you really wanna know me?
I'm really not that cozy
It's up to you so you decide, you decide
Haunted House by Neoni
The door rattles against the wall, allowing yellowish light to enter the dark room. A shadow lies in a long curved stripe on the floor, dissolving into the darkness.
Breathe in, breathe out.
As soon as he enters the room, the long lamps on the ceiling begin to flicker palely. With every step, pain flares through his ribs, making it difficult to breathe deeply. Miguel squeezes his side with a hand, wincing sharply. Shock. Apparently life has taught him nothing.
Somehow managing to reach the sofa without collapsing, he sits heavily on it, then reaches up to deactivate the mask.
“Hello, Miguel!” A sparkling yellow interface appears at the coffee table, smiling welcomingly as always. “You’ve been gone for a long time, it’s already 5:48. There are no new priority messages.”
“And the rest?” Miguel exhales tiredly, webbing a medical kit from a nearby cabinet.
His suit glitters, partially disappearing to reveal a huge hematoma on his back. The advantage of fabric made from unstable molecules is that it’s almost impossible to damage it. Neither burn, nor tear, nor pierce, and the impact force from any damage easily passes through. The blast from the power gun didn't leave a hole through Miguel, but the impact was strong enough to tear skin and appears to have broken a couple of ribs. Incredible sensations.
But this is also his fault; having immersed himself in monitoring anomalies at headquarters, he completely stopped monitoring his own universe, and as a result, the downtown — already deprived of the support of the Public Eye — was so filled with thugs that chaos began to seep upward, into Nueva York.
“Twenty-seven,” Lyla says, walking around the room with a piece of hologram that took the form of a notepad. “Most of them from HQ, mission reports. One from Alchemax, they want to see you at the meeting on Tuesday. It would be nice to oversee at least one this month… The other five are from Gabriel. I think he's worried about you.”
“Ignore it,” Miguel hisses. Reaching the injury in his back is turning out to be more difficult than he could have imagined, so the attempt to wipe away the blood quickly turns into an advanced yoga session. "Maldita sea..."
“Your ribs and internal organs are damaged, it seems to me that you should call the doctor,” the interface blinks, moving closer to the sofa. Miguel exhales irritably, refusing, and quickly injects himself with a high-dosage painkiller. “You cannot eliminate all the damage yourself. Especially this one. Your healing factor won't help if the bleeding doesn't stop—”
“I said, no need. Write it down and remember: ‘I will not call medical staff.’ Understood?" After waiting until the AI blinks in understanding, finishing the recording. “Well done, Lyla. Good girl…"
The painkiller worked quickly. If you don’t move, you hardly feel any pain, just an unpleasant pulling sensation.
Gritting his teeth, Miguel rises from the sofa. He manages to stick a wide bandage over the bleeding wound, but it won't last long; he can only hope that his body will recover faster than the bandage will require replacing. Previously, just a day was enough for him to heal broken ribs after a hard fall, so there is nothing to worry about. In any case, all he can and wants to do now is go to sleep for a couple of hours before Jessica or someone else from headquarters starts looking for him.
In recent months, he has been torn between his own double life and the problems of the multiverse, coordinating the actions of thousands of Spider-People. Perhaps it’s even good that he’s temporarily out of action? The last time his head touched a horizontal surface would’ve been two days ago. But he couldn’t sleep properly at his desk.
Fortunately, he manages to get to the bed faster than a wave of dizziness takes his legs out from under him. Well, it’s fine, it could have been worse. So this hole in the back is just another accident that needs patching. He should be fully recovered by morning, and he certainly will be. Morning will be here sooner than he likes, and he, having poured himself a few mugs of coffee, will go to HQ. In the meantime, he can close his eyes for a while and try to forget about the pain radiating through his torso.
***
The familiar yellow interface appears on the watch as Peter, awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of an incoming call, picks it up.
What HQ might need from him is a mystery. What Lyla, Miguel’s personal assistant, might need from him is an even more intricate mystery; Peter didn’t even know whether he was fully awake. The subsequent request from the AI completely confused him; she wants Peter to come to specific coordinates, and when asked about the reason, all she said was:
“Miguel needs your help.”
“My help?” Peter asks dumbly, desperately trying to wake up. “You've got to be kidding.”
If this is a joke, it’s a bad one, because it isn’t making him laugh. Quite the contrary, the fact that Lyla is talking about something like this is already sufficient reason for concern. Yes, he and Miguel haven’t known each other all that long, but long enough for Peter to understand that this Spider-Man is not one of those who is used to asking for help. And certainly not one who needs it.
And yet, this request came to Peter. Not to Jessica or Ben, with whom Miguel was used to working, but to him. From all this, Peter's senses literally scream that something is wrong. He looks at Lyla, hovering next to him. The AI, usually as talkative as Peter himself, was silent, every now and then flashing a strange smile, too unreal even for an AI. He blinks and throws off the warm blanket.
“Honey?” Apparently, the bright flickering, combined with the muffled sounds of putting on the suit, woke up Mary Jane, prompting her to turn to her husband without opening her eyes. “What happened?”
“Sorry for waking you up,” Peter glances at her guiltily, in the middle of pulling on his gloves. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
Although, he doesn’t know that for sure.
The matter could be trivial, or it could begin to smell like trouble even through the portal that appeared in the room. But Peter jumps into it anyway. Because...well, because Miguel asked him for help.
Maybe he will land in the middle of a battle, maybe over an abyss, or maybe in one of those too complex worlds, in the last of which Peter was able to see every wrinkle on the face of an old woman passing by. It was... too much. Even for a man in his thirties. But after a short flight, he lands in a simple corridor. Well, almost - the interior looks too expensive and futuristic for the concept of “simple”. And right in front of him is a door without handles, which, however, opened on its own after a couple of seconds, revealing an almost frightening darkness behind it.
“Lyla?” Peter calls, knocking on his watch. “I probably should have asked about this earlier, but where exactly did you take me?”
No answer. The glittering AI silhouette didn't even bother to appear, so Peter has no choice but to carefully enter the room.
A step or two, feeling something suspiciously slippery on the floor, he decides to see what he stepped on — and it is not difficult for him to recognize blood in the dark puddle. He starts to smell it, and damn, the whole room is permeated with it. Trying to peer into the pitch darkness leads nowhere, so Peter focuses all his attention on his spider sense. But, contrary to his expectations, it remains silent.
“Hello, Peter!”
He almost flies into the wall with a silent scream when Lyla appears next to him, but not in the form of the usual small figure. Instead, she’s full human height and with a wide smile on her face. The door behind him swings shut with a click. “Tea, coffee?”
“Holy shit!” He hisses, leaning on his knees in an attempt to calm down, his heart beating forcefully against his chest. “Have you ever been told that you can’t scare people like that!?”
“I apologize if something bothers you, but Miguel doesn’t like bright light,” the AI shrugs, moving a little further into the room. “Be careful, there are steps. You came faster than I expected, so the place is a little messy. Don't take it personally.”
She glances sideways at the pool of blood by the door, to which Peter only frowns deeper, but nods. So Miguel is here? Well, that might explain the mess on the floor. Maybe. His suit quickly got wet in the place where he had the temerity to step into a smeared puddle. Looks like he'll need a lot of hydrogen peroxide to scrub it out.
“So...what am I doing here?” He takes off his mask and glances sideways at Lyla, waiting for an explanation for all this. “And where is Miguel? I thought you said he needed my help.”
“You look sleepy, I’ll make coffee,” she says after a moment of silence, disappearing from his field of vision and leaving Peter in the ambient darkness.
And what did he hope for by asking a question of the assistant of the most taciturn Spider-Man? At least before leaving, she decided to turn the lighting a little brighter, and Peter could finally see the place.
He expected a room filled with all sorts of mechanical things and gadgets that Miguel liked to rummage through, maybe something like a garage or his office at headquarters. But instead, a semi-normal apartment appears before his eyes. Spacious. A minimalist interior in shades of gray, panoramic windows overlooking a familiar city of the future... and a bunch of blood-stained cotton wool on the sofa, at least some drop of color in these walls besides a few pots of plants.
“Miguel is in his room,” Lyla flashes before his eyes again, pointing to one of the corridors. “The coffee will be ready in forty-three seconds.”
In all this impeccable minimalism, blood stains stand out like a sore thumb. Like the smell — heavy, metallic — Peter couldn’t even mistake the door following it. And again, darkness unfolds before him, although this time his eyes, already slightly accustomed to the low lighting, allow him to see at least something concrete.
Darkened panoramic windows, plants and the silhouette of a king-size bed. The pile of snuffling blankets at the edge was supposed to be Miguel, and Peter approached cautiously, calling him by name.
He learned from his own experience early in their acquaintance that it’s better to start a conversation with a sleeping Spider-Man from the future this way, because he has something much more dangerous than spider sense: claws, and incredible reflexes. That time, Peter was just lucky to jump out of the way in time - his old robe was much less lucky. Since then, he prefers to say hello first, and from a distance of at least a couple of steps. Usually, Miguel wakes up the first time, although he might not open his eyes; he’ll simply mutter something in a dissatisfied voice.
But this time, there is no answer. Moreover, the sound that Peter thought was a snuffle became more and more like a quiet and slow wheeze. This is not good. He calls Miguel again, louder. And again. In the end, he quickly closes the distance to the bed and pushes the mountain of blankets aside. He doesn't need the light to realize that the sheets are much darker than they should be.
“Lyla!” The AI immediately appears nearby, starting to say something about coffee, but Peter doesn’t hear it. “Call an ambulance or whatever you have! And turn on the light, I can’t see anything!”
“I will not call medical staff.” The light nevertheless came on, and Peter indignantly turned to the AI. “Well done, Lyla. Good girl.”
“What the hell?” Peter hisses, looking back at Miguel lying on the blood-soaked mattress.
Well, of course, he must have tried to take care of everything before passing out. Cursing quietly, Peter nervously runs his hand through his hair. Was he trying to do everything by himself again? Brilliant. And this is the smartest superhero he knows. Pursing his lips into a thin line, Peter goes into the living room to get the first aid kit lying on the sofa. His only hope is that Miguel won't mind if he finishes the job he started.
***
His limbs have never felt so heavy.
It feels as if a cement truck drove over him, spilling fresh asphalt in its wake. Getting unstuck from the bed turns out to be the most difficult task in recent years; his body is so unresponsive that Miguel almost believes that he has again become an ordinary human who woke up after a drinking binge. His head is also spinning like a merry-go-round when he sits down slowly and grunts.
The injury across his back makes itself known in short order, and he reaches out his hand, intending to check its condition — only he has no idea where the new bandages that were properly wrapped around him came from. The old ones lay on the bedside table, next to the first aid kit and a medical binder. Miguel only remembers using it a couple of times after purchasing it. Who the shock...?
“Lyla?” The yellow hologram appears in front of him, smiling welcomingly as always. “What the hell happened to you?”
“All my systems are functioning normally,” the AI replies, running her eyes over the datasets that appeared in the air.
“I gave you an order!” He clearly remembered how he forbade her to call for help, however, judging by the bandages used, Lyla happily decided to do things her own way.
“I didn’t call the medical staff,” she insists, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning indignantly. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Give me an account of what happened while I was unconscious,” he rubs his eyes, his head still spinning, and the situation is not improving his condition in any way.
“At 6:32, your vitals dropped to a critical level. You needed aid, but doctors were banned, so I didn't call them,” blinking, the AI continues the report. “According to my database, if my owner needs assistance, family, friends or acquaintances should be contacted. You forbid disturbing Gabriel, so I called your friend.”
Miguel blinks stupidly. Well, of course, Lyla did not violate the order. She just, shockingly, bypassed it. Sometimes he forgets that the LYrate Lifeform Approximation is much smarter than simple talking interfaces, in fact, she is not even completely artificial. She has an imagination, he was convinced of this more than once; it’s not surprising that she found a way to do things her own way. Miguel sighs, knowing that next time he would have to be more specific.
“I have no friends,” Miguel growls in a tone that suggests he has to repeat the phrase several times a day.
“No, you have at least one. Peter, from Earth 616B,” Lyla retorts, tilting her head to the side. “He constantly calls you a friend, and you don’t correct him. So I thought it appropriate to add him to your friends list.”
“Mierda,” Miguel curses, wearily getting out of bed.
Perhaps it was his own miscalculation. Lyla always liked to take things too literally, and he knew this, but he still preferred to respond to Peter's chatter with silence. He was just tired of trying to get him to shut up. It didn't work, ever. There was a time when Miguel was itching to throw something heavy at the man, and he quite clearly telegraphed it, but... this man has no instinct of self-preservation, otherwise it was impossible to explain his disregard for any potential threats. Miguel gave up on it a long time ago. And, apparently, Lyla took this as a go-ahead.
“How long did I sleep?” His head is still spinning, so he has to lean on the wall on the way to the living room.
“Eleven hours and thirty-two minutes,” Lyla appears nearby, looking at the watch in her hand that had come from nowhere. “He waited for you to wake up, but in the end he fell asleep himself.”
“Who...?” Miguel wants to ask, but his eyes quickly catch on the red and blue suit peeking out from behind the back of the sofa.
He freezes for a second, looking intensely at Peter sleeping in his apartment, and then turns his darkened gaze to the AI. When Miguel mouths what the shock is wrong with you, she chuckles quietly and moves closer to Parker, leaning over him.
“If it weren’t for him, you would have slept much longer,” she remarks, looking smug.
She looks at him, completely confident that she’s right. Although it's unnecessary; Miguel himself understood perfectly well in the clarity that daylight provides that everything could have been much worse. And it seems good that everything worked out, but he can’t shake the feeling that he could have handled it on his own. It would certainly be better, more reliable, because someone like him should never rely on someone else’s help. He always managed on his own, right? He really can't afford to lose his grip on his independence.
“You’re exaggerating,” Miguel mutters under his breath, feeling something inside him unpleasantly scratching his frayed nerves.
This is the first and last time. Next time, he won't make the same mistakes; he'll dodge shots, he'll avoid serious injury, he won't be out of action for so long, he'll get back to HQ on time... and shock it, he'll tell Lyla not to do anything stupid clearly enough that she won't bother looking for loopholes in his instructions.
A rustle from the side of the sofa makes Miguel sigh resignedly and close his eyes — it seems that their conversation woke Peter up. He rolls over onto his back and slowly sits up, his already constantly disheveled hair now looking like a bird's nest, slanted to the side. He looks around, barely opening his eyes. It takes him a moment to notice Lyla bending over him, and he jumps slightly, causing the AI to chuckle.
“I still think you need coffee,” she smiles widely and disappears, leaving Peter alone with his eyes fluttering.
At least that's what he thought. Because as soon as he notices Miguel silently watching from the side, he almost jumps for a second time, and then rolls off the sofa onto the floor, getting tangled in the blanket. Miguel raises an eyebrow questioningly, watching him fuss and wondering how in the world this man has lived to his age.
“Miguel!” Peter stands up from the floor, shaking off invisible dust. “You’ve finally woken up! I was starting to think that I should have taken you to the hospital.”
“I’m fine, but it’s high time for you to get back to 616B,” Miguel interrupts him, feeling that this conversation could drag on as usual if he lets it. “I’ll return to HQ soon. Lyla, tell them to prepare yesterday’s reports.”
“Hey, hey, wait!” Again, in the blink of an eye, Peter finds himself closer than he should be, and Miguel rolls his eyes resignedly. “Are you going to return to work in this condition?”
“My condition doesn’t concern you,” Miguel says and turns around, intending to end the conversation with his departure.
“I mean, do you think I decided to come here in the middle of the night for nothing?” Peter found himself right in front of him, frowning frustratedly. “As your friend, I—”
“I have no friends,” all this, combined with the ache in his back and spinning head, began to irritate him greatly. Miguel bares his fangs in the face of the man who kept blocking the way.
He walks around him, making his way to the kitchen, where the smell of fresh coffee emanates. Bitter, but effective; it always helped him get back on his feet faster, even though Lyla had a negative opinion about it.
“But I’m here,” Peter says after him, and Miguel winces at the hurt in his voice. “I came because I was worried. Because you needed help.”
“Thank Lyla for wasted time. I don’t need anyone’s help, but you can go home and tell your wife you’ve already filled your good deed quota for the day,” Miguel snaps without turning around, his spinning head not appreciating the endless chatter.
“I am not going to-”
Peter barely has time to dodge the vase that flies at him, and a moment later catches it a millimeter from the wall, an impact which would probably have shattered it. Looking at Miguel with round eyes, he wants to express his completely justified indignation, but instead falls silent.
Miguel, frowning, grabs his side with his hand and leans against the counter. Lyla, as if on command, appears in front of him, putting a medical cap on her head. Seeing this, Miguel curses quietly.
“It seems that due to blood loss, your body is recovering much more slowly than usual,” she drawls, raising her glasses to scan him. “Your ribs have not yet fully fused, you should move less if you don’t want the bones to shift. And I won't make you coffee.”
This is clearly not his day. His own AI is rebelling against him, and of all the Spider-People, it is Parker who has the honor of getting on his nerves in his own home.
Sighing heavily, Miguel heads back towards the couch, ignoring Peter's attempts to start a conversation again. And that's how it was always, from the very first day this Spider-Man didn't listen to him. Miguel tried to work, and Peter seemed to be trying to prevent him from doing it, and no matter what Miguel said, Peter did it his way. And we’re not even talking about missions, no, Parker never failed them. It's about himself. Miguel had no idea why this man felt the need to force his company on him whenever he was nearby. He simply appeared like the sun in the middle of the night, interrupting the established silence, so that Miguel, who was accustomed to it, flinched in surprise.
Peter could talk non-stop, and even for Spider-Man this level of chattiness was something out of the ordinary; Miguel was ready to swear that he had never met a single similar superhero in any of the universes he’s traveled to. Always chattering, always smiling, always too much of him. Miguel tried everything from polite requests to actual physical threats, but Peter continued to come to his lab whenever he had a free moment. No one came to his lab just to chat. Only Peter. Miguel wasn't sure what he did to deserve all this.
“I think we need to change the bandages,” the sofa next to him sags and Miguel turns his head, notices the first aid kit in someone else’s hands. “I know that you can go through hell and high water, but this way it will be much faster. You're already itching to get back to work, aren't you?”
“You won't leave me alone no matter what my answer is, right?” Miguel clarifies, to which the man raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Shock, fine.”
Peter handles the task surprisingly quickly. Miguel might even have admired it if a minute later his head hadn't again begun to buzz because of a stream of idle chatter. Some of them explained Parker’s knowledge of first aid — a lone superhero with his experience had to patch himself up many times after particularly difficult fights. Yes, he has been doing heroics much longer than Miguel, who spent most of his life in the Alchemax laboratories with reports in his hands. Peter is good at all aspects of his job. Especially in the art of killing brain cells of anybody unlucky enough to be in his conversational radius.
A beeping sound emanates from the kitchen.
Getting up from the sofa, Peter grabs old bandages and, having said something with a smile on his face, disappears from view, leaving Miguel alone. However, only for about forty seconds, after which he appears again, with a bowl in his hands that smells of something edible. Miguel stands frozen in disbelief, still not putting the robe back on his shoulders, watching as Parker placed what — judging by the smell, was soup — on the table.
“I'm sorry that I used your kitchen without asking,” he shrugs, handing Miguel a spoon. “But it was extremely difficult to pass up, considering that it cooks by itself.”
“For the record, I didn't offer it to him,” Lyla appears next to him for a couple of seconds to interject, and then disappears again.
“What is that?” Miguel is in no hurry to take the cutlery from his hands, looking questioningly at Peter.
“This is soup,” he explains, nodding slowly and clearly but wondering if Miguel had not tried this before. “I thought that since you are against doctors, then ... I'll just help you to get better?”
“I don't need a babysitter,” Miguel mutters, rubbing his eyes.
“As soon as you’re on the mend, I won't mother hen you anymore, I promise,” Parker just shoved the spoon into his hands. “But for now, you'll have to put up with me. Just a couple of days, the multiverse won't collapse in your absence.”
To be fair, the soup wasn't that bad. But the proposal to observe bed rest is just the opposite. Fortunately, Peter did not insist on his own. Or maybe he didn’t have time for it, because as soon as he opened his mouth to Miguel’s refusal, Lyla appeared in front of them and announced an incoming call.
Upon hearing the caller's name, Miguel took a deep breath, wondering whether to answer, but finally told the AI to connect him. She blinked, changing her appearance to that of a hologram of a young man in a striped scarf with strange glasses on his head.
Parker squints, peering into the digitized face. Dark hair, tan skin with freckles, pronounced cheekbones - it all looked familiar enough to make him turn in Miguel's direction. Finally, the stranger moves away and begins to walk around the room.
“Miguel, what the shock happened?” The hologram gestures with his hands, pointing somewhere to the side. “Blocks collapsed in downtown, people say that Spider-Man was there, and this is the first time I’ve heard about this, because you haven’t been in touch for more than a week!”
“I just had things to do,” Miguel says wearily, his eyes following the figure pacing back and forth. “I’m fine, Gabri. Alive and well.”
“Yes, I see. Do you have any idea how worried I was?” Finally, he stops and, crossing his arms over his chest, looks at Miguel.
“Sorry, I’m really very busy lately,” The caller closed his eyes, nodding. “I’ll call you back a little later, and we'll talk quietly, okay? Give me two days.”
“Well, of course,” he clasps his hands, rolling his eyes. “Urgent business... Make sure Lyla reminds you of this, otherwise you’ll forget again.”
“See you later,” the interface falls silent, blinking again and shifting back into a familiar female figure. Miguel throws his head back, closing his eyes.
“Who was that?” Peter was so silent that Miguel almost forgot about his presence. “It looks like he knows that you are Spider-Man. Or do all your friends know?”
Turning to him, Miguel's gaze lingers on the coffee table, searching for words. It didn't seem like Parker was driven by anything other than curiosity, but the question still seemed too personal. Partly because no one from HQ had ever been interested in anything like this before.
“No, not all. Only a few.” Miguel could count such people on his fingers, and if we subtract those who died due to his own failures, then it would be even less.
“So who is he?” Miguel can’t help but glare, and Peter, taking the hint, slowly nods and turns away.
Maybe he was a little hasty with his questions. Or this one was too familiar. Or Miguel just didn't want to talk anymore. This, of course, did not happen very often; usually he was simply not very talkative with Parker, answering him briefly. But now he was almost telling him to fuck off. It's rude, of course, but Peter is not the kind of person who would harass a wounded man. He will wait until he gets back on his feet.
“It was Gabriel,” Peter startles, glancing back at Miguel. “My brother.”
“You have a brother?!” Maybe that was a little too much, because Miguel again looks at him disapprovingly.
“Yes, younger,” he adds, and Peter feels the corner of his lips curve up. “It’s not relevant to the work, so I didn’t say anything.”
His family problems don't involve the problems of the multiverse, at least this time. And... if he nevertheless decided to tell someone about his “wonderful” family, then the story would not be particularly long, because the list of his living relatives, whom he generally wants to mention, ends with Gabriel. But for some time now he has been present in Miguel’s life only as a hologram, preferring to spend his time in a VR world. Miguel could no longer remember the last time he saw his brother in person, or when Gabri shamelessly invaded his personal space out of great joy. He and Peter were similar in this regard — they both liked to get closer than necessary. In relation to Garbiel, Miguel was used to this; after all, they grew up together. But it was harder to get used to Parker.
He sighs heavily. It turns out that around him there are only work colleagues and assorted supervillains. He glances sideways at Peter, who is sipping coffee from Miguel's favorite mug that says "World's Greatest Brain." Yes, there are only strangers around. And Peter. How did he even manage to run into this man?
Well, to be fair, Miguel didn’t know when he came to Earth 616B that he would stumble upon the most insufferable Spider-Man he had ever met. Miguel remembered the day, or rather night, surprisingly well. Rainy New York at the beginning of the century, with lightning flashing every now and then in the dark sky and the noise of city streets somewhere below. The apartment was quiet, only the police radio lying on the floor periodically buzzing with static. Peter slept on the sofa, having failed to remove his suit after the night’s patrol, and the barely audible snoring of his wife could be heard from the next room. Miguel tried to be quieter, walking up to the sofa, reaching out to Parker when lightning flashed outside the window once again. The reaction of the abruptly conscious Spider-Man exceeded all expectations - he stared for a second at the tall stranger bending over him, then yelped like a girl, picking up the walkie-talkie from the floor with a web and flinging it at Miguel. Fortunately, he managed to catch not only the object flying past, but also prevent Parker from falling off the sofa. In the chaos, he managed to cover his mouth, successfully ensuring Mary Jane did not wake up even in the midst of so much upheaval.
Miguel remembered that night in detail. Because that time he, accustomed to not paying attention to his superhuman senses, suddenly got lost in them. The smell of baby powder on hands that have absorbed someone else's warmth, the trembling of a pulse under the skin, rapid breathing and wide tawny-brown eyes. He remembered everything.
Not that this was a problem for him, but Miguel did not like strangers. In most cases it was mutual, because his general demeanor was not at all approachable. This was partly because long-term communication with someone greatly exhausted him, both mentally and physically. So everything is better short and straight to the point, preferably from a distance of at least one and a half meters; closer — and something inside him began to choke. Something–or rather his arachnid half–reminds him every time that it actually works differently. Humans hear and see only what they need; immersed in their world of technology, they have long stopped focusing on noise or strong odors, and are accustomed to the bright lights associated with everyday life. Spiders... spiders constantly learn about the world around them to the fullest — through touch. Texture, temperature, smell, taste, even sound — they can recognize all this only by touching, in the smallest detail. And it turns out, Miguel can too. But he doesn't want to know any of this about people who don't have much importance to him. But of course, no one needs to know about all this.
So literally everyone in the society knows that it’s better not to get too close to him, for the sake of personal safety; Miguel can’t stand it when his head is filled with unnecessary information about what someone smells like and how fast their heart is beating. He is ready to explain more than clearly if someone did not understand the first time that it is better to report to him about missions through the watches, and other than that, not to bother him. Otherwise, a couple of consoles will suffer. And someone's psyche.
But Peter is different.
He has no inhibitions, no sense of personal space, he easily closes his eyes to the line that Miguel draws between himself and others, he comes closer than others can afford. He spins around, chats, touches — this is not a joke, no, just part of his nature, but Miguel’s whole being, accustomed to loneliness, goes crazy. Because he cannot understand whether it is bad or not, to literally feel another person with his skin every time. Entirely and immediately. God, he could sometimes figure out what Peter had eaten for breakfast or that he had hung out the freshly washed laundry a couple of hours ago. But that's not all. Other people evoked the same reaction in Miguel — the desire to step away and threaten physical harm. Peter...caused only irritation. And for some reason unknown to anyone, he’s drawn to the company of the always gloomy and agitated Miguel. Shock knows why.
And now — Miguel returned to work a couple of days later, his broken bones ached unpleasantly at most, and his head returned to normal — not even an hour has passed when Peter shows up at his office. Miguel couldn’t get him out, so he’s since changed his strategy. As he had discovered some time ago, Peter is a great listener in the sense that he would shut up as soon as any serious topic got underway. So Miguel simply starts to talk out loud about one of the recently emerging anomalies, which, by the way, also helps to quickly find a way to catch the villain. He sends Lyla in search of free Spider-People, and when the AI disappears, he turns to the still silent Peter. Surprisingly, the monologue ended about ten seconds ago, and he has not yet tried to fill the silence with his chatter.
“So... How are you feeling?” Well, here we go. Miguel blinks slowly, turning back to the screens.
In fact, it was worth admitting that Peter’s help was very useful. Miguel recovered quite quickly, and as for the paperwork, he was able to successfully sort it out from home, so now he could not only take a breather after reading the reports, but also get out on a mission in person without any health consequences. So it was worth it to put up with Peter for two days.
“I’ll live,” he replies, opening new video files on the anomalies. “And... thank you.”
He could literally feel with his skin how Peter beamed at these words. In an amicable way, he should make an effort to return the favor that was given to him, otherwise this whole situation for Miguel — who is accustomed to relying only on his own strengths — could spiral out of control. Now that Peter has helped him, he will likely do it again, and Miguel will try to return the favor — in the end it will all result in a strange-looking partnership. No, thank you. Miguel does better on his own.
“You know, this expression on your face is quite funny,” Peter suddenly remarks, leaning on the console. “Are you already thinking how to get rid of me? I have an idea.”
Miguel closes his eyes, sighing. What a shock. Peter doesn't seem to hang around him all day long just to talk, he actually notices things. Does Miguel really look that way when he thinks a lot? He looks questioningly at Peter, who grins slyly in response. For some reason, Miguel has a feeling that this idea is not going to end well.
“I have a question. Out of purely scientific interest. Answer it, and I'll leave you alone for the rest of the day,” Peter steps closer to him, lowering his gaze to Miguel’s hands. “How exactly do your…claws work?”
Compared to what Miguel was already mentally bracing for, this question can be considered somewhat innocent. Well, it’s also justified — most Spider-People, including Peter himself, can climb walls and ceilings as they please without leaving traces, but not Miguel. He prefers to move on his own two feet, on a web or gliding through the air, and if he touches flat surfaces, he leaves very noticeable holes and tears in them. So it's not that surprising that Peter took notice.
“First off, they are not just ‘claws‘. These are tarsal claws, there is a big difference,” Miguel corrects him, to which Peter raises his eyebrows with a smile. “I can fold them if I concentrate and…”
It’s disconcerting how intently Peter is looking at him. Miguel could have given a whole lecture on how spiders work in nature, but he was more than sure that’s not what Peter was interested in. The way those brown eyes look at him slyly speaks for itself. And the worst thing is that he can no longer turn back. Not now.
“You know what?” he takes a deep breath, about to make what he considers a big mistake. “Here you go.”
Peter's eyes grow several times larger, as if in some kind of cartoon, when Miguel extends his hand to him, offering to explore everything on his own. To be perfectly honest, he didn’t think he would get this far; to be more precise, he can hardly believe it. Because Miguel O'Hara is the last sort to offer a handshake to anyone. To the contrary, he prefers not to touch anyone at all.
Even though Peter takes his hand like some ancient and very fragile artifact, the touch still feels overwhelming. Miguel clenches his teeth, trying to distract himself from the sensations, but even through the fabric of his suit he feels too much. It is ten times more intense than any other human could feel, because humans, shockingly, do not know how to smell or taste with their fingertips. But he can. And because of this, the spider inside him literally wriggles from an excess of sensations, knocking its paws against the nerves. It seems that every touch goes somewhere very deep inside, so deep that it’s strange to even think about it.
When Peter puts a little more pressure on his fingers, forcing Miguel to release his claws, he barely restrains himself from tearing his hand out of Peter’s incredibly careful grip. His touch glides across the palm, making sure that the claws are barely palpable when closed, and then forces them to open again, pressing firmly in the opposite direction. Oh God.
“They’re like a pocketknife,” Peter mutters under his breath, leaning closer. “I thought they were more like a cat’s, but no. Just thinking about it... can you control them?”
“Partly. Usually they’re open, so I have to concentrate to hide them,” Miguel’s tongue slurs slightly, but he composes himself. “But they close on their own when I touch my skin. I think it's a reflex.”
“Incredible,” Peter rubs the pad of his thumb several times, frowning thoughtfully, the warmth seeping through the fabric of his suit. “Are they visible on the skin?”
“Only if you look really closely.”
Miguel did not have time to examine what motivated him. The thought began with a desire to answer a question, and then drowned in something that had been swirling inside him ever since Peter took his hand. Part of the suit disappeared in a glittering rush of nanotech, exposing his palm. Miguel thinks he must have gone crazy. But even gathering his scattered thoughts, he can not change his mind, not when Peter smiles like an enthusiastic child who has seen something completely new and so incredible that the joy that overwhelmed him could have illuminated Miguel’s entire dark laboratory.
But the very next second, Miguel regrets his rash decision, because Peter takes his hand again, but this time much less carefully. No, he literally grabs it, impatiently and excitedly. Then presses on the wrist, which arches for some reason, and palps each finger many times. Against the background of tanned skin, claws look bright, but as soon as they fold, the only thing that can give them away is a barely noticeable seal just under the skin. Peter forces them to open again, presses into the middle of his palm — it reflexively contracts, as if trying to grab something. And every touch leaves behind an invisible imprint burning with what feels like fire. Miguel thinks he is dying. And also that this warmth is not enough for him.
Finally looking up from exploring his hand, Peter lifts his gaze, about to say something, but freezes — a pair of red eyes with unexpectedly light pupils are locked onto his own. He can’t help but notice a pair of protruding fangs visible behind parted lips, from between which quickened breathing escapes. And it seems that the light from the holographic screens falls a little strangely, because the shade of Miguel’s face seems to have changed. It only seems. Surely it seems, because this man, who cannot even stand talking to someone for any length of time, could not like what Peter was doing with his hands.
“Oh, crap, sorry, I got a little carried away,” letting go of his hand, Peter smiles guiltily. “It’s just... really cool.”
Miguel looks somewhere past him, as if ignoring everything. He closes his eyes, frowns again, and then whispers something just audible to human ears.
“No pares.”
The prolonged silence is unable to hide the words, but Peter still doesn’t know Spanish. And for the first time in his life, he truly regrets that he did not learn it in school.
“Sorry, what?” He asks, but Miguel is already coming back to reality, blinking away the strange expression on his face.
“I…” the pupils darken again and he touches his wrist, reactivating the retracted part of the suit before quietly clearing his throat. “I hope that was enough to satisfy your scientific interest.”
“Yes,” Peter nods slowly, feeling the tips of his ears growing warmer. “ Yes, of course. Certainly. Yeah.”
Also shaking his head, Miguel turns back to the screens, resolutely not responding to Peter's subsequent farewell. He leaves quickly and doesn’t even linger at the entrance as is his usual habit. However, Miguel doesn’t care about that, not now.
Now, the only thing that worries him is the fact that the warmth that has settled into his hand does not make him want to curl up in a defensive ball away from everyone. Quite the opposite, actually. And this, in the face of every other revelation to date, is very unnerving. Unnerving, and perhaps, just slightly exciting.