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A spider’s web is a lovely, terrifying thing.
It is an infinitely complex structure, held together by fine, calculated points, all working towards one goal: holding it stable. Each node connected to the rest, creating a beautifully grotesque picture of order.
That was the first thought Miguel had when Lyla created a simulation of what the multiverse looked like: it’s a spider’s web. And wasn’t that just a sign from the universe itself?
This is it, it seemed to say, this is what you’re supposed to be doing. And he understood.
Ever since he’d become Spider-Man, since half of him had been made into an animal, he understood what he had to do—and that was to not stop. Don’t stop fighting, don’t stop helping. And he accepted it with open arms, at first. Using the distorted parts of him, imposed on his body by Alchemax, to be a hero and to do what others could never do, talons digging into metal, claws tearing through flesh, and fangs plunging into necks.
But Miguel can admit it, he was self-centered during that time.
He still thought of Spider-Man as something he did, not someone he is. He still thought he could stop, and live as Miguel O’Hara.
He thought lots of things.
When the multiverse happened, when Lyla strapped her gizmo to his wrist, he took it in stride: he protects Nueva York, he can help other Spider-People as well.
And then—and then, he got selfish.
Because he saw the life he never got to have, became a watcher of the version of himself he never could have been, like he was viewing some sort of twisted telenovela. He saw his amazing Gabriella, living a life she never lived with him.
And he saw nothing else.
Sometimes he still remembers it, clawing at his gut and almost making him retch, the feeling he got when he saw his alternate self get murdered: like inhaling fresh air after realizing you’d been holding your breath, sharp relief and fear mixing together. He almost feels shame at how fast he made his decision, at how little it took for him to find himself staring at the dead, lifeless eyes of himself.
Burying yourself is not something you forget anytime soon.
He stopped being Spider-Man, and lived with his beautiful daughter. He played soccer, he laughed, he cooked and cleaned for her, he pretended to remember her friends, he didn’t notice the way she sometimes looked at his barely hidden fangs, like she knew something was wrong, wrong, wrong—
And then it all came crashing down.
Because when you stop being Spider-Man, bad things happen. Uncles, captains, lovers, all happen.
So when he comes back, when all he can hear are his daughter’s cries still, he realizes: he won’t stop again.
He likes to pretend Peter B. Parker wasn’t there, that he didn’t see him at the lowest point of his entire life—and if he had to say one thing to his credit, the man makes it easy. He never mentions it, never brings up anything related to it, and it’s a wonder, really, given how much he’s able to fill the air with incessant, unnecessary chatter.
Miguel spends his days in his office (and corrects Lyla whenever she calls it his man-cave), staring at dozens of holo-screens that only make sense to him. Like a spider crafting its web: complex and wondrous to anyone from the outside looking in, but instinctual to the one creating it. His eyes, always red, scan quickly through tons of realities at the same time, looking for something, anything, that will make him bark orders into his gizmo and send a squad out there, dealing with whatever the problem is.
He doesn’t stop.
Parker likes to come by often, or so Lyla tells him. He doesn’t turn around whenever he hears him enter, doesn’t pay attention to the way his feet thud on the metal flooring, and doesn’t hear his webs thwip as he hangs onto a wall. He knows he’s there, and knows he should ask himself why he keeps coming to his office, but he doesn’t let his thoughts stray from the multiverse.
Parker never tries to rope him into a conversation. He’s apparently happy enough talking to his back, hours of word vomit filling Miguel’s ears. He knows it’s about nothing and everything at the same time, about a bad guy he caught that day, about what Mayday’s been doing, about trying to learn how to use a new microwave his Mary Jane bought. He doesn’t listen, and lets it all wash over him, becoming white noise.
(The only moment he registers is when Parker goes away, when the noise suddenly leaves. When all he can hear is his own breathing, but he doesn’t stop.)
Lyla talks to him as well, but her comments are easier to notice. She helps him monitor the multiverse, checking what he can’t, and warning him when there’s something worth warning him about. She still tries to joke, to subtly (or at least subtly for her) tell him to get out of the office and rest, but those he ignores.
(One day, she gets fed up at his lack of answers, and a frustrated “Fine. Destroy yourself, for all I care,” comes out of her. He doesn’t hear it.)
He keeps staring at the thin, interconnected lives in front of him. Every node is a tragedy, every tragedy holding up all the universes. He tells himself it has to be this way, because he can’t bear the thought of it being otherwise.
Something hits his back.
He snaps out of the daze he gets in when he stares at the holo-screens, eyes moving on their own to notice any disruption of the particular pattern he knows has to exist. His brows are furrowed, and he suddenly realizes he has a headache.
Turning his head, he looks to the floor of his platform, and sees—
He sees an empanada, lying behind his feet.
“Whoops! Sorry about that—I miscalculated, it was meant to land on your desk. Rookie mistake,” a smooth voice says, and Miguel doesn’t raise his head, because he knows that’s what Parker wants.
“Dunno if the five-second-rule still applies, but I’ve never adhered to it,” he adds, and at that, Miguel lifts his gaze to glare at him. Parker is seated on the wall in front of his platform, eating a burger like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, a smirk on his face.
(Miguel knows. Spider-Man doesn’t miscalculate. He ignores the notion.)
“What are you doing?” he asks, the words coming out as a growl. His throat feels parched.
Parker slightly lifts the hand holding his food. “Eating,” he answers.
“No, you—” Miguel starts, and then shuts his eyes as another growl threatens to get out him. He really has an headache.
He breathes, and opens his eyes again—he doesn’t look at Parker, this time. “Why are you eating here?”
Shuffling on the wall makes him think Parker is moving around, maybe adjusting his position. Then, he says: “I like the lighting.”
Miguel’s eyes snap to him again. He’s now laying on the wall, legs crossed at the ankle. Half of his burger is gone, and Miguel doesn’t understand.
“What?” he hears himself say, confusion making his voice softer, almost smaller.
Peter lifts his head from the wall to look at him. “The lighting,” he says again, gesturing to the red and yellow LEDs that tinge the room around them in a warm glow—like Miguel might not know what lighting means. “It’s nice. Not too strong, very calming. ’S like all the glow stars Mayday has in her room, at night.”
Then he takes another bite.
Miguel keeps his eyes on him, and then shakes his head. He turns around again, because he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t want to, and he can’t stop. His attention goes back to the monitors, and he doesn’t hear Parker finishing his lunch, he doesn’t ask himself what the hell his deal is, doesn’t feel his headache getting worse by the second.
“You’re not gonna eat that?” Parker asks, and a thwip resonates through the office as he grabs the empanada, still laying behind him.
When Miguel doesn’t answer, he immediately falls back into having a conversation with himself, like he doesn’t mind. “Then I’ll have it. God, the food here is so good—and for what? No reason, I tell you.” He hears the sounds of Parker munching on the empanada, and tunes him out. He can’t afford to listen to someone eating instead of focusing on keeping the multiverse safe. His eyes fall back in their way of scanning around the screens automatically, and he follows Spider-Woman from Earth-196, Spider-Man from Earth-32 and Web-Slinger with Widow as they take down an anomaly.
He doesn’t hear Parker leave.
He wakes up, his left cheek pressed against cold, unforgiving metal. His back aches, little sparks of discomfort running up and down his spine, and the rest of his body feels cramped up. His eyes adjust to the brief flash of pain that always happens whenever he opens them after having slept, even in the relative darkness of his office.
He raises his head from his desk, and before his mind catches up to it, his body is already turning on all the holo-screens. He squints at the sudden light, and calls out, “How long?”
Lyla appears next to the screens to his left, with her back turned to him. “Two hours and twenty-four minutes,” she responds, voice flat.
Too much, he thinks, and starts sending out orders to a small Spider-Squad to check out Earth-045. Then, that small, tinny voice says, “You gonna get out of here anytime soon?”
Miguel frowns, and concentrates on the screens. “Lyla,” he warns. They’ve had this conversation a couple of times, and it always devolves in either him shutting her out of his office equipment for the day, or her disappearing on her own.
“Lyla,” she parrots, making her voice deeper and more gravelly. “No—listen. You’ve been in here for six days, Miguel, and the last time you went out was for a mission. You—”
He feels his hands clench into fists, and his eyes close. He doesn’t turn to look at her, and simply lets the hot, easy feeling of anger course through him. “Stop,” he interrupts, and points to the screens behind his left shoulder, still not looking. “Your job is to keep those universes in check.”
She continues as if he hadn’t said anything. “There’s the cafeteria, and—and what about your apartment? What, you’re just never gonna step in it again? You wanna live here? You wanna sleep two hours every—every three days, or something, and—”
“What I want,” snarls Miguel, turning to look at her small, holographic figure, “is for you to mind your own goddamn business, and do your job,” he finishes, standing a scant few centimeters from her, breaths heavy.
(He doesn’t see the brief flash of hurt, the way her eyes widen a fraction, before she smooths her expression into a neutral one. He doesn’t see it, because she can’t do something like that, she’s artificial.)
She takes a few steps back, staring at him with emotionless eyes, and nods. “Sure, boss,” she says, and then disappears. Miguel sees that she’s working, the screens moving, even thought she has turned off her projection, and turns back towards his own station. He can’t stop.
Something hits his back. Again.
“Hijo de—” he starts, and then bites himself off as he sees the empanada between his feet.
These are the kind of occasions he wishes he had a spider-sense, like many of the others.
“Ooh, I know that one!” Parker calls out, “No-no words are universal.”
Miguel turns towards him, and sees him already perched on the wall behind his platform. He’s eating a taco today, and many of the toppings are falling down on his floor. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and slowly breathes in. “Get out.”
Parker looks at him lazily, and takes another bite. “That’s not what you say when someone brings you food.”
Miguel sees red, and he’s pretty sure his claws are going to pop out. “I didn’t ask—”
“Speaking of,” the other interrupts, “you gonna eat it this time? ‘Cause I don’t know if I have the strength in me to eat your portion again,” he says as he chews, and Miguel doesn’t notice the nonchalant way Parker is analyzing how he looks, the bags under his eyes, his hunched back, his messy hair.
“You—” Miguel starts again, and then,
“Who am I kidding, of course I can.”
gets interrupted again.
He decides to ignore him. He doesn’t have time to ask himself why Parker wants to hang out here, of all places. He doesn’t have time to wonder why he saw a brief flash of worry in Parker’s eyes as he was looking Miguel over. He doesn’t have time to stop doing his job. He turns back towards his desk, and Parker starts his usual cascade of words, each apparently being pulled out of his mouth by the previous, tangling in a way seemingly random to outsiders, but that makes perfect sense to Parker.
(In a certain sense, it also resembles a spider’s web.)
He hears a thwip and the empanada is pulled away from under him. He stares at a Scorpion anomaly on Earth-98473 as Araña subdues him; a Green Goblin cackling as he throws bombs at Spider-Man on Earth-03872; a Big Wheel losing balance as he gets immobilized by Spider-Girl and spider-Woman on Earth-2944456.
When the white noise quiets down, minutes or hours later, when Parker finishes talking and walks away, he hears a soft thunk to his right, and he turns to see the empanada has landed on his desk.
When he looks behind himself, Parker is already gone.
It becomes a recurring thing, because Miguel has no idea what else to call it.
Parker comes by. Not every day, but often enough. He throws an empanada on Miguel’s desk, sits on his walls, and talks as he eats.
He doesn’t throw them at his back anymore. Sometimes Miguel picks it up from his desk and eats as he continues looking at the holo-screens, sometimes he doesn’t and Parker eats it. Every time, he hears Parker talk, and talk, and talk, and he asks himself how someone can be that entertained by the sound of their own voice. He lets it all wash over him, as he sends out orders, taps coordinates into the gizmo, swipes from feed to feed.
The more it happens, the more Miguel starts to eat as Parker is there. He doesn’t think about what Parker is truly doing, why he insists on eating in the dark of Miguel’s office instead of anywhere else. He can’t dwell on it, he can’t stop.
One time he hears different thwips, all overlaying together, and turns around to see Parker has made himself an hammock made of webs hanging from the ceiling, and is slowly rocking left and right as he keeps on chattering. He immediately turns towards his screens again.
Miguel doesn’t notice whenever Parker goes away.
The day had started off badly.
His head pounded when he woke up at his desk (“One hour and forty-four minutes,” Lyla supplied in a monotone), his eyes burned, and he felt like his fangs were too big for his mouth. He’d watched as a Spider-Person was almost beaten by a Venom variant, and had to send two others to help out, staring at the screen and gripping his desk the whole time. The sounds coming from the holo-screens were loud, too loud, so he muted them—even though he shouldn’t have, because he also needed sound to notice if something was going wrong, but his head is splitting in two, his fangs are too sharp, and—
And there is too much silence.
His breaths seem to echo in the enclosed office, booming and mixing with his heartbeats. He places his head in his hands, sitting down on his chair and putting his elbows on the desk. He can’t stop, he knows, and each second he’s not staring at the screens he feels the tug to do it getting stronger, because what if something has happened, what if someone got hurt because he wasn’t looking, because he’s not doing his job like he should—
Then something lands on his desk.
“Asked the chef to surprise me, this time,” Parker says. “Dunno what this is, but I trust that guy.”
Miguel turns, and sees Parker making himself comfortable in his hammock, a bowl of menudo in his hands. He doesn’t notice the soft tone Parker is using, how his brows are slightly furrowed as he looks Miguel over, how his eyes seem to ask questions Miguel doesn’t want to answer.
Miguel’s gaze goes to the empanada on his desk, and then he has to know.
“Why do you keep coming here?” he asks, and his voice barely goes above a whisper. He looks at the wall above the door, anywhere but where he knows Parker is looking at him.
To his surprise, Parker doesn’t answer immediately, throwing quips. Instead, as Miguel raises his head towards him, he has a thoughtful look on his face. Then he replies, “You’re my friend,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Miguel feels a confused expression take place on his features. He doesn’t dwell on the sudden burst of warmth that blooms in his chest, one that he immediately squashes down. “What?” he says, because what else can he say? He never looks at Parker, never replies, has him have conversations with himself, and even when he does eat at the same time as him, he still doesn’t turn towards the man. He’s not his friend. He hasn’t done anything to be his friend.
He doesn’t want to be, he can’t.
All of these thoughts get condensed into the single “Why?” he asks.
And at that, Parker seems actually surprised. The smile lines around his eyes crinkle as he gets a thoughtful expression. “Why? What, do I need a reason?” he replies, like that’s not how that works.
Miguel frowns. “You—yes,” he says, and he feels as tough Parker and him are having two different conversations about the same subject. “You do, yes.”
Parker hums, and nods. “Didn’t know that. Well, I’ll think about it,” he answers with finality, and then eats a spoonful of his menudo. “Holy shit, this thing’s good,” he praises.
Miguel stares at him. He briefly considers asking more, grabbing Parker by the shoulders and shaking him, and trying to understand the man. Then he sees, out of the corner of his eye, that Spider-Man ’67 has caught a Doc Ock.
He turns back towards the screens, grabs the empanada, and doesn’t hear Parker talk, the silence slowly being replaced by noise that settles like a pleasant buzz in his bones.
The next time Parker comes by is four days later. He’s apologetic, and Miguel doesn’t hear the things he says, that he had to watch Mayday because MJ had an audition, that he had to fix a leak in his house, that he had to catch Green Goblin—
“I thought you already caught him,” he says, turning his head towards the man. Parker stills his hammock and stares at Miguel. Then he asks, “How’d you know?” as a small, pleased smile takes place on his features. Miguel frowns, because he wants to answer, you told me, about a week ago.
He doesn’t. He turns back to the holos, bites into his empanada, and wills the sight of Parker’s smile out of his head, and doesn’t concentrate on the warmth in his chest that seems to be there every time Parker brings him food, now.
“I did,” Parker says, and Miguel doesn’t notice that there’s warmth in his voice, too. “He escaped. Had to get him again.”
Miguel grunts, and continues chewing.
“Anyways, MJ absolutely smashed her audition. Well, she says she was average, but I’m sure that’s not true—she is so talented, man. Honestly, half the pricks that get rewards at like—the Oscars, they’ve got nothing on her.”
“Mayday almost said dada. I know I shouldn’t place expectations about this sorta stuff on her, but she’s already so intelligent—I’ve been reading this book about parenting, and it’s about how I shouldn’t tell her she’s good because she’s smart, because then that sorta undermines her accomplishments, you know? But between you and me, she’s super fucking smart.”
“Some lady whacked me on the head with her purse yesterday. I was trying to help her cross the street, and she didn’t like that at all. She was scolding me—in thai, I think? But—”
With a start, Miguel realizes he’s not watching the holo-screens. He’s looking at them, but the video feeds became blurs as he let the words wash over him.
His head doesn’t feel like it has a cinderblock pressing down on it, anymore.
As Parker tries to repeat what the old lady was telling him, he allows a brief, small puff of laughter to escape him—a small huff, nothing more.
Parker stops speaking, and then, “Oh, I thought about what you asked.”
Miguel turns towards him. “What?”
“You asked why you’re my friend, right?” he recalls, and Miguel suddenly feels like its hard to breathe. He wants to turns around, he has to do his job, he doesn’t care what Parker thinks of him. “Oh,” he says.
Parker looks at him. “Well,” he hums, and then smiles. “I like you,” he tells Miguel, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, again.
He feels the platform under his feet, the chair he’s sitting on, the fangs in his mouth. He hears sounds coming from the screen behind him, and feels his chest expand in a way he hasn’t felt in—a long time.
“That’s not an answer,” he croaks out, because what else can he say? What else is he capable of saying?
Parker laughs, like it’s an inside joke between them, like Miguel isn’t opening at the seams. “Christ, you’re so demanding. What, I gotta find a reason for that too?”
His eyes almost close with how wide his smile is, and Miguel—
Miguel feels his lips tug upwards, a slight tick.
He doesn’t notice that when he turns towards the screens again, Parker hops down from his hammock and sits on his platform as he talks, about this, and this, and that. He doesn’t notice the way Parker calls out to him as he swings down when he leaves, and he doesn’t raise his fingers to give a small wave goodbye.
Miguel doesn’t often join missions.
He prefers to coordinate from above, on his platform, being able to check that everyone and everything is okay. He only steps in when it’s strictly needed, fangs tearing through flesh, claws through metal.
This time, it was needed.
The portal appears in his office, and he exits it and limps towards his desk. As the orange glow behind him disappears, he turns off his mask and doesn’t concentrate on the cut on his forehead, doesn’t feel the blood sluggishly dripping to his lips. He steps in front of the holo-screens, and his eyes don’t hurt, his fangs aren’t too sharp for his mouth, cutting his tongue, his fingertips don’t hurt where his claws come out of them: he’s okay. He is fine.
He needs to do his job.
“Miguel,” a voice says behind him, and he starts, claws unsheathing and mouth opening in a snarl as he whirls around.
Peter has his hands up. “It’s fine,” he says, voice warm. “Just me,” he reassures, taking a step forward.
Miguel retracts his claws, and lowers his arms. He frowns, and musters up enough energy to say, “I’m not hungry.”
He begins turning around, when a hand is placed on his left shoulder. It almost burns, and a small part of him wonders how long it’s been, since he was touched without the intent to hurt. His body tenses, and he doesn’t look at the man behind him. “Don’t,” he says, “I need to—”
“Stop,” Peter’s soft voice says, and his thumb slowly rubs up and down his shoulder, and Miguel doesn’t feel—
He doesn’t know. He has no idea what he’s feeling.
“Please,” he adds, as if he needs to.
He turns around, and he’s spared the mortifying possibility of the other man seeing his eyes—because he doesn’t know what he could find in there—when Peter immediately cups the back of Miguel’s neck and lowers his head on his shoulder, the other hand settling on his back.
Miguel raises his hands and holds on for dear life, as he feels the stinging of tears in his eyes. Peter hums, and his voice seems to be directly injected into Miguel’s veins, when he whispers, “Wanna know what Mayday did today?”
And for the first time in months, Miguel takes a breath of fresh air.