Work Text:
Miguel’s hearing comes back first.
There’s a mumble of voices—familiar, back-set by a steady tone that repeats. These voices reassure Miguel. If they’re here then everything is fine; he doesn’t need to worry. He can stay curled up in this warm, dry space; maybe he’ll go back to sleep. He’s so sleepy, head swimming, his limbs leaden—
I’ve been dosing you with Rapture for days, and you never even noticed. Tyler Stone says—arrogant, so arrogant, so smug and self-assured. The withdrawal will kill you, and since my company is the only licensed distributor, if you survive I’ll have to assume you’re getting it illegally and report you to the police. It would be such a shame.
No, no—why would he give him any—why was he given it again—vertigo even when laying down, that achy feeling on the roof of his mouth—who gave him Rapture—
The steady repeating tone spikes violently, and suddenly there’s hands on him—but a familiar smell, sketchbook paper and ink, something like cardamom—
“Miguel? You awake, tío? Why’s his—get the doctor, his heart rate—“
Miguel forces his eyes open against the painful glare of lights. Miles leans over him in civvies on top of his suit; there’s a marker wedged over the curve of his ear. He smiles—if Miguel weren’t safe he wouldn’t be smiling, so how did someone give him Rapture—and tucks a thick sketchbook under his arm.
“It’s been a couple hours, tío, we were wondering when you’d wake up.” Miles says. Pavitr pops up next to his side and smiles winningly. Why is he—they must be at HQ, if Pavitr and Miles are both here. Where else could they be?
“Who drugged me?” Miguel asks hoarsely. He shoves his hands flat to the bed and tries to lever himself up. A sharp ache spikes in his abdomen, and Miles presses a hand to his shoulder.
“Hold on, maybe you shouldn’t—Gwen’s getting Hobie and a doctor, just wait a second—“ Miles says worriedly. Miguel fights against the pressure; he doesn’t want to wait, he doesn’t want to lay down—someone drugged him—the irritating tone is like an ice pick in his head, would someone make it stop—
“Mr. O’Hara, please lay back down.” A doctor says sternly, striding into the room. Hobie and Gwen follow with a tray of food. “You’re still healing from severe penetrating trauma to your abdomen.”
“Did you give me drugs?” Miguel snaps, glaring through a few errant strands of hair that have fallen into his eyes. The doctor unhooks the data pad hanging at the end of his bed and gives him an unimpressed look over the top.
“Yes, seeing as you managed to impale yourself on a piece of rebar and perforated your stomach. Y’know, the organ that has digestive acids in it.” The doctor says testily. They tap irritably at the pad before squinting at the heart monitor over Miguel’s shoulder. “Calm down. You’re tachycardic.”
“Isn’t 190 a little high for a heart rate?” Pavitr mutters. Hobie shushes him.
“What did you give me?” Miguel asks. He tries to shove his blankets off his legs, but his depth perception must be off—he just keeps ineffectually patting his thighs, and the bright fucking overhead lights are. Not. Helping.
“More like what didn’t I give you.” The doctor says, annoyed. “Ciprofloxacin plus metronidazole for the tetanus and perforation, norepinephrine for the life-threatening hypovolemia, vasopressin for continued management of the hypovolemia and hypotension, dobutamine to boost the strength of your heart, a packed cell infusion and fresh plasma for the blood loss, and honest-to-god ketamine, because you shrugged off every other anesthetic we tried to use and almost disemboweled my trauma surgeon. Twice.”
“You gave him ketamine?” Gwen asks incredulously. “Isn’t that the literal horse tranquilizer? You had to use a horse tranquilizer on him?”
“If you’re worried about narcotics you can rest easy—ketamine is a schedule III non-narcotic drug. We started tapering you off it a little while ago, which is why you might be feeling unwell.” The doctor continues. They don’t seem to care about the four kids in the room, even though there is such a thing as medical privacy.
“Just—just those? Nothing else?” Miguel asks unsteadily. The doctor slowly raises an eyebrow. A single finger pushes their glasses up, and the lens catches a glare off the lights.
“Is there something you’re worried about?” The doctor asks icily. “An unlisted allergy? A prior medication? A prescription you shouldn’t be taking?”
“That’s none of your business,” Miguel hisses, and finally kicks the blankets off of his legs. He’s in a thick pair of flannel pajama pants and hospital socks with the grippy soles. His abdomen is bare but for the thick wad of bandages packed around it.
“ None of my business? Then maybe you’d like to explain some things I noticed when I was elbow-deep in your abdominal cavity.” The doctor says, swinging their arm down and smacking the data pad against their thigh in an irritated manner. “How about the fresh scarring near your liver and just lateral of your kidney? Both indicators of acute trauma—which your children informed me were both due to stab wounds you decided not to have treated—“
“My children?” He asks, thrown enough to stop in his attempts to get out of the bed. The doctor freezes.
“So that was a lie.” They say calmly, lifting a hand to fiddle with their glasses. The four teenagers surrounding Miguel shift guiltily on their feet.
“You wouldn’t have let us—“ Pavitr starts to say, shoulders hunched, and the doctor throws the data pad onto Miguel’s bed.
“Out! Out! Liars do not have visitor privileges!” They explode, marching towards the Spiders as if intending to drag them out by their ears. The four of them scramble for the door and flee without a glance backwards—if Miguel’s head weren’t spinning, if his stomach wasn’t trying to climb out of his throat, he’d wonder what makes a doctor scarier than him.
And then the doctor whirls on him, brows furious over their dark eyes, and Miguel gets it.
“Are you still angry with the kids?” Peter B. asks, sticking his head into the door some time later. Miguel glares at him from the bed he’s been confined to for the foreseeable future. After his… enlightening and educating (and definitely not threatening) conversation with the doctor, Miguel has decided that caution is the better part of valor, and will be stewing silently and horizontally until he’s released.
“They lied to a medical professional.” Miguel says flatly. Peter B. takes that as permission to enter and squirms through the narrow crack in the door.
“They were scared and didn’t want to be separated from you.” Peter says. “That’s hardly the worst thing they could have done—would you prefer it if they break into your hospital room, next time?”
“There won’t be a next time.” Miguel says. Peter snorts and sprawls in the chair left next to his bedside.
“Your confidence is admirable but misplaced.” Peter says. He flicks his fingers idly against the IV running down into Miguel’s arm. “I was wrong when I said you weren’t funny—that statement alone is hilarious.”
“Why are you here?” Miguel asks tiredly, cutting to the chase as he slings an arm over his eyes. There’s silence but for indistinct shuffling before the lights suddenly cut off. When he looks, Peter is returning from the light switch, hands tucked into his robe pockets.
“The kids called me in a panic.” Peter says. “Gwen was terrified. She had to haul your body through the portal and call for a medical transport. You were bleeding everywhere. She didn’t know why you weren’t healing.”
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.” Miguel says. Peter smacks the side of his thigh gently.
“Don’t be an ass.” He says. “The kids care about you, and so do I. Even if they weren’t worried I’d have come along.”
“Peter—“ Miguel starts, shifting on the bed, and Peter sticks a finger up with an aht aht aht and wiggling motion that makes Miguel want to bite the end of it off.
“I know it doesn’t fit your tortured, solo leader vibe you’re going for, but you have some teenagers out there in the hallway that wouldn’t handle losing you well.” Peter says. “So either you can let them in with some dignity intact, or I’ll tell them you’re trying to escape, and we’ll see how far you get.”
Miguel glares at Peter. He knows he’s an intimidating man—hard not to be, when you’re so tall, and broad—but some time in the recent past the people around him have decided to give up on the respect. He’s used to it from Lyla, not a group of Spiders.
“Send them in.” Miguel relents grumpily, frowning at the pleased noise Peter lets out. Before he gets to his feet, though, the door is slamming open and four bodies tumble inside. They only stay on their feet by virtue of spider agility.
“Were you eavesdropping?” Peter asks. It would be nice if he sounded scolding instead of fond.
“Tío!” Miles calls, hanging halfway off the doorframe. Gwen literally climbs over his back and shoulders and hurries to Miguel’s bedside. The room very quickly feels cramped with so many warm bodies inside.
“Are you alright? Are you feeling okay?” She asks, peering at him. The bruise around her eye has all but faded. She looks okay, and it takes a weight off Miguel’s shoulders.
“I’m fine.” Miguel mutters, and Pavitr makes an angry buzzing noise and crosses his arms in an X over his chest.
“Wrong answer, try again.” He says. “This time, let’s be honest! I’ll give an example—I never want to see you bloody and unconscious again!”
“I’m tired and in a small amount of pain.” Miguel admits, and Miles darts for the door. “Oye! Adónde vas?”
“If you’re in pain we should get the doctor—you need medicine—“ Miles says, and Hobie crosses the small room to snag Miles by the collar of his hoodie.
“The man’s fine, Miles.” Hobie says. “Some pain’s to be expected. Nothin’ to write home about.”
“Hobie is right.” Miguel says, and immediately feels ill at saying a sentence he never thought he’d have reason to. “Don’t bother the doctor. I don’t need more drugs.”
“Why are you so against receiving adequate medical attention?” Gwen cries, stomping her foot. Her eyes are glittering with tears. “What, do you not want them to know about your—about your DNA? What’s so bad about being half-spider?”
“Gwen—“ Peter says helplessly, getting to his feet with his hands out. Miguel buries his face in his palms and sighs.
“Nah, let’s hear it, B.” Hobie says, and Miguel listens to the squeak and shuffle of sneakers on the hospital floor. “What’s the man got against bein’ a Spider?”
“I don’t have anything against being a Spider,” Miguel mumbles into his palms. “What I have an issue with is how I became one, seeing as it was against my will, and as part of literal human experimentation.”
The hospital room is silent, and Miguel closes his eyes briefly. Why him. Why him.
“Sit down, all of you.” Miguel says tiredly. The four kids scramble for the two unoccupied chairs and Pavitr climbs onto the end of the bed, Miles being forced to sit on the floor.
“I worked at Alchemax as part of the genomic research wing.” Miguel says. He pulls his face out of his hands and flattens them against the stark white hospital blanket. “We developed a machine that could, in theory, rewrite DNA. The intent was to correct for detrimental mutations. In practice, though, it—did not go this way.”
“After I saw what the machine did to a person I handed in my resignation. I could see what the machine would be used for—super soldiers and the like. I didn’t want any part of it. But when I did—“ Miguel swallows and keeps his eyes on his hands. His scarred hands. His bloody hands. “My employer drugged me. He snuck it into my drinks. It was called Rapture—and after frequent enough doses, a withdrawal can kill you. He used this to blackmail me into—into remaining at Alchemax.”
“Tío—“ Miles cuts him off. Miguel looks up, startled free of memories of his past. “You don’t—we want to hear, but you don’t need to tell us. Not if it’s going to hurt.”
Pavitr and Gwen agree verbally while Hobie and Peter nod, their eyes solemn. Peter has this heartbroken look in his eyes that Miguel can’t bear to face—he looks back at Miles, whose face is open and earnest. Mierda, he doesn’t want the kid to lose that—he doesn’t want the kid to look at him differently.
“I tried to use the DNA machine to rewrite my own genetics, just free of the influence of Rapture.” Miguel says instead. He directs his gaze towards the foot of his bed. “I had included a copy of mine in the machine’s programming as part of the base code. It would have worked—but when I used the machine—“
“You said you were like the person we fought.” Gwen says softly. “You said that there was only—only a seven percent difference in DNA.”
“The coding was changed after I had entered the machine by—someone.” Miguel says. He can’t think of Aaron’s face without his heart squeezing painfully. “I’m sure he was trying to kill me, but—I survived. I survived, and half of the DNA chosen from the bank— Cyclosternum fasciatum— replaced half of my DNA. The Tiger Rump Tarantula. A spider species native to Mexico and Central America.”
“Half your DNA?” Hobie asks. Even his voice is softer, less brash than usual. Pavitr has migrated closer to Miguel on his bed and is wringing his hands, twisting his fingers around each other.
“To say that I’m 50% human and 50% spider is a—misnomer, somewhat. All carbon-based lifeforms share a majority of DNA with one another. You could switch segments between two organisms and, as long as they’re from the same spot in the code, it wouldn’t matter.” Miguel says. “In my case, half of my DNA was wiped clean—completely gone. Half of a spider’s DNA was grafted in place. A random portion, but some of it overlapped and filled in the gaps necessary for life. The rest of it changed me so that I’m—how you see me now.”
“Wait—so the seven percent Gwen mentioned—“ Miles starts, glancing between the two of them. At some point Gwen had pulled her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.
“My DNA is 50% spider.” Miguel says. “The mutant we encountered—his DNA was 57% arachnid. Only a seven percent difference. It likely wouldn’t have been sustainable for life.”
Don’t be angry with Aaron, Tyler Stone coos. There’s something gleeful in his eyes. Look at what he’s done for you—look at what he’s given you. Thank him. Be grateful.
“Miguel,” Peter says quietly. A warm hand covers his. A jolt goes up Miguel’s arm—like a static impulse. It flushes him with warmth, anchoring him to this time, this universe.
“It happened—a decade ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Miguel says, lifting a shaking hand to his eyes. A decade. An entire decade.
“However long ago it happened doesn’t matter, Miguel.” Peter says. “It happened and that matters. A decade, a year—it doesn’t change anything.”
“I’ve had a decade to get used to it.” Miguel says, and lets his hand be tugged away from his face by Pavitr’s warm hands. All his kids are watching him with poorly concealed worry and fear.
“That was—that was done to you, though.” Miles says. His brow is creased. “All of us—we had it happen, yeah, but you—someone did that to you.”
It feels like most of Miguel’s life has been done to him, and what can he say to that?
Pavitr turns around and pulls Miguel’s free arm over his shoulders, careful to avoid pressing on the tender wound wrapped in bandages. He takes up tapping his fingers along Miguel’s forearm in a soothing, repetitive manner, and while Miguel may find it annoying in another time he doesn’t say anything to stop Pavitr’s stimming.
“Were you hurt badly?” Miguel asks Gwen, clearing his throat and firmly turning the conversation onto a different track. Gwen wipes at her red eyes and shakes her head.
“Some bruising and a bump on my head, that’s it.” She says thickly. Miguel wishes he were more mobile so he could help her wipe her face clean and tuck her under his arm. How had he used to comfort Gabriella? Hadn’t she liked to be held?
“If you’re a spider, why is your healin’ so shit?” Hobie asks abruptly. He’s eyeing the thick scars on the side of his head left by the xenomorph.
“My healing has always been bad.” Miguel admits. “A short while after I was changed I performed a chromosomal analysis and found that my chromosomes were—rapidly dissolving. It seems that the bulk of my healing is always engaged to repair my chromosomes. It’s a perpetual cycle, as my damaged DNA replicates, and my healing compensates for it.”
“Alright—“ Peter says, and squeezes the hand he has around Miguel’s fingers. “That’s enough of that kind of talk. We can finish this discussion later—let’s not work Miguel up, kids. His old man's heart can’t handle it.”
Gwen and Pavitr laugh at that, Miles smiling, and Miguel is so grateful to Peter for lightening the mood that he just rolls his eyes and mutters “I’m younger than you, asshole”.
“I brought a deck of cards.” Hobie says, shifting in his seat and tugging a stained, ragged card box from his pocket. “Gwendy, show ‘em your poker face.”
Miguel accepts a handful of cards and only grunts a little when Pavitr plants a knee into his thigh. He isn’t used to this kind of lightheartedness—this easy atmosphere. He hasn’t had it in years, not since he lost Gabriella and any feeling of warmth, and it feels almost scalding to have it again after so long.
What’s a little discomfort, though, when born for his kids?