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“Hey, Miggy!”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, calm your tits.”
Out of every problem the fairly newfound Spider Society has ever faced (and there were many), Miguel and LYLA could usually count themselves overly prepared; and if they weren’t, they could weather it together with enough determination, force, or maintenance.
However.
The internal data server going down? Half the files— including LYLA— getting either lost or corrupted? The goddamn wifi going out?
Not prepared for well.
LYLA, the few times she can actually be active, is doing her best to keep the Spider-HQ running; which means diverting the power to only the baseline essentials of the building. Apparently, one of said essentials is not whatever keeps Miguel’s hard-light suit on, since the damned thing has been glitching in and out of existence all day.
“Look, I know everyone outside of this office is bitching about the wifi being down, but! I got the power back on! Small victories, right?”
“That’s… that’s good, I guess,” Miguel sighs. He’s been trying to fix the physical computer, to no luck. “I’m sure you have it handled. I have— more pressing matters.”
“Like getting an actual pair of pants on?”
“Listen. It’s important that you understand… wearing pants would completely undermine my image. They’d be restrictive and hinder my fighting.”
LYLA just stares at him. How in the hell can an AI manage to be disappointed?
“Look,” the currently pantless man jabs at LYLA’s hologram with a finger, “you try sparring while wearing… tight-fitting material, okay? It’s a pain; so I won't, and I don’t. Plus, I can’t exactly change in the field.”
“At least my clothes don’t take up 224 tetrabites in the digital files.”
Wow. Rude.
“And what if someone comes in here? You think people wanna see their boss with his suit glitching on and off? Like, I know it already doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, but yeeeesh.”
Goddamnit. Why is the AI always right? “Fair point. But let’s be honest, no one’s exactly going to come in here with the building down like this, or else they would’ve already come to complain to you, right?”
LYLA sighs. Deeply. “Just saying. You know, out of every possible emergency this building has ever weathered, I find it funny how this one’s been the worst. I’m putting your clothes under ‘emergency files’ next time.”
Before Miguel can even attempt to reply back, she dematerializes.
“… I really am getting no peace about this, huh?”
Right on cue, because god knows Miguel can’t go a single day without an stress-induced migraine, the very familiar voice of one certain Miles Morales could be heard a few feet outside of the door. And he's letting himself in.
“¡oye tío! Noticed you ain’t come out all day; it’s like 9p.m., man.”
Who put the kid’s hand in the security scans? Do they even work anymore? Fuck.
Miguel aptly groans. “What do you want, Morales? I don’t have time for… whatever you’re gonna say to me.”
“Hey- I don’t exactly have super hearing like you do, but I could still hear that. You don’t have time to, like, eat even? Or fix whatever’s makin’ the power go out? Too bad.”
The voice was getting closer; and Miguel’s suit was still partially glitching off. Lovely.
…Is that the smell of chorizo stew?
“Don’t make me-“ Miguel cuts himself off with a groan. “Fine. I’ll have a little. And just because you’re here- I need you to do a very important favor for me.”
“Yeah, sure, man; just gimme a minute, my arms are full.”
Now Miguel can hear his footsteps.
Then the very specific sound of sneakers skidding to a stop on hardwood floor.
“Dude.”
Miles was a few good yards away, sure, but nothing could obscure that look of barely-contained confusion and horror on his face.
“What the hell.”
The older man opens his mouth to (curtly) ask what that reaction was for, but then happens to glance down.
Oh.
His suit’s entirely gone now.
Qué maravilla.
“I- it happens sometimes when— oh shut up. I’m getting it fixed later; but like I said, I need you to take care of something for me.”
Miles’s eyes glance down momentarily, then snap back up. It’s fairly obvious that the only thing keeping him from dropping the tote bag of food he’s carrying is his spider-sense.
The boy is wearing his usual ensemble— his spiderman suit, with a zip-up hoodie and cargo shorts over it, and those signature red jordans.
Ahh, the feeling of clothes.
“You realize just how wrong that sounds coming from a butt-naked old man in a room alone with a teenager, right?” Said teenager deadpans.
“Hey! I am not that old— and I was just- just trying to fix stuff. Then the wifi went out and… I just didn’t change; but I would if I could. Now can you please, please just forget about that and help me?! Please!”
Why am I even begging a sixteen year old anyways?!
Miles dazedly mumbles “Your suit is connected to the….”
He has to blink away that godawful realization— and the accompanying one that when Miguel mauled him on the train months ago, this means there was nothing keeping his dick away from Miles’s— and shakes his head.
“Yeah man, whatever” he murmurs as he sets down the tote bag on the nearest table. “Anything to do with the uh… everything wrong with HQ? Want me to just get you a pair of pants or somethin’?”
“I- yes. Please. I… have to get rid of some kind of virus in the servers. And fix the electrics. And I can’t do that without… clothing.”
I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t fix this, and I don’t want to know.
“‘Course. XL, I’m guessin’? Allergic to any materials?” Miles asks blandly as he starts entering coordinates on his portal watch.
Then the smartass starts rambling.
“You know, this could all be avoided if you maybe didn’t rely on computer integration for every function. Even the toilets don’t work. I tried. I really understand why my dad gripes about the age of technolo—“
“XL, yeah.” Miguel cuts him off with a little more force than necessary. “And just standard cotton material. And you shut your mouth with the lectures. It’s convenient, effective, and reliable. Usually. I’m working on it.”
Admittedly, the older man thinks grimly, it is very, very embarrassing that everything that controls this place also controls my clothing…
Miles just stares deadpanned at Miguel(‘s face) as the portal lights up. “I’m technically older than you, but whatever. Next time, back up security and your clothes onto somethin’ that doesn’t need wifi. Or at least wear like… a jockstrap.”
Goddamn teenagers. The boy steps through the portal before Miguel can argue, so Miguel takes to cussing out a god that probably doesn’t exist— and if it does, it hates him.
“… how does the kid even know what a jockstrap is, anyways?”
He tries to set the barely-functional servers to reboot, update, and backup while he stares at his bare legs. It takes a valiant effort for him to not think about his bare ass as he waits for Miles to come back.
⟣ ⟡ ⟢
A few minutes later, Miles returns; this time fully in civilian clothes. Realistically, he didn’t change just to spite Miguel, but damn, did it feel like it. Oh, and he’s got a shopping bag in his hand.
“Got you a pair of briefs and some sweats, nothin’ fancy,” he states as he hands the bag over to the older man like it’s the goddamned holy grail— with the receipt in it.
Miguel’s suit flickers on and off his torso just to spite him.
“Anything else you want me to do?”
“Oh god, thank you. Here, help me with these- I’m not really used to clothing. It’s annoying.“
“Whuh— you want me to— how you a grown-ass man with more PH.D.’s in engineering and chemistry than I can remember and you can’t even get dressed?!“ Miles shouts incredulously as he gets the clothes out of the bag. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ with the underwear.”
“Shut up. I know how to get dressed. Usually. It’s just that…”
An eyebrow raise from Miles gets him doubting himself.
“Listen, I don’t have anything to help me. No buttons or whatever. Ugh. Just— I just need to focus on the work; not how… weird I feel right now.”
“Buttons?” Miles’s voice cracks incredulously. “ayyy, jesucristo.”
That’s it. Miguel officially feels even weirder. Despite the fact that Miles is still facing away, he can just tell the kid’s disappointed.
“Look, get the underwear on by yourself and I can help with the pants," he states as he hands said underwear to Miguel, pointedly looking everywhere but at him.
“Okay, okay, fine.” Now it’s Miguel’s turn to grumble. “It’s not my fault I’ve literally always had my suit doing the hard part.”
… why does this feel so weird?
Despite that, he starts putting the underwear on like a normal person.
Okay. That part’s over and my junk is where it’s supposed to be.
Miles sighs with a good, heavy dose of his father’s channeled disappointed energy and tries to help Miguel get the pants on, ranting to himself the whole time. “First it’s the Alexa’s. Then it’s those stupid app-powered cars that don’t never work. Then it’s that brain chip thing, and then it’s the— dude. Bend your damn leg! Swear to god, I can get my baby sister dressed easier.”
There might’ve been slightly more force used than strictly necessary to pulling the pants up.
The boy mutters to himself again, “man, I hope I die before technology gets to this point.”
“Ugh! Stop it!” That felt good to say. “And what the hell’s wrong with smart technology? Other than this boomer mentality you have? I’ll get used to this too, just like I did every other thing wrong with today.”
Why does he feel the need to defend himself anyways?
That question is promptly answered when Miles stares at him with the disappointment of a thousand Jefferson Morales's. “I am a gen Z, thank you very much. And I ain’t the one who needs to be changed like a baby, or whose whole building goes to shit 'cause of some virus.”
He gets up from his half-crouching position and puts his hands on his hips, satisfied that the pants are on.
“Tie the drawstring yourself, boss. I’m tired of being right by your crotch.”
“Can it.”
I’ll probably never hear the end of this, will I? He mentally disparages as he pulls the drawstring tight. His suit glitches again.
“Ok, I’m dressed. Can we get to the part where we get my building back up and running? Or did you come all this way just to make fun of me?”
“Uh, no, that was actually not my intent.” Miles’s habit of talking with his hands, inherited from his mother, comes through full force. “I came back here to bring you food and because I left my homework in the cafeteria yesterday, then I noticed half the building’s not even working and it’s desolate, so I decided to come see what the problem is. ¿entiendes?”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, ’scuuuuuuuse me for not expecting to need to do allat for a grown-ass man. Now is there anything else I can help with here? Do I need to feed you too? ‘Here comes the airplane’? Or do you prefer the choo choo train?”
In as much as Miguel can feel his will to live, his patience, and his dignity fizzle out of existence just like his suit, he, regrettably, has to be the mature adult here. “No, no. You’ve done enough. Just- let’s just deal with this virus thing. I don’t even know if it’s a virus at this point, that’s just the best guess I’ve got. I’ve never seen it do this before.”
“Damn.”
“Also, for the record- I can feed myself. I am not a child.”
The glower the actual child gives him is scathing.
“Whatever, man. I can sit here and monitor stuff so your office ain’t empty in case someone else drops by, if you want me to.”
He can’t help himself. He mutters a quiet “Since your security is apparently wifi-controlled too…”
God, Miguel hates being a mature adult.
“Fine. Fine. Just be quiet for a bit. Try not to do anything to make me notice you.” This is getting exhausting.
“Sir, yes sir,” Miles drawls with a mocking salute. He waves his hand over Miguel’s console, making a couple of holographic monitors sputter to life.
He’s about to sit in Miguel’s seat, but then stops in his tracks.
“You didn’t sit on this with your bare ass, right?”
“Shut up.”