Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You were tired.

It hadn't been too long since you joined the spider society— in truth, it hadn't even been too long since it started existing. There was something special about being one of the first dozen to join, it was a privilege, but it also came with its fair share of annoying responsibilities that ate up the precious free time that you've previously had.

That, mainly, being a fast learner and competent put you in your boss's good graces. Or at least as close as you could get to it when your boss was Miguel O'Hara, and it lead to him giving you assignments more often. Anomalies that had to be taken care of, files of different spider-people to possibly recruit and fine-tuning equipment.

As long as you seemed to be idle, he always managed to find work to occupy you with.

That leads to the present moment— you're trying to simultaneously work on a university assignment and a written report of your previous few missions, both that you had left aside until right this moment in favour of an anomaly powerful enough that it required all hands on deck. There are a few cans of energy drinks littering your desk, you can feel your eyes shaking inside your skull and your heart is beating so fast you can almost swear you're about to have a full-on heart attack.

Even with all the caffeine you put in your system, it isn't enough to remove the exhaustion you feel. At this point, you doubt anything but finally falling into a restful coma would be able to take the edge off your exhaustion.

A part of you suspects that the only reason you're still kicking in these conditions is the healing factor that came as a perk to your powers.

The words you wrote on your laptop's screen seem jumbled, and the blue light emitting from the screen hurts your eyes, but you have to keep going. Judging by the number counter at the corner of the page you manage to get a good chunk done— just a little more and you'll have one less responsibility to worry about.

The report on your desk had seen much less progress, and you prayed that Miguel would be merciful if you postponed this, again.

You were already bracing yourself for his sigh and disappointed dad stance. It was almost his default, by this point.

"Shouldn't you be gone by now?"

You jump at the voice coming from behind you. Deep and smooth, laced with just a tinge of annoyance at your presence.

There's a long pause before you process that Miguel asked you a question. You're far too distracted by the fact that he managed to catch you by surprise and by your heart working overtime in your chest due to the scare.

Your spidey-senses never failed you before. Especially within the spider society. They were always buzzing in the back of your mind, warning you of the presence of other spider-people, alerting you of danger and leading you to where you needed to be.

And it never failed. Never. No matter how many all-nighters you had pulled to read fanfiction under your covers.

No matter how much your exhaustion affected your senses. They had never failed you, until now.

Almost within a haze, you pick up the half-empty can you were drinking from and turn it to read the ingredient label. What the fuck do they put in these things?

Miguel snaps his fingers in front of you, impatient. You look up at him, a little confused, before you remember that he did ask you a question.

"I'm too busy." You explain, after a pause. You turn around to see him, and your eyes thank you for giving you a break from the bright screens. "I'm going home as soon as I finish these."

You point at the desk. Miguel frowns. This is not exactly an uncommon expression from him, but your short time in the society made you almost an expert in deciphering what each of his little frowns means. This one, where his eyebrows are furrowed but his eyes look just the slightest bit confused means that your answer was unsatisfactory and he expected better.

He grabs one of the empty cans on the desk like it's made of toxic waste. You don't blame him, after the fifth can they all started to taste like it.

"Did you drink all of these?"

"Yup." You pop the p, turning back to the screen as you continue typing your essay. You doubt what you're writing makes any sense, and you can tell there's a startling difference in the quality of what you wrote at the beginning of the essay, which you started last week, and whatever crap you're typing out right now. Whatever, a bad grade is better than missing the assignment altogether. "I have a lot to do and need to stay awake."

You were sure Miguel could at least relate to the feeling, judging by the fact that he was also still here instead of the dark cave he probably inhabited when he wasn't Spider-Man.

"Why are you still here instead of doing this at home?"

"If I go home I'll be too tempted by my bed and won't be able to get anything done."

"You're already not getting anything done."

"I'm almost done with my uni assignment ."

You can hear him muttering under his breath. You can vaguely recognise it as a prayer for a saint to grant him patience. Something he did a lot considering he had to manage hundreds of Peter Parkers.

"You have been writing the same phrase over and over since I got here." Miguel points one of his fingers at the screen, flinching at the bright light from the monitor. You try to pay attention to what you've written and almost cry when you notice he's right. "You need to sleep. It's dangerous for a spider-person to be in... this shape. You need to be alert and ready in case something happens."

He scolds, and there's an edge of softness to his voice you had only heard a few, precious times.

Due to his harsh words, and sometimes, ruthless methods, it could sometimes be easy to forget that Miguel was still a Spider-Man, which meant that he cared about people, often way too much for his own good.

You sigh, maybe a little over-dramatically, because you know he is right. You can't afford to be in this state, not when there are so many people counting on you in your dimension.

...And because you are certain that Miguel is fully capable of carrying you like a potato sack through a portal and blocking your gizmo's ability to create portals until you get your shit together, and you just don't have the strength to fight him on this.

You close your laptop and start working on collecting your energy drink cans to throw them away.

Miguel stops you, shakes his head and grumbles for you to leave it, opening a portal for you to go through.

You're so distracted by the prospect of sleep, and worry about your assignment, that you forget entirely about your Spidey-sense failing.

Chapter Text

The incident was almost completely forgotten by the time your spider senses failed you again. 

Your assignment was submitted mere minutes before the deadline, but you had managed a decent grade and you were finally, finally able to finish the report on your last mission. 

Miguel had even been kind enough to go easy on you when he lectured you for taking too long to finish the report, only taking scolding you for half the usual time and urging you to do something about your sleep schedule.

And so, things slowly went back to normal.

…Or at least as normal as they could be when you’re a spider-person.

Today you’re sitting on a mat on the floor of one of the training rooms, drinking some water and resting before you continue. Gwen is lying on the floor like she’s dying in a glue trap, trying to catch her breath after a pretty intense sparring session.

Your muscles are aching and burning, but you feel happy and satisfied as a result of the endorphins currently working their magic on your system. 

Training isn’t something you do a lot , usually just joining someone when they ask, but Gwen had been pretty upset earlier after being denied a visit to Miles’ dimension again , and you wanted to help take her mind off it. 

Gwen had been pretty determined to hone her abilities and jumped at the opportunity to practice with another spider person. She had put up a great fight, actually, and the bruises on your legs and arms were proof that she had at least been able to vent out some of her anger. 

Not that you minded, though. 

You gently nudge her shoulder with your foot, prompting her to look at you. Gwen’s position on the floor is so awkward you wonder how she’s managing to lay down like that without her back killing her, but you had long accepted the fact that Gwen was very cat-like in her tendency to find comfort in the oddest positions.

“You good?” 

Gwen slowly sits up from her place on the mat, removing her mask as she catches her breath. Her blonde hair sticks to her sweaty face, and you notice she looks a lot more serene than she did earlier.
She nods in response, and you smile. You had grown really fond of her, in her short time as a member of the spider society.

Gwen was a good kid with a lot of potential. You know she hated pity, but you couldn’t help the way that your heart ached when you thought about all the things she had to go through at such a young age.

As a Spider-person you were keenly aware of the weight that title carried, of all the pain and loss every single one of you felt as a consequence of your canon events. It was a part of your fate , but it didn’t make it any less painful to know that actual kids were carrying this heavy burden. And that you weren’t that much younger too when you got your powers.

Well, you couldn’t turn back time, or stop Gwen’s canon events, but you could at least be there for her. Be the kind of support you wished you had when you were growing up.

With a quick motion, you use your webbing to grab a water bottle and throw it at her. She catches it effortlessly, barely even processing her own actions as she does it.

Ah, the wonders of the spider-sense .

“Thanks”

She takes a sip out of her water bottle, but doesn’t say much else. You let her have the space to put her thoughts in order, and just enjoy her company for the time being.
You had done your job by giving Gwen an outlet to cope with her anger and frustration, and you were now here in case she wanted to talk about it, but otherwise? You knew you couldn’t do the job of processing her emotions for her.

Nor would you be able to convince Miguel to give in and let Gwen, Peter B and Peni see Miles. You certainly had tried, but neither the food you had bribed him with nor the arguments you had prepared moved him.

That man was as stubborn as he was angsty, particularly when it came to the integrity of the 

arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse and anything he perceived as a threat to the delicate order of things.

“Oh. I didn’t know you were here.”

You jumped, choking on your water when you hear Miguel’s voice coming from somewhere behind you. Again . 

How did it happen again ?

You try to calm yourself down from your coughing fit to avoid embarrassing yourself further. Gwen just looks at you, her previous melancholy all but forgotten as she just… stares, completely baffled by your reaction. Likely as confused as you were at something having slipped through your spider-senses.

She pats your back and tries to contain her laughter.

You admire Gwen’s efforts, but it doesn’t mean a lot when she’s clearly fighting a losing battle.

“Are you okay?”

Even when you have your back towards him, you can almost hear his eyebrow raise. Miguel sounds so done with this conversation, and it has barely even started.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I’m totally fine.”

You say, trying to sound convincing. You make eye contact with Gwen and silently mouth “ Kill me now”, which makes her explode in laughter.

She gets up, grabbing her discarded mask and half-empty water bottle. You can see tears in the corner of her eyes as she cackles.

Gwen utters a weak excuse about having to see Jess and leaves the training room, barely sparing a glance at Miguel as she passes by him. 

Jess isn’t even in the HQ today!

“I can’t believe this. I almost died and she laughed in my face. I thought we were friends. ”

Miguel rolls his eyes at your dramatics, crossing his arms in a way that tells you to knock it off.

“You choked on some water. You’ll live.” 

“And now the big boss is taking her side? What a travesty . I’ll pack my things and leave the spider society forever.” Your performance is Oscar-worthy . If the Oscars still had any credibility, that is. His frown deepens, and you smile wider in response. “Maybe I’ll turn to villainy and this will be my sad backstory— my canon event, even.”

“Are you going to use the training room or you’ll just sit there and whine ?”

Miguel asks, already impatient. 

“We need to work on your sense of humour, boss.” 

“Maybe you should work on your jokes first.”

You gasp, dramatically. Pretending to be offended by his comment. 

“Okay. That’s it. I’m going to fight you.” 

“For saying you’re not funny?”

“Yes. I must defend my honour.” 

You get up from where you’re sitting, putting your things away into a corner so they don’t get in the way of your fight. 

Miguel waits patiently as you do so, walking further into the room. 

You don’t comment on it, but you suspect he knew you and Gwen were going to be here beforehand. This wouldn’t be the first time Miguel “accidentally” walked into your training on one of the rare occasions you bothered to come here, and then accepted your offer when you asked him to join you.

He’s not as subtle as he likes to pretend that he is.

And as much as you love teasing him, you know that this is a line you shouldn’t cross. It’d be a surefire way to guarantee he wouldn’t seek you out for company ever again, and you don’t want that. 

Miguel could be surprisingly fun to be around.

“Are you ready?” 

He asks, his mask is in place and he gets into position. 

“Do your worst.”

You had no reason to suspect anything would be different than usual. Not even ten minutes ago you were fighting Gwen, and your instincts were as sharp as ever, tingling in the back of your skull to warn you to dodge or aim your webbing.
Two, tiny malfunctions weeks apart didn’t exactly translate to your powers leaving you hanging mid-fight . He had only managed to catch you by surprise. That’s it. You were exhausted and distracted and really If you think about it, you were overthinking the whole thing.

But then he charged at you, and instead of your spider-senses tingling and you dodging in response, you don’t feel anything.

No tingling. 

No warning about where to escape to.

Nothing. 

It’s just you and a 6’9 tall mass of pure muscle running straight at you.

You snap back to reality mere seconds before he catches you, firing your web shooters up high up and swinging away from danger. 

Maybe you’re just a little bit nervous about having to go through this without your precognitive abilities, but Miguel doesn’t have them at all. That makes it a fair fight, right?

And besides, you doubt Miguel would actually hurt you.

…You think.

You hope.

During the fight, you mostly focus on defence rather than offence , trying to take advantage of your speed and your experience fighting Miguel to get you through it.

You give up on relying on your web shooters only a few minutes in after he managed to get a hit in when you were struggling to properly aim your webbing.

You catch yourself thinking “ Hey, this is not that bad” , and next thing you know, you’re pinned down to the mat, his hands holding your wrists tightly.

You try to wriggle out of his grasp, but he only tightens his grip on your flesh in response. He’s careful not to hurt you with his talons, which you appreciate.

You keep trying to move but it doesn’t wield any results, and can’t even use your web-shooters when you’re being held down like this.

You’re entirely at his mercy, now. 

And you don’t know what’s scarier:

How helpless you feel after your powers failed you, or the fact that a part of you really likes being pinned down under him.

You’re almost embarrassed by how flustered you are. At the tension that had started to build, but you had neglected to notice until now.

Did he feel it too? Was that why he was keeping you pinned for longer than necessary? You had lost the fight, and you had stopped resisting entirely, then why did he keep holding you like this?

“Giving up so easily?” Miguel taunts. You can’t see him through his mask, but you just know how smug he must look, it makes you annoyed at having lost so easily. “What about your honour ?”

You want to punch him. And kiss him. And maybe punch him again for good measure.

You’re alarmed by the lack of your spider senses but your brain is very willing to supply you with a lot of interesting mental images of all the things he could do with you right now instead. You’re pretty sure you have read fanfiction that started with this exact scenario.

“I never had that in the first place.”

You say, and that manages to get a laugh out of him. It makes you a little too proud for someone who just got their ass kicked.

Miguel gets up and offers you a hand. You gladly take it, trying to catch your breath after the fight.

He looks barely even affected by it, which is fair, considering how quickly you were caught.

“Usually I’d ask for a rematch, but I don’t feel like getting my ass kicked again. This has been humiliating enough.”

You say, trying not to be a sore loser for once. Miguel doesn’t respond. He’s frowning again, in that “ I can tell something is wrong and you’re not telling me” kind of way. 

You try to ignore it, making sure to pretend nothing is wrong .

Miguel doesn’t need to know about your powers malfunctioning or of your slight attraction to him. You’re pretty sure he’d make both of those things into a big deal™ and there was nothing in the world you could possibly want less than this.

No. You wanted to be a part of the Spider society. You needed to stay here and help rid the multiverse of its anomalies. You wanted to continue to support younger spiders like Gwen. 

You couldn’t do all of that if Miguel knew how weak you truly were. 

It was bad enough you had allowed him to worry about you, there was no way you’d be allowed to stay if he knew how bad it had gotten.

“You’re distracted, today.” 

He points out. You can tell he’s very suspicious, but thankfully for you, your years as a vigilante made you a pretty good liar. 

“I guess I’m just worried about Gwen.”

It’s your excuse. You feel bad for using that poor girl as a cover, but you figure she wouldn’t mind. It’s not like it’s a lie, anyway, you are very worried about Gwen, but you’re just slightly more worried about the other things in your disaster of a life.

Miguel doesn’t quite buy your excuse, but thankfully doesn’t pry.

“How is she?”

He asks, instead. 

“Still upset.” You can perfectly remember how distraught she was the first time her visit was denied, and it deeply saddens you. The poor kid. “She really misses Miles. And you know Peter does too.”

A part of you wanted to meet Miles, too. Gwen, Peter and Peni speak so fondly of him, you couldn’t help but feel affection towards the person who was so important for people you had grown to care for, even if you never met the guy.

Still, Miguel doesn’t budge. You didn’t expect him to, anyway. 

“You know why I can’t let him join.” 

You can feel the regret in his voice. Miguel doesn’t like being the one to do this, but it’s his duty as the leader. It’s too dangerous, too risky.

You understand it better than anyone, but it didn’t stop you from feeling bad.

“Yes, yes. I know. I just… feel bad for the kid.” You say, and you don’t quite know if you’re talking about Gwen or Miles “And Gwen’s pining is starting to get painful .”

You add that last part as a bit of a joke, not wanting to weigh down the mood too much. He doesn’t seem amused.

“Maybe you should worry more about yourself, first.” Miguel says it’s less of a suggestion and more of an order.  “You need to work on your fighting.”

I roll my eyes and playfully hit him on the shoulder

“You know I can do better than this. I’m just a little tired.” 

“Whatever you say.” He looks down at his watch— gizmo , you correct yourself.

“Now, get out of here. Didn’t you have something planned with Margo today?”

Your eyes widen. You were so worried about Gwen that you had completely forgotten about your other plans today.

Miguel shakes his head, a mix of disappointment and amusement at your antics, as he watches you scramble to get your things and curse under your breath.

At the very least he was nice enough to throw you your mask before you forgot anything else.

In seconds you’re out the door, screaming goodbyes and sprinting towards the other side of the building, your spider-senses tingling to guide you.

Maybe, you think, your abilities failing is just a fluke.

Chapter Text

Okay, so. Your spider-sense failing you?

That wasn’t a fluke. And it was starting to get a little worrisome.

It was mostly little things: getting startled when Miguel showed up behind you or jumping when you felt his hand on your shoulder when it was usually something your spider sense could easily predict.

And all those things were okay.

Weird? Yes.

Annoying? Incredibly so. 

But they were fine.

What worried you was your performance on the battlefield.

You never noticed how heavily you relied on your instincts until they started going haywire. Most of the communication on the field was non-verbal, with your senses tingling in the back of your brain to warn you of danger.

You could easily understand when to hang back to avoid one of your partner’s attacks or when you had to swing faster so you could hit the anomaly just in time.

But lately? It seemed like your Spider-senses would fail exactly when it was the most humiliating time to do so.

Ergo, when you were on a mission with your boss and you royally fucked up by getting into the line of fire in the middle of an attack because you couldn’t predict his moves.

Which led to the current moment:

You’re standing in the middle of Miguel’s office, trying to keep your chin up in defiance despite knowing that he’s probably going to dress you down like he’s Gordon Ramsey and you’re an incompetent chef. Miguel’s platform is slowly descending, and it only serves to make you more uncomfortable as you silently accept your fate, dreading what he’s going to say once he’s face to face with you.

The worst part of it is that you can’t feel it. Not even now. Your Spidey senses are completely dormant even though you’re almost sure you’re in actual, immediate danger.

“Miguel—“ 

He raises his hand and you shut up immediately. You can see him gripping his waist, the other hand rubbing his nose bridge.

You even hear Miguel’s signature, disappointed sigh. You’re almost transported back in time to a few weeks ago, when he found you on the brink of exhaustion, surrounded by cans of energy drinks.

“I don’t know what to do with you anymore.” He admits, and you can hear how frustrated he is by his voice alone. “You could have gotten hurt.”

Well, you did get hurt. But you don’t correct his assessment. The doctors on the HQ had done a good job in patching you up, and while your healing factor wasn’t Wolverine or Deadpool level, you knew you’d be okay in a matter of days thanks to your abilities.

You shift in place, a little uncomfortable. You don’t know quite what to say or how much to say in this situation, but you want to at least say something. Apologise, try to explain yourself and beg for another chance.

He lets you stand there in silence for a moment before approaching, stepping off his platform to where you’re standing. Something in his gaze softens as he watches you, his gloved hand reaching to gently wipe the blood away from the cut on your cheek.

It’s strange. You rarely see him be this soft with other people, this tender gesture almost feeling out of place considering how he’s supposed to be scolding you right now.

But then you see it again— the concern. All those emotions you had seen in flashes the last time you had done something to warrant his worry. He seems to come to a conclusion as he searches your face for more cuts and bruises, his features hardening into an expression you have grown to dread:

He’s about to tell you something that you don’t want to hear.

“You need a break.” 

Miguel says. There’s a finality to his tone that doesn’t leave any room for discussion. He’s hard-headed like that, difficult to persuade.

You can feel the indignation coursing inside you, your eyebrows furrowing as you try to process his words. You’re both angry at being benched and utterly confused as to how this was Miguel’s reaction to your mistake earlier today. 

“…What?”

You say, after a moment. He sighs again, and you can tell that he’s trying to be empathetic and patient with you.

“You need a break. Something is clearly going on and I can’t let you go back on the field if you’re going to keep getting yourself hurt.”

There’s no way to help your indignation at this. Yes, something was going on and he was technically correct in his assessment, but it doesn’t mean that you want to leave!

“But I’m okay! I’m fine. It was one mistake— I did well on that Vulture anomaly, remember? In that Van Gogh painting world? With Ben?”

There’s an edge of desperation in your voice as you try to make him understand. The spider society is a source of comfort to you. It’s a community, a safety net in your otherwise lonely existence.

You have found camaraderie amongst your fellow spider-people, a group of individuals who can understand the isolation that comes with being the one behind the mask. The weight that responsibility carries. It eases the burden, somewhat.

Even if you took upon yourself to look after the younger spiders, that community and role was as important to you as it was to them.

And he wants to take that away from you. Even if he says it’s temporary, the idea of being back in your dimension, of dealing with that loneliness again makes panic rise in your chest.

You don’t care about how pathetic you seem. This is too important to you.

“And you messed up the one before that.” He reminds you. Miguel is starting to lose his patience. “Look, you are one of our best, but you don’t have your head in the game right now. You’re doing more harm than good by staying here.” 

Your heart flips when he calls you one of the best. You rarely hear this sort of compliment from Miguel directed to anyone but Jessica Drew and Lego Spider-Man.

It doesn’t do much to quell your anger, though. If he thinks that by buttering you up he’ll stop you from being stubborn, then he doesn’t know you at all.

“So you’re grounding me?”

You scoff, it’s childish, but you feel like a scolded child under his gaze.

“Are you seriously— yes. I’m grounding you.” Miguel says, fully annoyed now. “One week on your dimension. You’ll be back as soon as you get your shit together.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” Incredulity seeps into your tone “You refuse to take care of yourself and now you’re punishing me for doing the same?”

“I do take care of myself.”

He defends himself, but you can tell that not even he believes his own lie. Unfortunately, Miguel is just as stubborn as you can be— even more so, sometimes. It just serves to make you even more frustrated.

“Oh yeah? When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?” 

He’s taken aback by your sudden question. 

“I don’t need as much sleep as other spider-people. My powers—“

“That’s bullshit and we both know it.” You cut him off, arms crossing at your chest. De doesn’t think you’re that stupid, does he? “You can’t ground me. I’m an adult.”

“Well, you’re not acting like one right now.” there’s a condescension in his tone that makes your skin crawl “Lyla?”

He steps away from you, turning his back, signalling that this conversation is over and that there isn't anything you could do or say that would make him change his mind. You take the chance to stand in front of him, blocking his way. 

He stops and glares at you. Miguel is strong enough to grab you by the shoulders and hurl you across the room, and you’re grateful that he at least tolerates you enough to not do that .

“Nuh-uh. I’m not leaving.” You stomp for good measure. “Look, it’s just…”

You start speaking, and there’s a split second where you decide that maybe it’s a good idea to tell him about the issues with your spider senses. Miguel is still stern, but he’s giving you a chance to speak, to explain yourself.

Something stops you, though. The same thing that always does:

Just as he’d given you this community, this support, he could just as easily take it away.

And even with all the care he has offered you before, if Miguel knew you were broken , there was no way he’d allow you to stay and risk your safety and the sanctity of the canon.

But… You wanted to be selfish. Just this one time.
There’s so much you had lost already, so much uncertainty in the life you built in your dimension. 

Was it wrong for you to cling to this one thing?

“Yes?”

Miguel prompts you. It sounds grating to your ears— the words are on the tip of your tongue, and you hate to keep more secrets than you already do. But you can’t.

“…Nevermind.”

You whisper back, trying not to deflate too much at Miguel’s visible disappointment.

“You almost get yourself killed and you can’t even tell me what’s going on with you ?”

He’s angry now. He takes a few steps closer and you instinctively step back, until your back hits a pillar.

You look at his eyes. Burning red, almost glowing from the dim, moody lights of his monitors. You’re transfixed by them, by the way you can tell that his anger is less directed at you and more at himself, for not being someone who you could entrust your secrets to.

At the way you could so easily read him and his frowns, how the sight of his fangs peeking from under his lips made you more eager than scared.

Of how your spider-senses are still silent when they would be warning you of danger if it was anyone else.

Anyone but Miguel.

You look at him, really look at him. He probably said something since then, but you were too entranced by your own thoughts to care to listen.

“I get it now.”

You say, out loud. More to yourself than to him, and he seems utterly confused by your sudden statement.

“What are you talking about?”

“My Spider-senses don’t work on you anymore.” 

You explain, and he seems even more lost.

It made complete sense to you. It had been years since the last time you trusted someone. Since you truly let yourself be vulnerable, without keeping them at arms-length.

But somehow, your grumpy, brooding boss had accidentally wormed his way into your heart with his small acts of kindness, even if his rough exterior and harsh words didn’t always reflect them.

You trusted him. 

You trusted him wholly, completely. Implicitly.

You knew he’d never intentionally hurt you, so your Spidey senses didn’t bother registering him. Whatever higher force that dictated how your powers worked knew he’d have your back, and trusted him to protect you.  

You’re a little shell-shocked, honestly. About how he managed to slip past your defences without even meaning to, bulldozing the walls you had carefully built around yourself in an attempt to keep people out .

The first lesson you learned about being a hero is that with great power comes great responsibility.

The second is that when you let people get too close, they get hurt.

And no matter how much you want to, you can’t save everyone.

In the end— you were never broken. There was nothing wrong with your powers, they were working exactly as intended. You just needed to make sense of your feelings.

“Your spider senses aren’t working?”

He asks. Amidst your short explanation, you had briefly forgotten about your previous refusal to tell him about it. 

Fuck. You really are a terrible communicator.

“Not around you.” You’re almost breathless, the weight of the implications makes you a little dizzy. “They’re like… a tingling in the back of my skull. It’s quiet, but it’s always there. When I meet another spider-person it makes itself known, when I’m in danger it blares like an alarm. I’m so used to it always being there that it feels wrong for it to be so silent.”

“And it has been silent?”

His eyes furrow, and he seems concerned. While Miguel himself lacks a spider-sense, he knows how much other spiders rely on their precognitive abilities in order to fight.

You blink a few times.

“Only with you.” You reassure, although you’re not sure if it comforts him or if it distresses him further. “It has happened before. With my aunt. Anyone who I trust deeply.”

He’s silent at that, weighing his options. 

You notice that Lyla is floating a little away from your view— being activated a little earlier in your fight. His AI isn’t one to stay quiet, but you’re grateful that her apparent love for drama outweighs her need to make snarky comments.

Miguel sighs, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut in a way that tells you that you’re the cause of his impending migraine. Lyla takes it as a sign that she’s being dismissed and mouths “good luck” before disappearing into thin air.

“I’m not sending you away,” Miguel says, after a moment. You can breathe a little easier now, the tension in your muscles just slightly ebbing away at the news. “I can’t. Not when…”

He trails off, seemingly not knowing what to do with the information or which path to take. At the very least he seemed to give up on the idea of banishing you from the spider society, which is a win that you’re more than eager to take.

You’re silent. Letting him process the information and figure out a game plan. You don’t comment on his pacing or the fact that he’s muttering words under his breath you’re almost sure are the 2099 version of cursing. For your ears, they sound silly.

“Look, If you’re uncomfortable…”

There’s no doubt in your mind that Miguel is smart enough to connect the dots, to think about the implications of your little problem, even if you tried your best to hide your embarrassing crush from him. This is an attempt at damage control. You’re sure you can manage to be professional and stay away if it means still having a place within the society. 

“No, that’s not the issue.” He waves it off, it hasn’t even crossed his mind. “I’m glad that you feel safe with me. You did nothing wrong.”

It’s not like it’s your fault, or something you’re able to control at all, but the reassurance still brings you some comfort. It’s an odd situation and one you feel wholly unequipped to deal with, and Miguel seems similarly out of his depth. He’s being kind, though. You know that this is who he is inside— kind , even if some would argue he isn’t nice.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, prompting you to look him in the eyes.

“We’ll find a way to make this work.” 

He reassures you, your heart skipping a beat.

Things aren’t doomed after all.

Chapter Text

The skyline looks like something out of a fever dream — too orange, too purple, too sharp . Neon streaks cut through the air like glowing scars, fragments of shattered glass from broke skyscrapers hovering in mid-air, suspended in glitchy stutters as if the world itself is buffering, stuck in perpetual dusk.

The glittering glass reminds you of stars, almost , forming little constellations in a fractured galaxy.

Something about different dimensions was always a little disorienting, even after months of visiting them to hunt for anomalies. It’s not something you can ever get used to, especially in dimensions that particularly differ from your own. The feeling of an uncanny valley keeps you alert, unnerved by a feeling of innate wrongness for something that is supposed to be natural. It’s in the way the leaves smell like ocean foam, or how the eyes of the pedestrians you guide out of danger seem just a little too big for regular human eye sockets. 

Your spider-sense hums faintly at the back of your skull, the way it always does around anomalies. But this time, it's not as loud as it should be. It's distant, foggy , like trying to hear an alarm clock underwater. 

It’s how it felt around Miguel, usually. Either absent, or with persistent practice, a distant hum. 

In the weeks that followed your realisation, things have been… Good actually. Easy. 

Not as terrible as they could be. Surprisingly, Miguel had taken the new development well and carefully worked to account for the changes. Like promised, he created a way to work around the new issue— mostly by being more communicative during anomaly hunting to avoid catching you off-guard and teaching you how to stay aware and alert of your surroundings without relying so much on your precognition.

It had been great. Not only because he got to pin you down on a training mat many times over, but because it made you a much better fighter:  He’d meet you often under the guise of training, and in no time at all, you worked like a well-oiled machine. 

The anomaly you were tracking, a prowler variant fused with a techno-organic virus, had already caused far more destruction than expected. Its claws left glowing blue scars in the air as it leapt from building to building.

“West side,” Miguel’s voice comes through the comm, sharp as ever. No nonsense. No hesitation. “Prowler's heading toward the docks. Keep up, stick to the rooftops.”

There’s a small map on your Gizmo that you can use for reference if the need arises. But it’s unnecessary tonight: The path that leads to your target is as clear as day, marked by the destruction left behind by the anomaly.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, breathless but grinning behind your mask. “Don’t worry, I’m on it.”

A swing. A thwip . You catch the edge of a water tower, propelling yourself forward with a sharp yank of your webline. Your heart kicks up as the wind cuts past you, that sweet rush of adrenaline filling your chest as the city beneath you blurs.

The rhythm is muscle memory by now, a song your body knows by heart, but it’s a little harder today. Your arms are sore, lungs working overtime. There’s a pull in your ribs from where you got clipped last week. It still aches, but you’re fine. The prowler variant is causing a little more trouble than expected, but it’s still not enough to justify bothering anyone else for backup. And besides, you’ve fought in far worse shape before.

You just can’t wait to be home.

From your vantage point, you spot the anomaly leaping across the rooftops below. It's fast. stupidly fast, moving like he’s glitching, limbs jerking in stuttered, too-quick movements. Sparks fly every time its metal claws scrape against concrete, little flickers of purple and blue that fill you with amusement. Even the sparks were on theme.

"Guy's fast." 

You mutter, eyes tracking their path, a slight hint of admiration in your voice. 

“Faster than you.” 

Miguel replies, flatly. You make a sound of mock-offence you know is just loud enough to be picked up through the comms.

“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, boss ,”

You shoot back, letting the sarcasm drip from your words. You twist midair, launching yourself higher as you switch weblines.

“Not my job to inflate your ego.” 

Miguel replies, and you can hear the faint sound of his claws digging into concrete as he launches himself off a wall. He’s a blur of navy blue and red below you, fast and precise. 

You’re faster in the air, though. He’s good at ground pursuit, but up here? Even while tired, this is your element. You pick up speed, shooting past him with the kind of wild, reckless swing only you would dare to attempt.

It’s enough that when he briefly loses the anomaly in the chase, you’re still hot on their heels from above.

“Come on, big guy,” you call as you sail overhead, mocking, twisting your body to look down at him. “Try to keep up.”

You think you hear him growl in annoyance. Totally worth it.

The anomaly veers left, sharp and sudden, spotting something you didn’t. Your spider-sense buzzes faintly at the back of your skull, and you follow them without thinking, swinging wide to keep the high ground.

"Got eyes on him," you say into the comm, twisting mid-air to follow. “He’s quick, but I’m quicker .”

“Don’t get cocky.” Miguel warns, the weight of his authority sharp through the static. “They get reckless when they know they’re being chased. Stay ahead of them.”

“Got it.” 

You reply, earning only static silence in response. Rude .

The anomaly drops low, flipping off the edge of a crumbling billboard and sprinting along the side of a skyscraper. Their cloak trails behind them, glitching in and out of visibility as they run.

“Left!” 

Miguel barks.

“I see it,” you snap back, your arm moving on autopilot to fire another web. It latches onto a hanging crane, and you twist into a wide arc, swinging toward the prowler. The two of you are closing in on them from different angles — Miguel from below, you from above.

The plan is almost perfect. Miguel cuts them off, you hit them from behind. Quick. Clean. Done.

But something’s wrong.

Your spider-sense flares, but not in the way it usually does. It’s sharp, sudden , and it’s not warning you about you.

It’s warning you about him.

Your gaze snaps to Miguel. He’s locked in, eyes narrowed, muscles coiled as he sprints up the wall like he’s running on pure instinct. He’s faster than you on the ground, that much you know. His claws carve into the wall as he propels himself forward. His focus is on the anomaly — it always is. He’s annoyed enough to get tunnel vision.

But the anomaly isn’t looking at him. It’s only for a brief second, but you see it— It’s looking past him.

You see it before he does. The flick of movement to the right. The shimmer of air that isn’t air . Another anomaly.

It’s already moving. Its claws are extended, glowing electric blue, lined up perfectly to carve through Miguel's side.

Your heart jumps straight into your throat.

“ Miguel, STOP! ”

You shout, louder than you’ve ever shouted in your life. But he doesn’t stop. He’s too close. He’s too focused .

He doesn’t see it.

You do.

You move.

Webline. Yank. Swing. You don’t aim. You just go .

You fire your web toward a bent streetlamp, pulling yourself into a hard swing. The line tugs tight, and suddenly you’re careening sideways, weightless for a split second before gravity comes crashing back. Your heart jackhammers in your chest, but you push through it. 

There’s no time to aim. No time to plan. It’s instinct. Muscle memory. Pure, stupid, reckless instinct.

You hit Miguel like a freight train.

The impact knocks him off his path. You hear his grunt of surprise — sharp, confused — as the two of you spin mid-air. You grab hold of him, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit, and twist , pulling him with you. Your momentum carrying you both further than you expected.

But the claws still catch you.

The pain is sharp and immediate. Fire, burning hot, rips through your side. It’s too fast to process at first — just a burst of white-hot heat followed by a wet, sticky warmth you know all too well.

Your body moves instinctually, shielding Miguel with your own as you both plummet toward the rooftop below. You’re too distracted by the dizzying pain in your arm to raise it to secure webbing to the structure, but you see a blur of movement when Miguel takes charge, when in a quick, desperate moment he tried to web you two to safety, to stop the descent.

You hit the concrete hard regardless. Your back takes the full brunt of it, a sharp CRACK that rattles through your bones. All the air is knocked out of your lungs. Your ears ring.

Something wet pools beneath you. Warm. Sticky. You already know what it is without having to look at it.

Your vision blurs at the edges. Concrete dust fills the air, gritty against your skin. Your head is spinning. Distantly, you think it’s a miracle you’re even awake .

“ Hey. ” Miguel's voice cuts through the haze, but it still sounds like he’s underwater. It’s sharp, but not like before. There’s something under it. Something you’ve never heard from him before. " Hey. Stay with me. "

You blink slowly. His face is close, red eyes wide, mouth pressed into a hard line. He’s holding you now — his hands firm on your side, applying pressure right where it hurts the most. His gloves are stained dark red. Your red.

“I’m okay.”

You’re not. You’re sure you only survived the initial impact due to sheer spite, will to live, or an unbreakable plot armour, but your luck might just as easily run out tonight judging by how much blood is pouring out of your wounds. 

“You’re not, but you will be. Now, don’t move,” he says firmly, eyes locked on yours. His voice cracks at the end. His mask is off. You can see every little shift in his face, every wrinkle of worry. “Don’t move. You’re okay. You’re fine.”

“ Owwwww ,” you wheeze, every breath a knife in your side. “Your bedside… manner… sucks. ”

“Shut up,” he says, voice too tight to be angry. His grip on you tightens, hands so big they could crush you if he wasn’t being so careful. “Don’t talk. Just… stay awake.”

You blink up at him, heart still racing like you’re free-falling. Your body’s trying to tell you it’s still in danger, but you’re not. Not anymore. Not when he’s here. 

That’s why your brain is so quiet.

“ Got you outta the way, ” you mutter, lips curling into a crooked smile. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re bleeding, ” Miguel hisses, like you somehow missed that fact. “You— why— Why would you do that? ” His voice shakes, sharp like glass, but his hands are steady as he presses harder against the wound. It hurts like hell, but it seems like a small problem to concern yourself with right now.

“'Cause I’m smarter than you,” you mutter, eyes half-lidded. “You didn’t… see it.”

He curses under his breath, his forehead pressing against yours. His hair’s a mess, strands falling forward in loose, dark curls.

“ Don’t do that again, ” he says quietly, but it’s not a warning. It’s a plea. His voice cracks, barely a whisper, and you’re too tired to pretend you didn’t hear it.

“Don’t plan to.” 

You murmur, but it’s a lie. You both know it’s a lie.

He stays like that, forehead pressed to yours, his breath shallow but steady. His eyes are locked on you like if he looks away, you’ll disappear into thin air. His hand stays firm on your side, not letting up. He’s not willing to risk your life.

"Lyla, emergency evac," 

He says, voice rough as gravel. You hear the faint chime of her activation through his gizmo.

"On it, Miguel," 

She replies, but she sounds quieter than usual. No jokes. No sass. You find yourself missing her jokes, the absence of them concerns you.

You blink slowly, eyes drifting shut.

“ No, ” Miguel says firmly, tapping your cheek. His voice is sharp again, loud, commanding. “Eyes open. Look at me.”

You groan. You don’t really have the energy to. It takes all you have to even keep breathing, keeping your eyes open is a herculean task.

"Bossy." 

You mumble, eyes fluttering open just a sliver, the best that you can do.

“Yeah, well, I’m the boss,” 

He mutters, tapping your cheek again, this time gentler.

You can feel it now. His hand on your cheek. Warm. Grounding. Safe.

Your eyes drift closed once more. Shifting in and out of consciousness.

“ Hey. Hey, stay with me, ” he says, voice laced with an edge of desperation “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Not… going anywhere,” 

You whisper. Your voice is barely there.

He stays with you, hands steady, voice low, muttering words in Spanish too soft to understand.

You don’t hear what he says, but somehow, you know what he means.

"Stay with me," he says again.

You want to.

-

The medbay lights are too bright. They’re unforgivingly harsh in your now sensitive eyes. You wince before you even fully open your eyes, being greeted first thing with a headache, then, the dull ache in your side flaring into something hotter, making itself painfully known now that you’re out of the peacefulness of slumber. 

Your senses slowly crawl back to you — the clean, sterile smell of antiseptic, the distant hum of machines, the soft hiss of an oxygen valve somewhere nearby. 

Hospitals are horrible anywhere , but even through the heavy fog in your brain, you can tell you’re far from home. 

You breathe in slow, shallow drags of air, each inhale tugging at something sore in your ribs. Not unbearable, but definitely enough to remind you that yeah, you got wrecked. Embarrassingly so.

You hear something shift to your left, the sound of a chair scraping lightly against the floor. The sound is familiar, and it brings you comfort to know you aren’t alone.

"Finally," 

A voice says, low and rough with exhaustion. 

You crack your eyes open just enough to see him. Miguel. He’s sitting next to your bed, his mask off, hair an absolute mess. He’s got that look on his face — that tired, stressed, I’ve-been-sitting-here-too-long look. His forearms rest on his knees, hands clasped like he’s been in deep thought for hours.

And he looks awful .

“Jeez,” you rasp, voice dry as sandpaper. Your tongue feels almost too big for your mouth. “You look like hell.”

His eyes snap to you, sharp. His gaze darts across your face like he’s scanning for something — Signs of pain, responsiveness. His lips press into a tight line, and for a second, he doesn't answer.

"Yeah?" he says eventually, leaning forward with a slow, measured movement. "You should see yourself."

You snort, but the laugh dies halfway out of your throat as pain shoots through your ribs. 

" Agh— okay, bad idea, bad idea!" 

You wheeze, squeezing your eyes shut to regain your composure.

“Stop doing stupid things.” 

Miguel mutters, already halfway out of his chair. His large hand finds your shoulder, steadying you before you can roll too far onto your side. His fingers are firm but careful like he’s afraid he’ll break you.

“Dumb is kinda… my whole brand,” you breathe out, gritting your teeth through the dull throb of pain. “You knew that when you hired me, big guy.”

He glares. A sharp one. The kind that would make most of the other spider-people shut up immediately. But you know him too well now. The anger isn’t real. It’s just a front for everything he’s not saying.

“Don’t call me that.” 

He says, his voice tight.

“Sure thing, boss ,” 

You shoot back, the grin tugging at your lips feeling more painful than it should.

His eyes narrow. His fingers twitch on your shoulder. You feel it, that small flicker of hesitation like he’s trying to decide whether to argue with you or let it go. In the end, he lets out a low, sharp sigh through his nose.

“You’re unbelievable.” 

He mutters, and sits back down. For a moment you wonder if he’s already tired of your bullshit, or if he’s just tired in general. You don’t know for how long you’ve been out, but judging by the flowers on your bedside table and the cards beside it, it might’ve been too long for comfort.

"Yeah, yeah," you say, eyelids feeling a little too heavy again. "But you like me anyway."

He doesn’t respond. Not at first. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, expecting the usual sharp retort, maybe a sarcastic comeback about how you’re more trouble than you’re worth.

But he doesn’t say any of that.

He just leans forward again, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles go pale. His gaze stays fixed on the floor.

"You scared me.”

Miguel’s voice is quiet when he admits it, just enough that you wonder if your fall had seriously messed with your head enough for you to be hallucinating things. You blink, your sluggish brain taking a second too long to fully process it. 

" What? "

He doesn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on the floor like it might give him an answer. His jaw tightens, muscle flexing under his skin. When he finally speaks, it’s slow, deliberate, like he’s forcing himself to say it.

"You scared me." he repeats, and this time it hits different. Not an accusation. Not a scolding. Just a fact. "I thought you—" He cuts himself off, his throat working around the words. "I thought I was going to lose you."

Your heart does a weird flip in your chest. The kind that’s definitely not related to your injury but hurts just as much. 

You’re filled with guilt, for a moment. You know that doing stupid things for the sake of protecting those you care about is a sin most of the people you know are guilty of, it’s almost a requirement when it comes to being Spider-Man.

And you’ve always pulled through.

It doesn’t make it easier for the people you love. And it doesn’t make it easier to confront the fact that— yeah, while you did survive, there’s always a chance you might not be so lucky next time.

"Hey," you say softly, tilting your head just enough to see him better. He still won’t look at you, but you can see the tension in his face, in his shoulders. "But you didn’t, okay? I’m right here."

“Barely,” he mutters. “You were bleeding out. You didn’t see how bad it was.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to read him the way you always do. You’re good at that — reading Miguel. His face doesn’t move much, but it doesn’t have to. His tells are small: The way his eyes shift. The way his lips press together just a little too tightly.

“You fixed it, didn’t you?” 

You ask, voice quiet but firm. When glances up at you, red eyes locking onto yours, his brows pull together, frown deeper than usual, he doesn’t look away this time.

“Yeah.” he says finally. "I fixed it."

"Then we’re good!" 

You say, like it’s that simple. Because to you, it is that simple. He saved you. You saved him. That’s how this works. That’s how it’s always worked.

His eyes narrow, but you can see it now — the exhaustion pulling at him. It’s not just physical. It’s in the way his shoulders slope forward, like something heavy is resting on his back.

“You’re too reckless .” he mutters. It sounds like he’s scolding you, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You can’t keep pulling stunts like that.”

"It worked, didn’t it?" 

You grin, and even though it hurts, it’s worth it to see him roll his eyes.

"That's not the point ." he says. “You shouldn’t have to throw yourself in the way just to keep me safe. That’s not your job.”

“Then whose job is it?” you shoot back, meeting his glare head-on. "Yours? You do it all the time, Miguel. All the time. "

Silence.

The air between you hangs heavy.

"That's different"

"Is it?" you push. "Feels pretty similar from where I’m sitting— Laying. Whatever."

His eyes flick to you, something sharp and guarded in, he knows you’re right but refuses to admit it.

You let your head fall back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded as the weight of exhaustion presses down on you again. The pain in your side has dulled to a slow throb, not urgent enough to keep you awake.

"You're not alone, Miguel." you murmur, words slow but certain. "You don't have to do everything by yourself."

He stays quiet for a long moment. The steady hum of the medbay machines fills the space between you.

"You don't have to do it alone either"

Your eyes snap open.

You glance at him, heart thudding a little too hard in your chest. He’s not looking at you, but his words hang there, heavy and unshakable.

For once, you don’t have a quick reply.

"...Touché." you mutter, letting your eyes close again. "Guess we’re both idiots, huh?"

“Yes…” he mutters, and you swear you hear the faintest hint of a laugh in his voice. "Yeah, we are."

His chair creaks as he sits back, arms crossed, head tilted forward like he’s finally allowing himself to rest. But you know he’s not leaving.

You think, maybe, he’s going to stay for a while.

You don’t mind.

This time, when sleep finally pulls you under, it feels safe.

It feels like home.