Chapter Text
It’s getting to be that time of year again. That specific point in time at the end of a period lasting roughly 430 days where Miguel takes a dose of medicine, feels it enter his bloodstream and attack the correct cells, and then… nothing happens.
He sighs and puts the injection gun down, leaning over the table as he works up the energy to actually fix this problem. Again.
Because despite being free of Rapture, one of the annoying side effects of having way too much spider DNA inside him than should be physically possible is that it likes to take over everything and mutate. The cells become resistant to each new version of medication over time, forcing him to synthesize new medicine about once every year, sometimes from scratch. And that means he has to let the previous version wash out of his system before starting the new kind, which is always a massive pain all on its own.
Lyla has probably already begun her own research on how to get around his body’s natural immune system again, and all he really needs to do is draw some blood to have her analyze it and wait. But the waiting is always the worst part, because he never knows what he’s going to be like on the other side, other than not himself.
He pushes away from the table and goes searching for the necessary tools. It doesn’t take long to find a clean needle, and he wastes no time drawing out an appropriate amount of blood, putting a drop of it on a slide and putting the slide in a machine that Lyla can use to analyze it. He puts the rest in a small vial for testing later, already dreading the process.
Lyla will do most of the work for him, and he’s definitely going to need it when the spider inside him inevitably takes full control and he can’t help her anymore. He shouldn’t be worried, because Lyla always finds a way to get the new medication to him no matter how feral he is, usually by goading Peter into it, but dread pools in his stomach anyway.
He smooths a hand through his hair and huffs a tired sigh. He shocking hates this, but hey, at least it’s not Rapture.
He’s in the middle of preparing his office for a war zone when Miles shows up.
He usually has to take medication once a day for maximum effectiveness, but it typically takes a few days for the effects to completely wear off, and he’s learned that the best thing to do is lock himself in a dark room and let it run its course. Hence the preparations. Miguel’s spider brain may not be the smartest, but he can still figure out how to use buttons, and once even the goober, so he’s taking every precaution he can to ensure that the only people who have to deal with him is himself, Lyla, and whatever unfortunate soul has to deliver the new medication to him.
Miles’s sudden appearance is a surprise, but not yet an unwelcome one. It’ll be at least another 20 hours before controlling his instincts becomes difficult enough to make him dangerous. He can still deal with people perfectly fine.
“Hey, Tío!” he calls cheerfully. He jogs over to Miguel’s place at the far end of the room, and Miguel waves away the holograms displaying all the counter measures he’s pulled up to contain him before the kid can see.
“Do you need something?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
Miles comes to a stop in front of him, bouncing on his toes. He’s grinning like he’s about to do something mischievous, and Miguel really hopes that he doesn’t have to deal with whatever it is.
The kid clears his throat dramatically. “You have been formally invited to mi casa, to have dinner with mi familia tonight. Ma is making enough carne asada and arepas for an army.”
Miguel frowns. Dinner sounds nice, especially if it’s homemade, but it would not be a good idea for him to be around people right now. Especially Miles’s parents, who are both normal people who would not know how to handle an outburst from a superpowered man going through withdrawals. That’s a disaster waiting to happen. But…
“Who else would be there?”
Miles holds a hand up to start counting on his fingers. “Gwen, Peter B, Pete, Pavitr, And Hobie. Why? Did you want to invite someone else too? My parents wouldn’t mind having another person tag along.”
It’s such a bad idea. He knows it is. So why is he still thinking about it?
Logically, he shouldn’t start getting aggressive until tomorrow. The last dose he took was earlier today, which gives him plenty of time to figure everything out before it gets bad, even if he does decide to accept Miles’s offer. It’s just a dinner, and a very tempting one at that. And there will be plenty of other spiders there, so in case something does happen, Miles and his parents will be kept out of harm’s way.
But it’s a bad idea. It’s a bad idea.
He sighs, reaching up to rub at his eyes. “I’d like to invite Jessica as well, if that’s okay with you.”
Miles beams at him, quickly nodding along. He’s really excited about this, huh?
“Of course! We’ll see you at 9, okay Tío?” Miles yells over his shoulder, retreating from the room before Miguel can change his mind.
“Sí,” he calls back, before the door closes and Miguel is left to contemplate his horrible life choices.
It’s a bad idea. But he’s going to need to eat before the experience that comes after, and he hates to admit it, but spending time with the others does sound nice. With Peter B and Jess there, he’s sure that they’ll be able to handle him if something happens. If he can just make it through one meal without slipping, then he can spend the next few days going about his business as usual.
It’s just one meal, right?
He has to admit that Miles’s world is pretty nice. His New York is full of life and culture, kids who feel safe enough to walk to school and smiling faces everywhere. It’s brighter, too, and a bit more colorful than Peter’s world or his own.
Miguel would have assumed that the sheer power of the villains Miles has to fight would dampen the cheerfulness of the people living here, but it seems like it’s exactly the opposite. Maybe it’s Spiderman’s influence, or maybe that’s just how this universe is.
He walks down the street with his hands in his pockets and sunglasses over his eyes despite the fading sunlight. His sensitivity to light is already higher than the average Spiderman’s, but it’s getting progressively worse the longer he goes without medication. It’s not unbearable yet, but once he comes up on the time of day that he usually takes a dose tomorrow, then it will be. He’d just prefer to save himself the headache now.
Lyla helped him pick out clothes that were actually time-period appropriate. His wardrobe is pitifully small, and it was somewhat difficult to find something that didn’t scream “I’m from the future!”. He usually doesn’t bother when he goes to visit Peter or someone else, because they never care if he’s still wearing his suit or not. But this time he set down the portal farther away from Miles’s apartment block to walk instead, and he doesn’t want to look strange in front of Miles’s parents or the random strangers on the street.
It’s a short walk, but the fresh air is nice. He knows it’ll be a few days before he smells it again, so he takes advantage of the time he has.
He arrives at the right place fairly quickly, taking a hand out of his jacket pocket to knock on the door and wait.
He wonders how far Lyla has gotten on her analysis. Normally she’s able to whip up a new formula within the first two days, but sometimes it can be longer or shorter depending on what the bloodwork says. After this, he’ll go and help her, at least to have something to do while this last dose leaves his system.
He hears talking on the other side of the door, soft footsteps, and then it swings open to show him Rio Morales on the other side. She smiles at him politely, and he gives her a respectful nod back before she ushers him inside and closes the door behind them.
Mr. Morales comes around the corner right as Miguel is taking off his jacket, and he has to clamp down on the urge to hiss when he gets in Miguel’s personal space and wraps an arm around his shoulders like they’re buddies.
“Hey, it’s nice to see you, O’Hara. Damn, have you been going to the gym more?”
Thankfully Jefferson lets him go with an awkward pat on the shoulder, and he tries to come up with a response that hopefully doesn’t sound like a threat.
“The spider genes make me naturally muscular,” he deadpans, prompting a shared glance between both of Miles’s parents as they try to figure out if he’s joking or not.
Miguel has met the two of them before. After Miles escaped Earth-42, he came back here, managed to rescue his father with the help of the other kids, and then revealed who he was, to both of their shock and confusion. He explained who the others were too. And Miguel has to hand it to the kid, he did sugarcoat a lot of what Miguel said and did when he was retelling the story. So when Miguel came forward to formally apologize to Gwen, Miles, and his parents, they had accepted it without much further scrutiny.
He didn’t understand why Miles did it before, but he thinks he has some idea now. He’s a good kid, and he always has been. Miguel should have seen that from the start, instead of blaming him for something he had no control over.
So, both of them know that Miguel and all of the rest of the kids are variations of Spiderman, and they got used to it surprisingly quickly. This is Miguel’s second time having dinner with them, and while their disregard for personal space is annoying, at least they aren’t intimidated by him like they were last time.
“Man, I wish I had spider genes,” Jefferson mumbles.
Mrs. Morales gives him a look, and he holds his hands up, trying his best to look innocent.
“What? The guy is jacked, honey.”
She rolls her eyes and turns to address Miguel again while Jefferson leaves to go tend to the food on the stove.
“Do you need a place to put your sunglasses?”
He shakes his head and follows her as she leads him further into the apartment. “No, thank you. I have light sensitivity.”
He gets to the living room and finds it already packed. Hobie and Pav have taken over the gaming system on the TV, something cartoonish that Miguel is sure he’s seen before but hasn’t bothered to remember the name, and are sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table as they play. Gwen and Miles are on the couch, trading phones and sketchbook drawings, and generally chatting. Pete is also on the floor on the other side of the table, watching the video game with rapt attention and occasionally chiming into the conversations happening around him. Jess is in the doorway to the kitchen talking with Mrs. Morales about the upcoming baby and all the ways she’s preparing for it. And Peter is sitting on one of the armchairs before he sees Miguel and practically leaps up to greet him.
“Hey, Miguel! Glad to see that you actually joined us this time.” He squints at the sunglasses. “Are your eyes bothering you?”
“Yes,” Miguel replies, trying to take most of the gruffness out of his voice. He’s not sure if he’s successful or not, but Peter doesn’t seem to notice so at least it can’t be too bad.
“Come on, sit down. We saved a chair for you.”
But as Peter tries to lead him towards the other available armchair, he hears Jess give an incredulous laugh off to the side. “Ha! No the hell we didn’t. That seat is mine, boys.”
And Miguel is perfectly content with sitting somewhere else, but Peter slumps with an exaggerated whine. “Come on, Jessica. You’ve been talking over there for like, an hour already. And look at Miggy’s whittle face. He’s so sad that he doesn’t get a chair too!”
Peter tries to stick his hands in Miguel’s face and force a frown out of him, but Miguel swats him away with a scowl. He hears the kids laughing as he shoves Peter away from him with a hand to his face.
“I’ll take the floor,” he says, to Peter’s disappointment and Jess’s amused look.
But then Mrs. Morales has to get involved as well. “Oh, nonsense. Miles, I know you can make more room on that couch. Scoot over, niño.”
Miles pouts and tries to put up a token argument, but he and Gwen do eventually scoot over to make room. Miguel isn’t convinced that it’s enough room, but Mrs. Morales is watching him expectantly, so he figures he might as well make an attempt to get comfortable.
Predictably, Miguel and Gwen end up getting squished together, so she opts to sit on the top of the couch and hover over Miles’s shoulder instead. Once all the attention is no longer focused on him, Miguel tries to tune everything out and relax a little.
He closes his eyes and makes a half-hearted attempt to meditate. Really, it’s less meditation and more focusing on keeping his claws, fangs, and instincts in check. The more obvious side effects of withdrawal shouldn’t start for another few hours at least, but his heart is already racing and he can feel saliva pooling at the back of his mouth. Whether that means he’s going to puke or he’s just hungry, he really doesn’t know.
He hears his name being called and feels a nudge to his arm, and he has to stop a hiss from slipping out as he opens his eyes and glances over to see Miles and Gwen trying to get his attention.
“Wow, you look tired,” Gwen jokes.
And he almost misses the hint of genuine worry in her eyes, but once he catches it he scolds himself for making it obvious enough for the kids to notice that something is wrong. Mierda, he’s only been here for a few minutes. This does not bode well.
“Just didn’t sleep well,” he deflects, trying to straighten up and appear more awake. And it’s true that he hasn’t been sleeping well for the past few days leading up to his medication losing effectiveness, but he’s not about to tell them the reason why. He’s had random bouts of sleeplessness before, so nobody will think to question him about it anyway. “Did you need something?”
Gwen narrows her eyes suspiciously, but luckily Miles takes the opportunity to hop in and start showing off the newest pages of his sketchbook, and when Miguel intentionally doesn’t glance up at her, her suspicion fades quickly and she focuses on the drawings as well. Relieved, Miguel gives Miles a few compliments on his work at the right places and tries to put more effort into looking invested and definitely not wishing he was anywhere else but here. He should’ve just taken the floor.
Jess comes back and takes her seat, eyeing Miguel for a moment before engaging in a new conversation with Peter. And thankfully that distracts both of them from the way he jumps when Pav yells at the screen after losing another match to Hobie. The smell of food wafts in from the kitchen, and while it’s nice at first, it soon becomes overpowering as it fills his nose and leaves no room for anything else. His stomach curls, his teeth ache, and he knows that nobody is looking at him but it feels like he’s being watched anyway.
Abruptly, he gets up and heads out of the room.
“Miguel! Where are you going?” Peter whines behind him.
And bites back a huff and has to keep his shoulders forcibly relaxed as he says “The bathroom,” without looking back.
Once the door closes behind him, the slowly built up tension fades and he slumps against the sink. The lights in here are even brighter, and he squints as the beginnings of a migraine make itself known. He pushes the sunglasses further up and rubs at his temples, sighing.
It’s not that bad yet, he tells himself. Dinner is almost ready, and he’s already here so it would be rude to leave now. Peter would probably chase after him too, and he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of nothing or cause a scene. He can deal. Just for another hour or so.
“Lyla,” he murmurs. “How far are you on the new medication?”
Her hologram pops up from the goober on his wrist, looking just as cheerful as ever.
“Hey Miguel. The bloodwork is done, and the new formula has been made. I’m just waiting on the right chemicals to be delivered and then I can start the process. So I’d say it’s about 25% completed.”
Right on schedule then. She’ll probably be done making the new dose right around the same time Miguel shakes off the old one, which is great news. And if Miguel gets back soon then he might be able to speed along the process even more. Not that it would really matter, but he’d rather make absolutely sure that everything is ready and working before he loses all rational thought.
“Thank you,” he remembers to say, before she goes back to what she was doing. He realizes that he’s probably been in the bathroom for too long, but the smell is still strong enough to make him gag and he would very much like to find a dark, quiet corner somewhere where he can be alone. He scowls at the thought.
It’s not that bad, repeats in his head a few times before he’s composed himself enough to come out again. He flushes the toilet to keep up the ruse and turns on the sink to cup water in his hand and rinse out his mouth.
It’s not that bad. I can last another hour, he tells himself, and then takes a shallow breath and opens the door.
He’s surprised to see Mrs. Morales on the other side, one hand raised like she was about to knock.
“Oh, I was just about to let you know that the food is ready.” And when she looks over to the kitchen, Miguel follows her gaze and finds that, sure enough, nearly everyone else is trying to wrestle their way into the few available chairs at the table, with Jefferson trying in vain to get the kids to be orderly about it.
Miguel sighs and shuffles past Mrs. Morales to help them out. If the kids won’t settle down for Miles’s parents, then they will for him.
It’s Gwen, Miles, and Pav that seem to be having the most trouble, each one of them trying to push the other out of the nearest seat to take it for themselves. They’re laughing, so it’s nothing serious, but they’re going to make a mess if they continue any longer, so Miguel reaches over and plucks Gwen and Pav up by the backs of their shirts. He holds them both up with little effort, and they both start loudly complaining about who had the seat first. Miguel only barely suppresses a wince at the volume and thinks about how lucky these kids are that he doesn’t want to maul them as he turns to Miles’s parents.
“Where do you want them?”
Jefferson is watching him in blatant appreciation of how effortlessly he’s able to lift two teenagers, while Rio holds a hand over her face to laugh.
Gwen curls up, crosses her arms, and pouts up at him, while Pav turns to grumpily glare at Miles, looking like he’s about to start plotting something nefarious. Miguel rolls his eyes at the several phones that are pointed in his direction to take a picture of the scene, and if he didn’t regret agreeing to come to this dinner before, then he certainly does now.
Once Mrs. Morales has mostly contained her amusement, she gets Jefferson to help her drag the two armchairs from the living room to the table, and once Miguel has set the kids into them, neither of them are complaining anymore. The armchairs are more comfortable than the regular chairs anyway, so now it’s Miles’s turn to narrow his eyes at them accusingly.
Since Hobie has chosen to sit on the kitchen counter instead of on something that’s meant to be sat on, that leaves six seats for seven people. Realizing the problem, Miles is the first one to get up and volunteer to go sit with Gwen. Miguel catches him before he can, scolding him without saying a word by putting him right back in the seat he was just in. Because the armchairs may be bigger, and Miles and Gwen may be fairly small, but they definitely won’t be able to comfortably fit in one together, and all it’s going to do is cause another makeshift wrestling match.
Peter is the next one to chime in with an actually decent idea. “We can make one of those hanging basket chairs with webs.”
Pete is the first to leap to the occasion, slinging two webs up to the ceiling to start as tether points and building his way out from there. Miguel is impressed with his speed and precision, and in a minute flat he already has an entire new chair constructed.
“Alright,” Jefferson starts, and several spiders in the room collective wince when they realize they probably should’ve asked permission first before using webs in the house, because both of Miles’s parents are looking at the web strangely. “You’d better hope the ceiling holds up. You can take that down later, right?”
Pete nods, scuffing his boots anxiously. But they both seem to take it in stride, and then they’re both working to transfer the food from the counter to the table as everyone else finds their seats.
Jess tries to move past Miguel, and when her arm bumps his own he has to grip onto the edge of his chair to calm the growl threatening to bubble up. His skin prickles uncomfortably, oversensitive with the unexpected movement, and he grits his teeth as he sits himself down. Peter takes the seat next to him at the end of the table and reaches over to playfully nudge his shoulder, and Miguel feels his fangs sliding out as he bristles at the touch.
Peter must interpret his scowl as his usual grumpiness and chuckles as he turns to watch the food being put out. Miguel’s neck creaks with how tense he’s holding himself, and he really hopes that nobody is paying too much attention as he forces the fangs away.
Just like Miles said, there’s enough arepas, carne asada, and other smaller side dishes for all of their enhanced appetites and then some. How they managed to gather enough ingredients for it, let alone put so much time into making it all, is a mystery to him. Miles probably helped them, but it seems like a lot of work for just three people. All of it barely fits on the table.
As the plates are passed around, many hands start to reach out to fill them, and the volume of conversation nearly triples very quickly. Miguel allows the claws on one hand to come out just to dig them into his palm under the table. The noise loses all distinct meaning and becomes a piercing combination of buzzing and ringing that makes him want to rip his ears off.
He forces himself through it, taking only two arepas for now, because as soon as the smell comes back in full force he starts to wonder if he’ll even be able to eat that much. He tells himself that the others will calm down soon, and it takes more effort to put his claws away than it should.
“Come on, Miguel, you barely grabbed anything! Here, let me get you some.” Without waiting for a reply, Peter grabs some tortillas and piles them full of meat and pico de gallo before putting them on Miguel’s and his own plate. Of course Miguel’s scowling does nothing to deter him.
The food looks amazing, and it’s probably delicious too, but the only thing he can think of as he looks at it is that he would much rather be curled up safely in his office, or even throwing up in the bathroom, than sit here and eat it. This dinner is starting to become a lot more shocking trouble than it’s worth.
But he can’t let Peter or the others know any of that, so he sends what he hopes is a mild glare in Peter’s direction and mimics what everyone else is doing; digging in.
The first bite of an arepa feels like swallowing dirt, and the overpowering smell makes it that much worse, but he pushes through it until Peter grins at him and refocuses on his own plate. A rock is dropped into his stomach and it roils unpleasantly, but he pushes through it and finds that at least the second and third bites aren’t so bad. Despite barely being able to taste what he’s eating, he starts to go through his plate quickly, and once the noise dies down again Miguel is able to relax enough to listen.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude, honey. I was just curious,” Jefferson says when Miguel tunes back in. Mrs. Morales is giving him another one of those looks, a little bit less bite this time but still there nonetheless.
Hobie chuckles from his spot on the counter. “Yeah, me and Pete like to go beat up nazis and cops on weekends. It’s ace. You should tag along sometime, eh, officer?”
Jefferson blanks, and Hobie grins deviously back. Gwen and Miles look between the two of them like they’re expecting an argument to break out, and Pete shoves half an arepa in his mouth to cover up his own grin. Jess tries to give Hobie a disapproving look, but that’s never stopped the kid before and it won’t stop him now.
“Well,” Peter starts nervously, clearly trying to move the conversation elsewhere, “in my free time, I like to go to the park with MJ and Mayday. And yeah sometimes a villain shows up and I have to go fight them, but Spiderman usually has off days and free time just like anybody else.”
“I spend time with my husband,” Jess chimes in next. “These days I’m only Spiderwoman about three days out of the week. Gotta keep the baby safe, y’know?”
There’s a series of agreements around the table, and then all the kids are adding their own schedules to the mix. Pav talks about having chai with his aunt and talking to friends at school, Gwen says she has ballet lessons and band practice twice a week and has been spending more time with her dad lately, and although Miles’s answer is fairly obvious, he says that he spends most of his free time either with his family or at Spider Society.
And then all eyes are turning to Miguel expectantly, and he becomes very suddenly self-conscious before his answer has even been given.
“I just work,” he says with a slight frown. “And ocassionally get invited to outings like this.”
There’s an awkward silence, and Miguel wonders if they’re waiting for him to say more or if they’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. Jess and Peter know full well what his schedule is like, and they’ve been trying to get him to “loosen up” for years now. The only thing that really works is stuff like this, going to other universes to hang out with people from dimensions that aren’t his own.
He doesn’t have a wife and child like Peter, or a husband like Jess. His family is… gone. And since getting his genes all shocked up, the few friends or romantic interests he’s held have been either fleeting or have ended in tragedy, so he hasn’t pursued anything like that in quite a while. Spider Society, Lyla, and this trouble-making group of spiderlings are really all he has, and when they’re off doing other things, there’s nothing else to do but work.
“Cuate,” Mrs. Morales begins, voice full of sympathy that does nothing but make Miguel bristle, “do you really not have anyone? Or at least a hobby?”
A hobby? What could he possibly do as a hobby? Gwen does ballet, Miles draws, And Miguel is just… Miguel. Besides being Spiderman, what else is there? The last time he tried to do things for fun instead of work was with Gabriella, and look how that turned out.
He almost jolts when he realizes his fangs have extended in his mouth again, and it’s not as easy to put them away when everyone is still waiting for an answer.
“My hobby is Spider Society,” he mumbles, trying to keep his teeth hidden. “Besides that and being Spiderman, everything else is secondary.”
That doesn’t seem to be the right answer though, because now the whole table is trying not to look at him with blatant pity and failing at it. Anxiety twists in his gut, and for a second the urge to just get up and leave is so overpowering that he has to dig his claws into his knees to keep himself sitting. The spider instincts are making the idea of his dark, comfortable office seem very tempting right now.
Peter reaches over to pat him on the arm, and Miguel is this close to actually lunging at and possibly mauling the other spider. Peter must either see or feel the tension, because he pulls back quickly, looking a lot more worried than he did a moment ago. His migraine pulses as he tries to think of a way out of this conversation. Preferably before anyone can ask about a family again.
Surprisingly, it’s actually Hobie that jumps to his rescue. He asks about some band, wondering if they exist in this universe, and slowly but surely the others re-engage with other things besides Miguel. He sees Peter watching him, barely even trying to be subtle about it, and gets the distinct impression that as soon as he has a moment alone Peter is going to come barging in and force him to be not alone. Which, on any other day, might be a great way to get Miguel out of his head and interacting with people again. But today? This is the worst possible time for anybody to be worried about him. And Dios help him if Peter manages to figure out why Miguel is so off, because then he’s sure he’d never hear the end of it.
He unclenches his jaw, removes his claws from his skin, and tries to keep eating like nothing is wrong. His fangs refuse to retract this time, and maybe that has something to do with how tense and stressed he still is, but it makes eating in front of other people difficult. He takes smaller bites, and he keeps track of where Peter and the others are looking to make sure they stay out of sight.
The others seem to have figured out that Miguel doesn’t want to interact with anybody, which is both concerning and a relief. Concerning because he was trying to get through this dinner without making things incredibly uncomfortable, and a relief because the less people try to talk to or touch him the less he wants to bash his head into a wall.
After a while, almost everyone’s plates have been cleared and the remaining leftovers have begun to go cold. Without Miguel bogging things down, other conversations flow freely and without any other hiccups. He chimes in every now and then when he’s able and willing, and that’s enough for him. His fangs stay out, but he manages to hide them fairly easily once he declares himself full. Peter keeps sending him worried glances, but they become less frequent as the night progresses.
And when the migraine starts to edge into the territory of becoming unignorable, he glances down at his goober to read the time and finds that not only did he manage to survive a whole hour, but he actually got through two without realizing it until now.
“It’s getting late,” he notes absently, and several other people glance at their own goobers or watches as they confirm the same thing. It’s getting past eleven at night.
“You know…” Jefferson begins, glancing over to have a wordless conversation with his wife before they seem to come to an agreement and he turns back to the table. “Why don’t you kids stay over for the night? We have an air mattress or two and plenty of space in the living room to set them up.”
All of the kids are immediately in favor, and Gwen is the first one to find the right prompt on her goober to text her dad and ask permission, with Pav following suit. Hobie and Pete don’t need to do the same, so they just nod in acceptance.
Then Mrs. Morales turns to the other adults at the table. “You can all stay as well, if you want to.”
“I need to sleep in a real bed,” Jess says, “but I can stay for a power nap.”
Miles chimes in a second later. “You can take my bed! I wanna hang out with everyone else anyway.” And by “everyone else”, he almost certainly means just Gwen, but nobody calls him out for it.
Jess smiles. “I guess I’m staying the night then.”
And then she looks over and gives Peter a questioning raised eyebrow, but the first thing Peter does is turn to Miguel.
“Are you staying?”
He sounds hopeful, worried still, and Miguel figures that Peter’s answer is going to be contingent on his own. But he really can’t stay.
He shakes his head. “I can’t stay tonight,” he says simply, and really hopes that Peter will just leave it be.
But it’s actually Miles that starts the argument first.
“Come on, Miguel. You have to stay.”
Miguel fights back an annoyed growl and turns it into a more acceptable huff instead. “I have very important work to do.”
“We all know Lyla can handle things while you’re gone,” Hobie says from where’s he’s casually sprawled over the counter. At least he keeps his boots away from scuffing anything, which is more care than the punk usually gives for other people’s things. “Stop bein’ such a tosser and say yes already.”
And this time he does actually growl, but it’s quiet enough that he’s able to cover it up with a fake cough. He glares when Hobie catches his slip up and gives him a smug grin.
“Very important work is still very important work,” he argues, pushing his chair back so he can stand up and make it more clear that he’s leaving. “Gracias por la comida, but I really do have to go.”
The Morales bunch all frowns are him, and Miguel tries to turn around and leave before they can find some way to convince him otherwise. But, as he’s walking away, a hand lightly grabs his wrist, and he finds himself stopping.
Peter is looking up at him with those stupid eyes, and Miguel already knows what he’s is going to say, but for some reason he stays long enough to listen to it anyway.
“Please, Miguel? We want you to stay, and if you really have to go then I’ll just follow you.”
And past the increasing pressure in his skull, for some insane reason, he actually stops to consider it.
The side effects are annoying but relatively mild right now, and he hasn’t hit the 24 hour mark yet. Besides the fangs and one small growl, he’s been able to control himself decently well, enough that he realizes inviting Jess along may have been overkill. Lyla is on schedule and doesn’t necessarily need his help to make the new batch.
And, despite being an awful guest, for some reason they all want him around. Maybe it’s just pity after what he said earlier, but…
Sensing weakness from his long pause, Peter starts a series of taps on his wrist. Stay, friend he says.
And Miguel tries to resist, he really does. But he makes the mistake of glancing back at the others and finding only worried and hopeful eyes staring back.
With a frustrated sigh, Miguel tugs his wrist free and brings his hands up to his head, trying in vain to wring out his headache and bring back his more rational thoughts.
“Fine,” he finds himself saying. “But only for a few hours. I can’t stay long.”
When he drops his hands and looks down again, Peter is beaming at him, and a bunch of the kids are smiling as well. It should probably be reassuring, but all he gets is the feeling that he’s just made a terrible mistake.
Jefferson drags the rolled up air mattress out from a closet, and while everyone else is excitedly setting up the living room, Miguel finds Mrs. Morales in the kitchen. She’s packing up all the leftovers, and he finds it strange when she smiles warmly at him as he walks up to her.
“Do you have any kind of pain relief I could take? Preferably extra strength?”
“Of course,” she says, putting the tupperware to the side so she can reach for a specific cabinet and pull out a pill bottle. “Are you okay?”
He takes the bottle and briefly reads the name and dosage before he opens it and pops three in his mouth, swallowing them dry.
“Sí. It’s just a migraine.”
When he hands the bottle back, she’s frowning at him. He’s just about to head back to the living room to avoid another awkward conversation when she speaks again.
“Is it the lights? You’ve been wearing sunglasses all day, so is there any way we can help?”
He gives a half shrug, leaning partially against the counter. “The lights here aren’t dimmable like they are in my office, they only go on or off, so unless you want to turn everything off and not be able to see, then I’ll just wait until everyone is heading to bed.”
She hums and looks around the place, considering. “You can see in the dark, right?”
He nods, and she smiles. “Well, then I can turn off the lights, and you can help me put away the rest of the food. Qué hay de eso?”
He huffs something like a laugh. “If you’re sure…”
She gets a determined look on her face, and then she’s walking away to go flip off all the lights. The other spiders should be able to see fairly well too, he reasons. It’ll probably only be Miles’s parents that have trouble with it, which Miguel is opposed to since this is their house, but Mrs. Morales brought up the idea in the first place.
Miguel closes his eyes as he waits, and for each light that’s turned off, the sharpness of his migraine gradually lessens, turning into more of a deep ache that he can mostly ignore. The kitchen light is the last one out, and he hears Rio shuffling her way through the room carefully, her own eyes not yet adjusted to the difference.
Miguel flicks the sunglasses off, and this time when he opens his eyes he sighs in relief. There’s still some light filtering in through the windows, allowing everyone in the living room to continue setting up the beds, but not much of it has reached the kitchen, and he can see Mrs. Morales struggling.
Hesitating, he decides that he’s probably well enough to deal with touch as long as it’s not unexpected, and he reaches out to gently guide her by the elbow back to the counter.
“Gracias,” she laughs. And then she directs him to the cabinet full of tupperware and he starts quietly helping with the leftovers. Having something to do without needing to worry about hiding his fangs is nice, and he falls into the rhythm of it easily.
“Just how strong is your night vision?”
He pauses briefly, glancing over at her as she slowly finds where the food is again, working mostly blind.
No longer needing to hide his fangs, he speaks softly but without mumbling this time. “I can see everything now just as well as you can with the lights on.”
“That’s cool. Is that from the spider genes too?”
He frowns, and he’s glad that she doesn’t see it.
“Everything is from the spider genes.”
There’s a pause, and for a moment he worries that he’s soured the conversation again.
“I hope this isn’t a rude question, but don’t all of you have spider genes? Why does it seem like you’re the only one with light sensitivity?”
“Every Spiderperson had some amount of their DNA changed after getting bitten by their universe’s spider, so there are similar traits shared between all of them. They get taller, naturally stronger and more muscular. The hands and feet change to allow for sticking to walls. And everyone has spider-sense.”
He pauses. “But I wasn’t bitten, and a lot more of my DNA was changed than a typical Spider experiences. I’m not like the others.”
No spider-sense, no sticking, and eyes strong enough to make him practically useless without a mask or sunglasses to filter everything out. Fangs and claws and unwanted instincts that make him lose control far more often than a hero should. There are so many frustrating ways that he’s different.
“But you’re still Spiderman.”
Miguel jolts, glancing over at her as he tries to figure out if it’s a question or not.
“From what Miles has told me, it seems like anyone can be Spiderman as long as you help people and sling a web every now and then.”
Miguel huffs. That’s a very narrow way of looking at it. Superior Spiderman would count under that definition, but sometimes Miguel wonders if he should be called Spiderman at all. And Miguel would count as well, but he’s sure that if she knew just how many people he’s gotten killed, she would probably hesitate to call him Spiderman as well.
He doesn’t respond, and luckily she doesn’t push him to continue talking. It doesn’t take much longer to finish up in the kitchen, and he tries to stay a bit longer to help clean as well, but she insists that she can get around to it tomorrow and that they should all get some rest.
She heads off to bed, and Miguel makes his way to the living room. He finds one mattress laid out on the floor, Gwen, Miles, and Pav in a pile on top, with another beside it that appears to be broken or punctured, because it hasn’t been inflated. But even with limited space, everyone who couldn’t fit on the bed has made do with webbing instead.
The medium-sized web stretches across about a quarter of the room from one corner to the ceiling at enough of an angle to give them space on top, and there’s a hole on one side acting as an entrance. Pete, Hobie, and Peter have made themselves comfortable there. Jess seems to have already taken Miles’s bed, and without much space left on the mattress, Miguel really only has one option.
Without the ability to stick to walls, jostling the web as his climbs up into it is inevitable, and although Pete and Hobie are still wide awake talking about who knows what, Peter seems to have been in the middle of drifting off. He grumbles and rolls onto his other side as Miguel maneuvers over him to the open space on the other side. When he settles down and the web dips, pushing the group together and Miguel into Peter, the other spider decides to try to shove him away, still half asleep. Now that Miles’s parents are gone, he doesn’t hold back on the growl. Peter quiets down after that, snuffling and quickly falling asleep the rest of the way.
Miguel sets an alarm on the goober for two hours, gets himself mostly comfortable, and closes his eyes.
Pete and Hobie are talking about inventions, things that Hobie has made himself and things in Pete’s world that have yet to be created. Below them, Pav is excitedly whispering about all the street dogs he’s met and the names he’s given them.
With his headache finally mostly gone, Miguel slowly drifts off to the white noise.
He hears screaming in his head.
Images and snapshots flash across his eyes almost too fast to make out what they are. He sees the Alchemax logo, blood on someone else’s hands, a daughter held in his arms, a body between his teeth. Fragmented moments of terror and pain.
Someone calls his name, but he can’t turn to look.
There are claws on his hands, fangs in his mouth, and they feel foreign to him. He’s never seen them before, but he knows they’re his. He’s trying to save someone, but their wrist slips out of his grip and they go tumbling down, down, down. He’s trying to fight someone, but their throat unexpectedly tears under his fingers, and they don’t get back up. He’s trying to protect someone, but her essence fades through his hands like smoke, no matter how tightly he tries to hold her.
He starts to wonder if the claws are even useful for anything, wonders if he should just tear them out. He wonders if he could give them a use by ripping into his own chest and taking his heart out instead.
Someone calls his name, and he can’t answer.
Venom drips from his lips, and red eyes stare back at him in the mirror. He looks human but not, and he starts to think about having eight legs instead of two.
Someone calls his name.
His name.
Someone—
Miguel!
He bursts awake to a piercing sound and a hand shaking his shoulder.
Scrambling away proves to be a mistake. Over the course of the night, completely unaware of what he was doing, his fangs have been dripping venom on the webs keeping them all up, eroding a large hole beside him and making a small, acidic puddle on the floor below. And when Miguel tries to spring upright, his arm goes right through and the rest of his body follows.
He hits the floor hard, and not only does the noise follow him down, but then several voices start to rise up in alarm, and the sound is just too much.
He slams his hands over his ears, ignoring the pinpricks of pain on his head as his claws dig in, and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s not sure what kind of sounds are coming out of his own throat. The voices only seem to be getting louder, and the ringing alarm is so close to his head that he’s sure his ears are going to start bleeding.
The ringing at least goes away, but then not long after that something touches his side and he automatically kicks out with claws extended. He hits something, or maybe someone, and there’s a crashing sound soon after that. His eyes fly open and he leaves his ears vulnerable as he picks himself up to get more defensive. There are way too many people in front of him, and he growls to cover up the panic of being so thoroughly outnumbered, backing away from them quickly.
He snarls when a door is swung open, and then the lights come on.
He hisses in pain, one hand clawing at his face like that will help somehow. He squints, nearly blinded, and dives for the nearest dark corner he can find, ending up shoved underneath a table that’s almost too small to fit under. It’s been placed against a wall, giving him cover for his back as he keeps as far away from the others as he can, growling sporadically.
“What the hell is happening?”
There’s a nervous laugh. “Miguel kind of, um, gets like this sometimes. Sorry about your vase, and the picture frames. Can you turn off the light? I think you’re making it worse.”
“He’s tearing up the floor—!”
Someone takes a too-fast step towards him, and Miguel twists and snarls at them, eyes flashing bright red and fangs on full display. They back up quickly, and someone else rushes over to get them even further back.
“Trust me, you do not want to mess with him right now. We’ll handle it, alright?”
The light flips off a second later, and Miguel is grateful for the change, but still isn’t willing to come out from his cover. Every small movement causes a growl to slip out, and the hushed voices are still present enough to make the pain in his head all the worse.
One person tries to move closer, and although the motion is slow and careful, he still gives them a vicious hiss for their efforts. They lay their hands on the floor, and then the subtle vibrations of a language he recognizes reaches him.
But while normally the messages of no threat and calm are comforting, this time his senses are keyed up beyond what he’s used to, and despite there being no sound, the vibrations are still too loud, too much.
He lunges forward just far enough to swipe at the other spider, and when they leap back and people start yelling, he quickly retreats back under the table with an agitated hiss.
“Come on, Migs. Work with me here.”
There’s more tapped messages, lighter this time, and the spider is trying to keep their distance. But Miguel doesn’t like it.
There’s too much stimuli, an overbearing combination of noise, shapes, and fear. He taps his own quick stop! and tries to back up but gets nowhere. At least it gets the other spider to shut up.
“Hey Lyla? Do you know what’s going on with him right now?”
He hisses when a small but bright orange light appears and starts to consider his options for escaping. Although it’s a small, enclosed area, and there’s so many spiders between him and the nearest window that he’s sure he’s going to have to fight his way through.
“I do, but the kids aren’t allowed to know.”
“Oh. God, has it already been a year?”
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Guys, he’s about to—!”
With little to no warning, Miguel leaps out from under the table, snarling and shoving his way past the smaller spiders as he heads straight for the closest window. People scramble to get out of the way, and just as Miguel is sure that he’s going to reach his way out, his legs get stuck together and he goes down in a graceless heap.
Snarling, he whirls around and tries to claw his way through the webbing, only to get more webs locking his arms to his sides. He thrashes, snapping at a hand that gets too close and still trying to get away, with not much success.
“How much longer until it’s ready, Lyla?”
“At least 30 hours.”
“Well that’s just fantastic. I can see why he invited me along now.”
“Can someone please explain what the fuck is going on?”
“Language!”
In the time that the others are speaking, Miguel manages to contort himself enough to cut through the binding on his legs and then reach a taloned foot up to cut through the rest as well. As soon as he’s free, several people start yelling again, and Miguel is so disoriented by it that he abandons his attempt to escape and clutches at his head instead, whining when his back hits a wall and he goes sliding down.
He shoves himself into a new corner, this time underneath a taller but more narrow coffee table that barely has enough space for the width of his shoulders.
“Maybe we should just let him calm down on his own?”
“Rio, wait—“
Someone new tries to approach him this time, and although they slow when he growls at them, they don’t stop. There’s nowhere to go, but he tries to press himself further into the corner anyway, bearing claws and fangs both.
“Ay, I know, you’re a big, scary spider. But how about we turn it down on the violence, hm?”
The voice is soft and gentle, for once not grating on his ears and making the pressure in his head worse. He growls anyway, if only to keep them away. But something tells him not to lunge at this one, some remaining scraps of reasoning that say this one won’t recover from a graze of claws like the others will. He tenses when they take another step closer, but there’s no urge to attack.
“Uh, Mom? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Look at him, Miles. He’s just scared.”
Unaware that he’s proving her point, she takes another step and Miguel brings his limbs closer to his body defensively, curling up as he glances to the side for another escape route. His next growl has a distinctly nervous note to it, and he almost makes a move towards the kitchen before realizing how many spiders are in that direction and aborts the movement halfway.
She’s too close, and the nervous shuffling of the other people in the room isn’t making things any better. He gives a final warning, a louder snarl that has three others jolting forward as if to intervene. He whirls on them, claws digging into the floor as he hisses to keep them away.
“Hey, eyes on me, O’Hara.”
He turns back, nose flaring and red eyes staring her down. She’s kneeling in front of him now, posture entirely calm and non-threatening. It’s throwing him off, and his next hiss doesn’t have as much heat to it as it should.
“There you go, pequeño araña. Just focus on me and try to calm down. Está bien.”
Her voice is far too soothing, and Miguel doesn’t realize he’s gradually relaxing until his claws are already gone. Every time he glances away to make sure nobody is sneaking up on him, she moves or makes a sound to draw him back. She leans forward to scoot a little closer, and for some reason he lets her.
When she lifts a hand and he realizes that she’s reaching out for him, he flinches back. She freezes, arm raises halfway.
Cautiously, watching her and keeping the others in his peripherals for any sign of movement, he uncurls and leans closer, sniffing her hand.
She smells like food, homemade cooking that feels like it should be familiar to him. She also smells like other people, other spiders. And this time he does recognize it.
Miles, he realizes.
He lets out a low rumble. Spiderling repeats in his aching head, and his claws unfurl again as the protective instincts begin to overtake the defensive ones.
“Um, is that a good or a bad sign?”
He turns to see if he can sniff out Miles in the crowd, or any of the other spiderlings, and when he opens his mouth to get a big whiff, he’s surprised to find that most of the people he can smell are familiar to him.
He crawls out from underneath the table carefully, keeping his claws away from Rio and his chest low to the ground as he cautiously greets the others.
Spiderlings? he taps.
“Alright, he recognizes us again, so that’s definitely a good sign.”
The spiders around him, previously tense and threatening, all relax at the same time. He must have scared them, he realizes. And he gives a low whine as he taps apology next.
Someone responds with okay? But he’s not expecting the vibration to be so loud, although he probably should have. He flinches, shaking his head in a vain attempt to get rid of the pain centered there, growling when it doesn’t work.
“I know, buddy. You’re probably not feeling well right now, huh? Jess, do you think we can get him back to Spider Society like this?”
“He’ll probably just freak out and try to run again. The portal is too bright and he’s not gonna let us put anything over his eyes. We’d have to restrain him.”
“Care to explain yourselves?”
Miguel’s reaction seems to be enough of an answer for the other spider. He knows that people are talking around him, about him, but trying to concentrate on the words is frustrating and painful, so he gives up quickly. He focuses on the spiderlings instead, curiously testing the air to see who exactly is here.
He senses nervousness from Hobie when he inches closer. He stops to tap an apology and a proper greeting, confused when he doesn’t get a response back. He taps again, and still nothing.
“He’s trying to say hello,” another spider says, and when Miguel scents the air he finds that it’s Pete standing there. The kid crouches down and puts his palms flat on the ground.
Greeting, Miguel hears back, and this one is much softer, not aggravating his senses at all. He perks up, rumbling happily, and repeats the message back.
“I still don’t know how to do it.”
“Here, let me show y—“
“He’s going through withdrawal?!”
Miguel flinches at the volume and hisses, backing up until he hits a wall and can’t go any further. A few people jump and look over at him nervously, and he growls low in response to the sudden threat.
“Why is he in our home, Parker?” the loud one tries to whisper.
“I didn’t know, but it’s my fault. He was trying to leave after dinner and I pressured him to stay. He even brought Jess along to make sure nobody got hurt. He probably wouldn’t have agreed to stay if both of us weren’t here.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“I know, I know. But we’re in this situation now, and we have to figure out what to do next.”
Miguel’s attention is diverted by Rio’s reappearance. She comes up beside him slowly and with ample warning to let him know she’s there. She intentionally blocks his view of the argument going on not far away, and once again his threatening noises start to lose their bite.
He feels the vibrations of calm and safe being sent to him, and eventually he turns back to the spiderlings.
“Try to do it softly. I think Peter’s been doing it too loudly for him.”
There’s a clumsy, almost too light to hear tap of greeting from Hobie. He can understand it well enough though, and pride swells in his chest that one of his spiderlings managed to speak the spider language for the first time. He sends greeting and my spiderling back.
There’s a startled laugh from Pete that makes Miguel wince and want to shy away, but a tapped apology stops him.
“What was that?”
“I think he thinks that we’re his kids.”
“Oh, that’s adorable.”
“Mom.”
The bigger, louder people start to move closer, and when Miguel sees the way they’re holding themselves, he immediately goes on the defensive. Threat he taps, backing further against the wall and snarling at them. One stays back, one hesitates, and the other looks like they’re about to attack. He tenses in anticipation.
“Now hold on,” Rio says as she gets up to put herself in between Miguel and the threat. He watches the scene warily, wondering if he’ll have to defend his spiderlings or run.
“He’s not dangerous until you make him dangerous. I think we can have him stay here a while longer.”
“Rio. It’s not safe.”
“Jeff, just look at him. He’s scared and just wants to be around the kids. He can stay for another night.”
Miguel watches the interaction with bated breath, shifting nervously. The spiderlings seem to be in the same boat, a few of them unconsciously leaning closer to Miguel almost protectively.
The loud one sighs. “You know that’s a fully grown man with claws and not a stray cat, right?”
“I’m aware, mi amor.”
The loud one throws his hands up, prompting a short growl from Miguel, and walks away. “Fine! You guys can deal with the crazy person in our living room. I’m going back to bed.”
One threat gone, Miguel turns his attention back to the other two, watching them warily. They both glance at each other, seem to come to a silent agreement, and then their threatening posture disappears. The nearest one also heads out of the room, and the other sits himself down, thankfully keeping his distance. Whether that’s for his own comfort or Miguel’s, he really doesn’t care.
With the room finally quiet and relatively calm, Miguel lets go of some of the stress he’s been feeling since waking up. He sits down, still keeping an eye on his surroundings but finally starting to feel the dregs of exhaustion now that his heart isn’t about to leap out of his chest.
Completely unaware of the concern and discord he’s sewn into the home and the people around him, he chuffs at the spiderlings and wonders what’s going to happen next.
All of them look at him and wonder the same thing.