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Peter was on the 66th floor, the one place he knew he shouldn’t be. The place Miguel had warned would be where he’d die. Maybe he was right, it sure felt like he was. Just moments ago Anti-venom had wrapped his slick tentacles around his waist and drained all the energy from him. Crushing his lungs with the force of his limbs, the suction felt more like he was piercing into his skin. He felt winded, tired. He barely had power, more so a slither of energy. Peter was utterly convinced he was going to die, he should’ve listened. God, he really should’ve listened. The last thing he saw before blacking out was the bright blue glow of the gateway, burning brighter and brighter before a loud crash was heard.
Peter slowly regained consciousness and it was so warm, his suit sticking to his sweaty skin. Did peter know where he was? No. He was confused. The smell of fumes and rust invaded his nostrils. Blood, was it his own? Someone else’s? He was laying on the floor, hot as he was pressed against the metal flooring. The ridges pressing harshly into his ribs. He winced, arms wobbling as he pushed himself up off of the floor. The nearby flames stung his exposed flesh, looking the opposite way to try and figure out where the hell he was. His vision was blurred, whether it was from tears or his eyes reacting to the smoke seeping into an open cut in his mask. He didn’t know. He ripped his mask off of his head, throwing it to the side as he began coughing up bile and gore. Blood, why? His tongue and throat burned, the metallic after taste didn’t help much either. He glanced down at his hands, difficult to tell the different shades of red apart. He felt a warmth that had seeped through his suit, flooding onto his hands and onto the floor. He wheezed, stumbling forward away from the dysfunctional gateway. The gateway that was in flames and could possibly explode at any moment.
“O'Hara? O'Hara, are you there?” He yelled out, silence. He let out a shaky breath, his hand gripping his side as he struggled to move. Whenever he held his waist, the pain just got worse. He instead pushed down on his ribs but it didn’t stop much. Every step he took, another wave of pain shot through his body. Every time he took in air it felt like he was being stabbed. Everything was spinning, he couldn’t hear a thing besides the echo of his footsteps and the roaring of the portal. He wasn’t in his time, that much was evident. The shield that surrounded the room with bright teal lights rushing through it in waves proved that. That just didn’t exist in his time. Not to mention the glitching holographic signs and large circular doors that were motion activated.
His eyes eventually landed on a figure, blurry and slumped against the wall on the other end of the room. Is that? No. It couldn’t be. Not him. It was meant to be Peter. Not him. Peter tried to run but his knee gave out, skidding across the floor and scraping harshly. He groaned, the ground slowly getting colder the further from the inferno he got. He pushed himself over, not being able to stand. Too weak, too painful.
It was him. Fuck. It was him. “No, no, no, no. Miguel, come on you idiot get up. We gotta, we gotta move.” He stammered, voice wobbly as he tried to steady himself. He placed two fingers against Miguel's neck, trying to find a pulse but he couldn’t feel it over the overwhelming state he was in. Too hot, too wet with blood, too hurt to even think straight. He tried shaking the other awake, but his body went limp as his head fell forward. He wasn’t breathing. “C'mon man, don’t die on me now.” He whispered, mostly to himself. He dragged Miguel away from the wall, laying him flat on the floor so he could try chest compressions. Which is incredibly risky, considering he has super strength but it was worth a shot. Better to be alive with broken ribs than dead.
He placed his hands on his chest, fingers interlocked. Admittedly he was terrified, horrified at the very high possibility that he’s not gonna wake up. That he’s gonna stay dead, that he’s just gonna lose him like he’s lost so many others. Gwen, her father, Uncle Ben, Aunt May- stop. He won’t- he cant focus on that, he had to focus and his focus was on Miguel's masked face. He began pushing his hands down, 1, 2, 3, 4. He wasn’t going to stop, he couldn’t stop. Nothing was happening, minutes pass and nothing. Why wasn’t anything working, God dammit. “Wake up, please.” He repeated over and over, like a mantra. He couldn’t give up. He couldn’t. He can’t. He progressively got more aggressive, subconsciously. He didn’t even notice, he had probably zoned out. Getting carried away in his own head about all the possibilities and how everything could go wrong. He can’t lose him. He can’t-
Snap!
He froze, hands trembling. He stared down at Miguel's body, his chest beginning to rise and fall slowly. Then, a strangled gasp could be heard. He watched bewildered as the other yanked his mask off and let in short, shaky, inhales. Choking and spluttering as he took in as much air as he could. His teeth were stained red, Peter also noticed he had a broken nose. Peter pulled his eyes away, squeezing them shut, able to finally take a minute.
“Peter??” Miguel's voice was barely a whisper, rough and struggling to even say a single world. He propped himself up off of the floor, warmth spreading from his chest. “Pete-“
Miguel managed to choke out a gasp as Peter squeezed his arms around his body, it hurt. Holy shit, it hurt. Miguel struggled to reciprocate, he just came back from being deceased give the man a break. He was able to bring his arms up to his shoulders, wrapping round his neck for dear life. He buried his face in his neck, closing his eyes tight to try and combat the agony he was in. He didn’t care though, he didn’t care about the rushing pain that was swimming through him like waves, he didn’t care that he had a fractured sternum and probably a broken rib or two, he didn’t care. He couldn’t care about anything else, not only did peter save him but.. he’s finally met him. Face to face, a man he had looked up to for years. Peter and Miguel's suits quickly became tear soaked, a nice contrast to the crimson puddles at least.
“Did you have to break my bones to bring me back to life?” He was barely able to chuckle. Peter pulled out of the hug to look at Miguel's face, battered and bruised, sliced and bleeding. Similar to his own. His eyes were breathtaking, at least to Peter. He was convinced they were burning through his soul, but like a moth to a flame he couldn’t look away. “You have-“
“Red eyes, glad that that’s my one notable feature.” He stammered, glancing to the side trying to find the way out so he could get to a med bay. Peter bit down on his lip, God dammit why can’t he say the right things. “I like them.” He tried to backtrack, try and explain his point but Miguel was already up on his feet. Jesus, he recovers quick. Peter stood up.. forgetting to get up slowly and take his time. “I was just taken a bit off guard- look I- ow,” he hissed in pain, hunching over and clutching his ribs. Miguel looked back at him, frowning. “What the shock happened to you??” He whispered, somehow conveying shock despite how quiet he was being.
The floor beneath him had been painted crimson and soon almost all the blue parts of Peter’s suit had been too. “Oh you know just being stabbed repeatedly and suffering extreme blunt force trauma from being shot through a portal. The usual.” He quipped, smiling weakly up at him. Miguel sighed, helping him up and wrapping an arm around Peter’s waist. Not the side of Peter’s waist that was in agony, he wasn’t sure what was happening there. He hadn’t paid much attention to it. His grip was tense, holding onto Peter like he’d die if he even dared to let go.
They stumbled into the med bay, Peter’s priority was helping Miguel. Miguel's priority was Peter, funny how that works. “Miguel let me, lemme help.” His words were slurring together, body swaying somewhat. He had lost a lot of blood on his way there considering the trail of maroon following them. Miguel gripped his waist once more, slowly propping him up on a bench. Peter tried to move, jump down and help but Miguel pushed him. He placed his hand on his chest, gently pushing him back. Peter rolled his eyes, slumping against the wall in submission. “Sir, yes Sir.” Peter murmured. He couldn’t help but smirk at that. He did have to attend to himself, just a little bit. He opened a cabinet, quickly grabbing multiple rolls of bandages and a bottle of painkillers. He also took bottles of rubbing alcohol which neither of them were looking forward to using.
He placed them all down next to Peter, pausing for a second. He had to take the top part of his suit of, what a way to make a first impression. He tugged at the hem of the suit before pulling it over his head. Peter’s eyes widened in a not so subtle manner, red hue peeking through his cheeks. Miguel’s torso was littered in scars, fresh cuts and a few lashes ripping through the skin. The only faded scars were under the breast area. The area around his rib cage was painted purple and blue, harsh against the colour of his skin. The sternal area was swollen and bruised. He quickly wrapped bandages around his bust before bringing his attention to Peter. Peter had been looking at him the entire time, eyes droopy and flickering shut every now and then. Miguel lifted his head up and gently held his cheek, “don’t pass out on me, Parker.” He whispered, essentially staring him down before deciding his course of action. He leaned forward, patting the back of his neck where the suit zip was. “Miguel, at least take me to dinner first.” Miguel groaned in annoyance.
“I need to help you and your suit is covering your major injuries, idiot. Do you want to die?” Peter grinned, lips and teeth stained with the blood from his nose. He eventually nodded his head, raising his arms a little so Miguel could pull the suit down past his shoulders. Peter was obviously muscular, not overly chiseled or anything. He was quite slim, smaller waisted than most men atleast.. which was because he was trans. Miguel didn’t really bat an eye, he’d seen breasts before he wasn’t gonna throw a hissy fit over it. Miguel lowered his gaze and was greeted by a shrapnel wound in peter’s midsection. It wasn’t pretty, the metal had been piercing through his muscles. His eyes widened and Peter swore he saw his eyes go bloodshot with tears. “I take it the term ‘you like what you see’ is definitely not applicable in this case?” Peter chuckled, refusing to even look down at the wound. Miguel rolled his eyes, not sure where to even start. He bit the inside of his cheek, furrowing his brows as he looked up at him through his lashes.
He didn’t know how to get the shrapnel out without opening the flood gates and releasing a red sea. He quickly concluded there wouldn’t be a possibility of it being a clean removal, hovering his hand over the metal shards. “Just rip it out.” Peter murmured, looking the other way with his eyes squeezed tight. Miguel was taken aback, but proceeded anyway. He took hold of the tip that had been poking out, trying not to slice his finger in the process. Ultimately deciding to use his talons to get it out. He pierced through the shard, counting down in his head before forcibly tugging it out. Peter’s body lunged forward instinctively, groaning as blood began to pool out. Miguel instantly threw the shard aside, rapidly checking to see if there was anything left inside. He guided Peter’s hand to the wound, pushing it down so he didn’t lose more blood than needed.
“I won’t lie, this part is gonna hurt a lot more.” Miguel confessed apologetically, grabbing the bottle and twisting the cap open with a pop. “Just try not to knock me out.” Peter gave a small nod, eyes locked onto Miguel like it was the last time he was ever gonna see him. He pulled peter forward gently, the hand that was gripping the bottle beginning to tremble. He’d never handled something or someone so delicately before. He hesitated, practically zoning out as he stared at the wound. Why did he let that happen? He let Peter get hurt, why the shock did he let that happen? He had heard him in his head, screaming in agony. He heard him begging for the pain to end but he couldn’t reach him, Miguel couldn’t remember what happened after that. It was a blur. All he can recall is Peter calling out to him in horror.
Suddenly, Peter took hold of Miguel's wrist to try bring him back to reality. Miguel tensed up, almost smashing the bottle in his hands. He sighed gently, “take a deep breath.” He advised, only tilting the bottle forward once Peter obliged. The liquid spilled into the wound, flushing it out. He quickly put the bottle to the side once he had used just over half of it. His body jerked, trying to instinctively move away. “Shit!” He winced, head leaning forward and collapsing on Miguel's shoulder.
Peter gripped Miguel's wrist hard in one hand and the bench with the other. “Shit, shit, shit.” He cried, struggling to breathe steadily. He was panting, his grip on Miguel becoming a little too tight. “You’re gonna need to let go of my wrist, I’m not done.” He spoke softly, trying to calm him down for atleast a moment. Peter nodded against the others neck, dropping his hand. Miguel needed to close the wound, they didn’t have a staple gun or anything for stitches. This area was only for small knee scrapes or a paper cut not… well, this. His eyes widened, he had an idea but it wasn’t gonna be painless. “Pete, I need you to keep your hand on the wound. Press as hard as you can, I’ll be right back.” He instructed, voice low as he double checked Peter was listening to him.
Peter didn’t question it, which he probably should’ve but he was so overwhelmed with pain that he couldn’t think straight. He leaned his head back against the wall, trying to keep his eyes open. The room was spinning, his sight was hazy, body tense. The harsh cold of the bench below him didn’t help much, felt as if it was burning right through his skin. A few minutes went by and he heard the sound of footsteps, looking up and seeing Miguel holding a rounded piece of metal.. that was glowing red. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna do what I think you’re gonna do?” He whined, sitting up properly. His hand felt like it had been submerged in warm water for ages, the blood getting under his nails.
Miguel nodded, "I apologise in advance.” Peter lifted his hand once Miguel was close to him, not sure how he was going to take the pain. He had such a horrified expression on his face, it made Miguel feel horrible. He placed a hand on Peter’s lower thigh, rubbing his thumb in circles to try soothe his nerves. There was no point comforting him through words, Miguel would just screw that up. He’s terrible at that kind of thing. Peter took a deep breath, knowing damn well he’s going to hate this. Miguel gripped the metal in his hand, tense just in case he wound up dropping it. He placed his hand on his waist, holding Parker in place as he brought the metal up to his skin. The first thing he heard was the sizzle of the skin melting together, then Peter choking out a scream in his ear.
The smell harassed his senses, burnt flesh. Not the nicest thing, that’s for sure. He felt Peter’s hands on his back, digging into his shoulder blades the more he kept going. Guilt, that was the only thing Miguel could feel in that moment. Guilt. The soul crushing feeling that was guilt. His mind was racing with so many different things, the smell, Peter’s sobs, this entire shocking situation. “Fuck, Miguel.” he stammered, followed by another series of curses. Before he knew it, he was done. He launched the metal to the side, not knowing or caring where it landed, and quickly began to wrap Peter up. He made sure it was tight, not too loose but not too restrictive. Peter exhaled sharply, Miguel didn’t even realise the other had been crying. He looked up to see the others face soaked, eyes puffy and red. “Don’t give me that look.”
Miguel tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “What look?” Peter looked away, rolling his head back against the wall. “The ‘I feel so bad’ look.” Miguel cleared the bench, handing Peter painkillers before putting everything away. By the time Miguel had returned to the bench, the pills were gone. He jumped up next to Peter, needing to take a minute. His gaze shifted to Peter, “I'm sorry for having feelings.” He remarked, “it’s not my fault you were screaming in my ear. What was i meant to do? Laugh?” He exclaimed, confused on what the shock Peter wanted from him.
Peter laughed hoarsely, shaking his head. "No but seriously, thank you.” He looked over at Miguel, eyes locked. The change of subject felt a little like whiplash but Miguel ignored how sudden it was. “You look like shit by the way.” Peter commented, regarding the fact he had crimson splotches, bruising and cuts all over him. Miguel rolled his eyes lightheartedly, looking off to the side. “Wow, could’ve had a nice moment there. I could say the same about you.” He replied, wishing they could just stay like that. Laughing, joking and bickering together. Not risking their lives over and over for the sake of the universe. He liked being Spider-man, he knew he had to save people, but he just wanted a moment of peace for one minute. Free from the night terrors, the flashbacks, the pain, the screaming. All of it got mixed in with all of his childhood memories, the shit that was non hero related. The thoughts of what his father did to him constantly plagued his brain, including memories of the night he found out who his real father was. He hated not being able to forget about it, hated being shackled by his past.
He remembers the night of his fathers death vividly, how furious he was that he died. Not because he actually loved him deep down, not because he wanted him to live so he could maybe learn to apologise. No, he was angry because he went out easy, he went out young not knowing the difficulties of old age. He wanted him to suffer, to feel the pain he inflicted onto others. Onto him. He wished he was the one to end him, to be the last thing his father saw before passing on into what he hoped was purgatory. His father- no, he doesn’t deserve that title. He was never a father, he barely acted like a human. He’s the reason Miguel can’t trust, he’s the reason Miguel can’t sleep at night, he’s the reason he has all these fears of small irrelevant things. Did I leave the living room light on? I can’t make a mess, everything needs to be clean. I cant raise my voice. I can’t be myself, he’ll get mad.
“God dammit, Miguel what did I tell you about cleaning your room?!” George roared from across the house, Miguel could hear him stomping towards the bathroom. He was 9 again, he felt so small. So weak, so scared. He had locked himself in there, comforting his 6 year old brother Gabriel from an injury he had whilst out playing. he had just scraped his knee, nothing major. Gabriel looked at Miguel with those big doe eyes, body shivering. “Why’s daddy always mad at you?” He questioned, genuine concern for his older brother. Miguel didn’t know, he never really knew what he did wrong. Every little thing he did seemed to annoy George. If he forgot to take the trash out, he’d get mad. If he didn’t put the dishes away, he’d get mad. If he got bad grades, he’d get mad. Miguel often wondered if his parents would be happier if he never existed, because of George he constantly felt like a burden.
He heard pounding on the door, shutting his eyes tight. Maybe, just maybe, if he closes his eyes hard enough he’ll disappear. He’ll go to heaven! He would be happy there, at peace, but when he opened his eyes he was still in his cold sterile restroom. Miguel had learned far too quickly that there was no such thing as heaven, or God, because if God did exist it meant he had abandoned him. He shook his head rapidly, ignoring the sting in his eyes and the burn in his throat. He picked Gabriel up and placed him in the bathtub, closing the shower curtain to hide him. “Don’t come out, okay?” he whispered, giving him a quick hug before he went to open the door. His hand hovered above the handle, shaking intensely. Why did he always screw things up? Why did he have to be such a disappointment to everyone he loved? Why couldn’t he be enough? Every kid at school always talked about how much their mommy and daddy loved them, or that their parents got them a gift. The only ‘gift’ Miguel got was the gift of life, and unfortunately he can’t return gifts.
He opened the door and stared directly ahead of him, refusing to look up into George's eyes. He towered over him, eyes piercing through the young boy in front of him. Miguel wanted to disappear, he clenched his shaking hands into fists to the point where his knuckles turned a ghostly white. “Miguel.” George spoke with such disdain for him, what did he do? “Look at me.” he commanded, venom mixed through his voice. Miguel glared up at him, tears building up at the bottom of his eyes. “Why do you never listen to me, Miguel?” Miguel just… stared with a blank expression. “Miguel!”
“Miguel!” Peter exclaimed, trying to get his attention. Where- oh. Miguel flinched, blinking as he tried to come back to the real world and out of his own head. “Sorry, I just- whatever, it’s nothing.” He murmured, rubbing his eyes. “We should get going, before the world collapses.” Peter’s eyebrows were raised with worry, he couldn’t read Miguel but he knew something was wrong. The way he dissociated, like he just… wasn’t there. He can’t bring it up right now, simply no time to, but he’s not gonna ignore it.
He’ll ask about it later.