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Fortunately, the stranger lets go and he pulls his hand in as he meets his gaze as best he can.

"Not to be crass, but you realize you're a suspect here, right?" the CSI retorts, though, there's not much of an attitude in his tone. "I'll try and give you a heads up, but you can't just go around getting ready to take someone on with something like this, especially if you're innocent."

But as he gives the guy a short nod to say it's fine to proceed, he offers his hands, his open mouth for DNA collection (in the back of his mind, he imagines any processing would state he has an unknown anomaly in his blood, but Miguel takes comfort in knowing the technology of the 2000s wouldn't detect the arachnid mutation in him), and then removes his shirt to give it for evidence.

Admittedly, Miguel's admission to working in Alchemax only serves to confuse the older man further. How someone could understand time-travel, work for the company (and apparently with status) that ripped the whole through dimensions, and still not know what's going on baffles him.

And yet, the Spidey-sense still ceases to alert any danger.

Maybe something's happened to his sixth sense, but, somehow, the other being good in his intentions sounds not only more palatable, but also more likely to be the truth.

Though, he continues and Peter can't help but have a minor freak out.

"I'm planning a way to get home, Peter," Miguel says, as easily as one might talk about the weather. "And I'm not really the type to waste time." At least not with anything that matters, anyway.

"I'd also really like to figure out a way to keep" -- he gestures towards himself, then frowns when he realises he can't really explain it -- "this pain from happening. That probably should happen first."

Miguel's hands fold over the top of the table. "With my molecules being in a world they didn't exist in before, though, I imagine the physical balance of your universe must be jeopardised in some way.

"Well, uh... I had to come back through what I went through. I don't really know how to explain it without potentially ruining your chance for hope," he admits sadly. "See, there's this company- Alchemax- in what appears to be a bunch of our universes. The one in the one I went to had basically opened it with this machine of theirs, dragging myself and four other Spiders in through it. Fortunately, it wasn't too difficult to do..."

He looks down, knowing this is where the hard part of the story comes in.

"I don't need a completely similar Alchemax," Miguel says breezily. "I just need to sneak in.

"And, uh... maybe garage space."

Then he eats the rest of his slice of pizza.

"I worked for Alchemax in my world." It's a simple enough confession, and one he hopes Peter Parker of Earth-616 doesn't hold against him. It wasn't like Miguel had really had any other destiny but Alchemax until he begun studying Spider-Man, but that's a little more difficult to admit. "Between discovering time travel and what knowledge I had clearance for as a higher-up, reverse-engineering would be difficult, but not impossible.

"You don't have to--!" Ohnn starts, but Michael hadn't even asked, and the doctor really does want to try some of his cooking...

In the end, Johnathon is not selfless enough to turn down something so freely given. He does, however, push his own plate closer to Mike in case the other man needs a little more to eat.

"Oh. Oh my gosh. This is really good." He should have saved it for the end of the meal, because after this, the slightly-stale bread and limp veggies from the cafeteria seem particularly unappetizing.

"Can I steal the recipe? You're making me want to try real cooking again." Maybe they can trade lunches back and forth until John inevitably loses interest or time and goes back to skipping meals. ...if they do try something like that, Ohnn will apparently have to practice his seasoning; he tends to either go too light, or heavy enough that he has to cough and choke his way through his own lunch. Neither option seems appropriate for a spice connoisseur like O'Mara.

"More than fine. I feel bad taking it from you now considering our other food options here, but thanks for letting me try it. Do you have any food restrictions or allergies or anything? I'm allergic to sesame seeds, but they're in so many good dishes that I just power through."

He's already idly brainstorming small meals he can try to bring in, but none of his ideas will be very helpful until he knows what Mike actually likes to eat. ...which shouldn't be too hard to figure out if they share many more meal-breaks together.

Food restrictions? Allergies?

Time for John to make something for Mike to try?

Fortunately, having a mouthful of food allows Mike the luxury of a few seconds more to chew, swallow, and think.

"Huh?" he asks, eyes wide behind his lenses.

Not that any meaningful thinking had occurred.

"Uh... no allergies." The technology of his home had essentially removed little imperfections like that, and everything else that happened to Mike's biology after had taken care of the rest. "And it-- yeah, Thursday. Hold on, Doc..."

The back of his neck flares with embarrassed heat, but the reason for this embarrassment only makes things worse. What kind of idiot gets embarrassed because he isn't used to anyone doing nice things for him, anyway?

"...you know you don't have to make me anything, right?"

A beat.

"Not that-- I appreciate the offer, sir" -- floundering is so unlike him Mike wants to crawl into the Earth and die --"I just don't want you to think you owe me anything."

Much as he tries to ignore it, a little voice in his head insists that if John actually does this for him, Mike might end up genuinely liking him. Of course, the most hilarious thing of all is that Mike simply hasn't admitted to himself that it's already been genuine for a while now.

Swinging into the lobby, now 4 minutes late, he lets out a loud "Aye!"

With his position now at Miguel's side, Hobie nudges the man. "You good, bruv?" He smirks. "Bit past our time to leave innit? My bad, mate."

Starting to walk, he shoves his hands into his pockets. Hobie could just tell these errands are going to be the worst thing he offered to tag along to. Especially with Miguel.

Miguel was quite the character- not one he particularly liked. Not just because he was the leader of Spider Society, No, that was just part of it. It was because Spider-Man 2099 had the type of personality that made everyone stray from.

Yet, Hobie didn't mind taking on LYLA's request on befriending the guy. He knew it would be fun trying to push something that just wasn't possible. (That he knew of.)

"Ay, mate? You wouldn't mind stoppin' by somewhere to grab a bite, yeah?"

Yeah. He could do this.

Miguel sighs, hitting the right buttons for the elevator to get them right-side up in the building's parking lot. "Yeah, there's gonna be food at the store."

He glances down at Hobie's wrist where the band is positioned, and though he reaches his hand out, he doesn't touch it directly. All Miguel does is hover his index and middle over it, drawing a circle in the air. As his fingers move, the watch's appearance is modified, cycling through presets until it ends in a black leather cuff. He doesn't necessarily understand fashion, but he imagines that's more fitting for Hobie's attire than any wristwatch he could come up with.

"We're passing by the store first," he says, "and I'll be buying ingredients for baking. You're going to find party supplies-- balloons, paper plates, napkins, whatever.

"If they're unicorn-themed, that's a bonus."

Once the elevator opens to the parking lot, Miguel leads Hobie to one of the cars present: a hovercar, as 2099 is wont to offer. It's a gorgeous green colour, deep and smooth.

“Shit.” she growled as she ran after him, not having the ability to sling webs. Don’t have the tools or body parts for that. If this guy and the asshole messing with her town break through the wall around the town, then things would get real bad, real fast. Lucky for her, she was rather fast on her feet as she quickly managed to get to the scene. A couple of residents were opening fire on the Rhino but it didn’t work. “GET BACK!” She yelled, grabbing the both of them and pulled them away from a charge. “Get out of here and make sure everyone is gone from this part of town. If worse, comes to worse, get the kids into the bunkers and arm yourselves, got it?!” She ordered them and the two nodded before running off.

"Yeah," Spider-Man says, having moved onto all-fours to catch up with the Rhino's speed, "I kind of figured that was the goal!"

Everywhere the Rhino bumps, structures break, but with the cracking and crumbling comes the distinct sight of exploding colours. They don't last more than a nanosecond at a time, but where the Rhino makes direct contact with the environment, it looks like the world is glitching around him.

Spider-Man shoots some of his organic webbing onto the road in front of the rampaging man, who roars at the stickiness beneath his feet. Rhino isn't weak enough to be held back by that at full speed, but it does slow him down-- enough for the Spider of this world to be able to aim for his weakspot better, Spider-Man is sure.

"LYLA will get on your ass if you do it all on your own, mate!" His hands shoved in his pockets, the Spider-Man stands back and leans against the wall. He might as well just wait outside until he could at least catch the man hauling boxes out himself.

What a stubborn prick.

The man always did things himself, never let other help him nor did he help other unless it was a dire situation. Unless it was just Hobie he didn't help. In all fairness Hobie didn't believe in anything Miguel stood for, so he understood why they didn't get on like most spiders. Though, he would be lying if he said he didn't look up to the man in the slightest. (He only did a smidgen.) So why walk off?

Why walk off and let more burden fall on Miguel? It would only make the man more angry. No one needed to deal with more of that than necessary.

Hobie might as well step up as a Spider-Man and take one for the team. It's what "heroes" did anyways.

When he pulls it open, the box has moved to a more comfortable spot tucked under his arm. Miguel looks down where Hobie is waiting, frowns, and wordlessly steps back, taking the door with him so it opens wider for the young man to enter.

"Take as many boxes as you can carry." It isn't like there're a lot of them-- only four left in total-- but if Hobie insists, then it might just be better for everyone if Miguel didn't start an argument for something unimportant.

LYLA needs to stop thinking he needs help, for Christ's sake.

"I'm gonna get my car ready." One arm shoots out in the direction of the room, pulling two boxes to have all three create a pyramid where he holds them. "Take the elevator to the top floor." Which, considering the Spider Society's upside-down structure, would be the bottom floor of the building they're in. "I'll wait for you in the parking lot."

Miguel just picked him up to start moving to who fucking knew where. He didn’t seem all that interested in talking to him right now. He wasn’t sure what difference it made. Ringo had a feeling the man was annoyed to see him here. He wasn’t expecting him to have followed, it wasn’t like Johnny expected to end up somewhere like this.

Finally, they ended up somewhere else. Johnny looked around shifting again when he was taken off the man’s shoulder. “Wasn’t exactly expectin’ the change.” He would have moved his hands if he could. “Or to be slung across the city while being tied up. Gonna to take this off at some point?” He sounded rather annoyed about the current situation.

He still had his gun around his waist of course. But with the way he was currently tied? There wasn’t a chance he was going to be able to pull it. Otherwise, he would have gone for it by now. He knew the man was annoyed by him. Both as a whole and for him being here. Johnny wasn’t thrilled with the current situation either.  

Then the elevator moves once more like nothing happened at all.

"My New York, anyway."

As it rises from the underground, Miguel takes clothes out of the pack and slips them over his suit. After putting on a pair of jeans, a button-up shirt, a loose jacket, and some quickly strung-up boots, he finally tugs his mask up over his head, revealing the frustration written in his ever-crimson eyes.

"How did you get here?" he asks, shoving the mask into the inner pocket of his jacket. A pair of sunglasses is pulled out in its place and perched atop his nose.

Opening the note reveals it's written on cheap Keroppi stationery to match. The message is, as is expected of Michael O'Mara, short and succinct:

Two meals: for lunch break and your inevitable overtime dinner. The heavier meal's for lunch. MAKE SURE YOU EAT THEM. Rinse the containers when you're done and leave them at my desk. You don't have to tie everything together like I did. M

Both meals have been planned with some sense-- lunch has rice, dinner has noodles. The proteins are lean meats cooked in flavourful sauce because Mike's "an asshole about seasoning", and the vegetables are the same. Sandwiched between the containers, though-- and which John should find easily once anything of the tower is moved-- is a printed out sticker of Keroppi. If nothing else, at least sentimental capitalism makes it easier to say things Mike could never himself.

The food is incredible, as always.

Johnathon does some of his best work in weeks this shift. It's probably because eating two balanced meals is more conducive to brain-intensive work than eating nothing at all, but he chooses to believe it's the power of Mike's cooking and the obvious attention with which it's been prepared that propels him forward in his work.

He's not altogether incorrect. This job can be stressful, isolating. Crushing. The knowledge that Michael is thinking about him, that he cares so much not only about getting some food in John's stomach, but also about all the little, gentle details of how it's offered... it lends Ohnn a newfound, bubbly energy that he carries with him throughout the day.

And as he follows Mike's instructions and leaves a note of his own on the cleaned-out containers (a sticky-note reading "STELLAR !", framed with a smiley-face, some stars, and a scribbled-out doodle of O'Mara in his signature shades), he finds himself truly believing the little sticker.

 He of course caught the little slip about one of his boys. But Johnny always got the feeling he was looking for a way out. As long as it didn’t them problems he didn’t really give a shit. While he was here though Johnny figured he might as well have a little fun.

Ringo looked towards the hand on his wrist when Miguel grabbed his hand. “Possessive bastard ain’t you?” They all could be when they found something they liked. Just wasn’t often that someone stopped him from taking a look. All things considered he found himself rather liking the man. Didn’t seem like one for this kind of lifestyle, but at least he was interesting.

One of his legs drops from the table, his foot hooking around the leg of a chair to pull it out from underneath. Miguel taps once on the top of it with the heel of his boot, then looks up at the other man as he resumes his earlier position.

"Sit. You can look at the brooch," he says definitively, "but don't touch it, all right?" God knows what dirty little pies Ringo's stuck his disgusting hands into, and Miguel can't bear the cross-contamination.

Once Ringo's seated, the brooch is held out, pinched carefully between two fingers so the man can look at the plain stone set into it. It's a deep brown colour-- not at all expensive, but cut as expertly as any diamond would be.

Now that he actually has food on his mind instead of datasets and project timelines, the doctor realizes just how hungry he is. He's grateful that Mike's decided to join him despite having brought his own food; having company helps Johnathon look halfway presentable, instead of leaving him to lurk around the outskirts of the tables like a hunched-over, gangling cryptid.

He glances up at the other man, brow quirked. "What are you, a dietitian?" It's a joke, but honestly, it'd make sense if Mike were secretly some kind of health-nut. It's not always apparent with O'Mara's clothes, but the guy is far more fit than any data analyst has any right to be. Maybe he's secretive about his personal life because he doesn't want his boss joining his gym.

Amused by his own thoughts, John waves Michael away and pointedly grabs a few more bread rolls. ...before begrudgingly filling out his plate with a few sad-looking carrots and celery sticks from a picked-over vegetable spread.

"Okay, okay. Just for you. I can't have you saying I set a bad example for my employees."

They settle into seats far away from anyone else. John eyes Mike's food with only a little jealousy. It looks really, really good; maybe he should take O'Mara up on that "offer" of prepped food after all.

Once seated, Mike doesn't miss the way John's gaze drifts to his food, and so without a word he uses his chopsticks to put a serving of it on the container cover. It's slid across to where John sits, nice and smooth. Even with having to be microwaved, the soy sauce-peanut-sugar coating the noodles and vegetables glistens nicely.

"I cook or pre-cook meals on my off day," he says, picking up a mouthful of noodles. "Cheaper that way, out here in New York. And it's not like I have anything better to do when I'm not working."

The mouthful is eaten, chewed, and swallowed. Mike eats with the same efficiency that he does anything else, but a part of him is quietly expectant of how John will react to his cooking. He can't remember the last person he cooked for-- his ex-fiancee had often refused to let him do it, claiming "he worked hard enough at Alchemax", and it's been years since he'd been with the girl that came before her-- but it's a little irritating to know he's still wanting some form of approval.

Miguel O'Hara should be better than this, and it always pisses him off to be reminded that he isn't. One of the worst things about being the S-Man, truly, is how soft it's made him.