🕸️Miguel O’Hara Apologist🕸️

Once again forgotten by its usual wearer and not being used for its intended purpose, it splayed out across the boss’s command center. It observed without seeing and listened without hearing on the platform above the large, empty office of the arachno-humanoid-poly multiverse HQ. Unaware that its normal temperature from resting on the shoulders of Peter B Parker had long seeped into the cold surface of the table it sprawled on.

The new father had tossed the pink robe aside earlier that night after unstrapping his daughter Mayday from her restraints and unintentionally pawning her off on ‘Uncle’ Miles. A meganomily had been discovered ravaging an Earth who’s Spider-Man had yet to have their leap of faith. This type of distress signal called for the more trained, or at least in Peter B’s case the… older, Spiders to respond. Certainly not the time to have a toddler strapped to your chest.

They had returned from the successful yet grueling mission nearly an hour ago. The lack of sleep from keeping up with a spider baby and the intensity of the mission left him entirely drained. He only stopped by HQ before heading back home to MJ to pick up his daughter and some of those fancy 2099 epidermal patch bandages for his bruised and scratched body. The robe out-of-mind as he cocooned the spider baby in webbing to get her back to their dimension.

The soft hum of neon monitors is the only noise for a long while. The screens cast colors across the fluffy fabric of the robe. Suddenly the platform begins to lower.

Below it, Miguel O’Hara gathers his things for the long night of research ahead. The slow pace of the platform allows him plenty of time to pour a mug of much needed caffeine and collect himself before pouring into his work. It takes a lot of concentration not to limp around his office for the crew really took a beating, himself included. His body is covered in already blackening bruises and lesions that have only just started healing after patching himself up in the bathroom. No amount of super healing could so quickly mend the wounds he’d received from the emergency response mission.

He can’t help but wince when he looks up towards the floating office space coming down to meet him. He rubs his neck and knows that if he feels like this now, tomorrow will be hell. His overstimulated senses made it so that he stood bare below the declining platform. With it being so late, his doors locked, and Lyla on DND for the evening, he figured his naked figure shouldn’t be an issue since he wouldn’t be disturbed. He couldn’t even handle the lights of his digitized suit or be bothered to try and put clothes on his marked body. His blood felt as though it were on fire in his veins.

Any attempt at keeping his composure melted away in the shower he had taken earlier. The scolding water ran over cuts and mixed with his blood before draining at his feet. Finally alone, he cursed himself for putting the team in danger the way he had. He couldn’t help the tears fusing with the water droplets that fell onto his face. Mayday almost lost her father and Miguel could blame no one for himself.

The thought makes him wince again, but no tears. He only feels anger now. How had he not seen the blatant traps they were being led to by that particularly sadistic Doctor Octavius variant? He knew somehow that the Spiders were on their way to stop him and nearly killed them. Doc was now being held in a secure cell instead of the laughable rectangles the other variant villains waited inside for their turn on the Go-Home-Machine. Miguel needed answers, and intended on paying him a visit later.

After having dealt with the Spot, Miguel wondered just how many others out there knew how easy it was to alter the fate of the multiverse.

The analytical anger turns to annoyance as he steps onto the platform. Peter left that stupid robe laid over his desk again. The manchild knew nothing of boundaries and personal space. He grabbed it to toss it over the side of the platform, having to consciously keep his claws sheathed to not rip through the silly piece of attire. The only reason it’s not in shredded at this moment is because Miguel knows it helps Peter’s shoulders with the baby carrier. He also thinks of how she’ll rub the robe on her cheek when her eyes start to droop drowsily.

Miguel considers the image of the sleepy child nuzzling into the fuzzy robe and, instead of throwing it over the edge, brings the fabric to his own cheek. Hands hesitantly hold the pink coat against his face. The robe does not respond to the tightening grip as Miguel holds it against his chest.

The brooding man brings the bundle to his face and buries into the billowy housecoat. He inhales the various smells that stick to the coat: A blend of Peter’s cologne and MJ’s perfume waft towards him as well as a sourish scent that was no doubt the result of Mayday spit up. It smelled lived in. It smelled like family.

He allowed the material to unravel from his hands and he looked at the robe in its full view. He couldn’t tell the last time it had been washed, if ever. Upon closer inspection, he saw stains of different foods and drinks. It would be impossible to tell if it was Peter or his baby that made those messes. A small hole could be seen at the bottom of the robe’s hem, perhaps from the wear and tear of a mission. Miguel mentally cursed Peter for never taking care of his things but he knows that Peter B shows his love in different ways. Peter accepts the muck and stick, bathes in the imperfections of things.

Before Miguel can understand what he is doing, he starts to put an arm into one of the sleeves. Despite the mated bits on the coat, the inside is velvety on his heated skin. The feather-like material glides across his shoulders as he puts the robe on fully.

Miguel stands awkwardly beside the armchair on the platform as it ascends slowly back into the air above his office. His face burns hot thinking that someone finding him like this would be more embarrassing than if he was just nude. But the comfort of the robe softly fights back against his woes. The shaggy cloth hugs his skin in a way that doesn’t make him want to claw at himself.

Suddenly, a wave of nostalgia washes over him. He turns to his computers and looks for the file that flashed in his mind. He opens the file named “Christmas 2090 - Bike” and presses play. As the title suggests, the video opens on a zoomed in image of snow outside a window. It zooms out and slowly a Christmas tree and the furniture of a living in the future pan into view. The one recording shows the piles of presents under the tree and the decorations no doubt created by the child who darts into view. The video records her expression at the sight of the gifts and her running up to hug the one videoing. The child is smiling from ear to ear and her hair is still matted from her sleep that Christmas Eve.

Miguel takes a seat on the armchair and watches as Gabriella opens her gifts. He smiles softly at her enthusiasm. There is no sound, but Miguel can hear her bubbly laughter when she unwraps a large box containing her first bicycle. Tears threaten his eyes when the camera pans around to show himself looking into the camera. He is wearing a plush, plaid robe of his own in the video. Gabriella runs up to him and kisses her father on the cheek. A ghost of his former self watches through blurry vision at the family he used to have.

The videos begin to autoplay and Miguel huddles into himself watching the memories of his daughter dance across the screens. The robe unknowingly comforts the crumbled man on the couch, embracing him in unspoken softness. Fluffy pink patches of fuzz caress his skin when his body shifts slightly to lay back in the chair. The bathrobe holds him in a way he hasn’t been held in a long while and his eyes grow heavy in its embrace. Any semblance of a night of research is long gone as Miguel slumped into the chair, homemade family videos playing to an audience of a snoring man and a particularly soft, yet unaware, robe.

Even if Lyla is on Do Not Disturb, she can still see all. As an omniscient AI assistant it’s in her programming to bypass safewalls and get info she shouldn’t. She smiles at the scene of her large boss sprawled out in the chair, sleeping soundly. A sight that she hasn’t seen in the past few nights as he usually catches cat naps during his busy work days.

She may not be able to disturb Miguel, but she does send a message to Weaver - a Spider-Man whose hobby is tailoring. She includes the blueprints of a secret sewing mission for him: