spiderversestan

“He sent another fifty,” you say.

“Oh my god.” 

Your phone starts to ring in your hand, Clark’s profile photo in the middle of the screen: his sleeping face tucked over your heart. You giggle to yourself as you answer, doughy bread in your mouth. “Hi, sorry, I’m chewing.”

“That’s okay, honey,” he says, sounding cheerful and worried all at once, “what’s up? Is that gonna be enough?”

“Oh, er, my card declined. I’m getting lunch with Cat.”

“Downstairs? I can come down, sweetheart, I have my wallet.” 

“No, I already paid for it.” 

“Aw, great, I was worried for a second there.”

“I can send it right back to you, now,” you say, feeling ever so slightly guilty. You don’t know what you were expecting, but his urgency makes you wanna kiss him stupid, not trick him further. “Thank you, for– for being so quick. You saved me the embarrassment.”

“That’s okay, I don’t need it back–”

“Well, no, I can’t keep a hundred dollars just ‘cos you sent it, baby, I– my card declined, but it was the card reader, that’s all.” 

“Just keep whatever you paid for lunch, then, and use the rest for lunch tomorrow.”

“It’s a sandwich." 

“Then you can have sandwiches all week.”

You meet Cat’s eyes, failing to hide your unyielding elation. He’s such a catch. “Okay. Clark, I’m sending it back, okay?” 

“Don’t tease me, I got so excited.” 

You laugh and hang up on him. 

Clark texts you ten seconds later: If you send it back to me I’m gonna send it back to you. Have a good break, see you later? <3

“I bet he will,” Cat says, having read the screen upside down. 

You text Clark back: Yes!! Can I come home with you? 

Yeah honey meet me by the elevators? I’ll be waiting for you 

“He is such a dork,” Cat says, eyebrows raised. “But I’m happy for you.” 

You’re feeling pretty good about it all yourself. You and Cat finish lunch and head your mildly separate ways. You’re in the print room today supervising, and it stretches into the uneventful afternoon. By finishing time, you’re excited to give Clark a kiss and sneak his hundred dollars back into his pocket somehow, but he’s not waiting by the elevator. 

It’s tempting to keep the money. He did sound excited for you to keep it, as strange as that might be. He rejected your offer to give it back, then tried to compromise that you could keep it. He'd pay for your lunch all week. 

Would he give you money for nothing at all? He was just worried, right? But when there was no problem, he didn’t want it back. 

It doesn’t hurt to poke around a little. 

Clark exits the elevator with a blank expression. When he sees you waiting a few feet away with your shoulders on the wall, his face lights up. His eyebrows soften, his lips lift and go white from the force of his smile. 

“Let’s go home,” he says, grinning as he wraps his arm around you from the small of your back. 

You lean up and kiss his jaw. “Today was long.” 

“Too long, bubby.” 

Bubby. You give him a harmless shove, but Clark pulls you right back in. Keeps his arm on you all the way home, give the few seconds getting off of the tram, where he offers his hand to guide you onto the road. 

“So,” you say, “about earlier…”

“What happened earlier?”

“With the money.”

Clark narrows his eyes at you. “What about it? Honey, I already told you to keep it. It was yours the second I sent it.” 

“No, it’s not– Clark. I would much rather you take it back, I really don’t need a hundred dollars for a sandwich I already paid for. It was this–” You pause, giving him a bashful, sorry smile. “Cat wanted me to see if you’d complain or not, I guess. So I lied about my card declining, sorry. I am actually sorry, and I can’t keep the money in good conscience.”

“Ooh, in good conscience,” he murmurs, mirroring your smile, though his is more of a smirk. “Well, that’s okay. If you feel bad about it, send it back to me, no hard feelings.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Thank you, handsome,” you say. 

“What else is on your mind?”

“You… this isn’t supposed to sound like you need to say yes, but I guess I was wondering if you would’ve sent me it no matter what? My text literally just said can you send me money. I didn’t even say please, and I didn’t say it’s an emergency or anything.”

Clark shrugs at you. “Yeah, I would’ve sent it to you. I don’t care what it was for.”

“Clark, it was a hundred dollars.”

“Do you think you’re not worth a hundred dollars?”

“Not for no reason.” 

“In the moment, I assumed it was an emergency because you never ask me for anything, do you?” 

“Not really.”

“Would it shock you to know that I wish you would?” A curl falls onto his forehead, just above his dark brow. “You are the most important woman in my life. A hundred is nothing compared to that. I don’t really care what you want it for.” 

You’re pretty sure that’s an I love you. Maybe he’s saving the real thing for somewhere more intimate than the street, but that’s gotta be close. 

“Keep the money,” he says, kissing your cheek quickly. “I was still gonna send it back, even if you were just satisfying your curiosity. You didn’t lie to get it, you lied after.”

“You’re such a reporter,” you grumble, secretly very pleased. “Poking holes in my argument.”

(Clark sends you $50 the next day at lunch, with the text: Buy yourself dinner or whatever you want, do not send it back! 

Then: Please just take it. For my gratification if nothing else. Please!!

You text back: you’re being pervy 

"Got it," she panted out, her treads screeching in resistance as she skidded to a halt. Pivoting, Luz vaulted over the ledge of the walkway, twirling through steely gray intersections as she webbed her way down from the fourteenth level. Spiders scattered as Luz dropped down to ground floor, expelling the last of her momentum in a sit spin, the force of her landing reverberating through her right calf.

"I'll meet them in the medbay," she called out, falling back into a sprint.

"Copy! I'll have a bed prepped for—"

"Negative," Jess cut through the comms, grunting from exertion. "I don't think he'll make it there."

There was a thud on the other end of the line. Luz slowed her steps instantly, ears straining over her own heartbeat to make out any other clues to Miguel's status through the comms. Instead, there was a slew of hissing and shuffling, followed by another unceremonious thud.

"Status?" Luz piped up after the silence on the other end extended for an unsettlingly long time. After the mad dash from the control room, she now found herself standing directionless in the middle of HQ, Society members milling around her as she waited for an update.

"LYLA?", she pressed on. Still, no response.

Luz tossed her hands up in exasperation at her own uselessness. Tilting her head back, she scanned the dizzying array of platforms and walkways for a glittering, 7 foot man hobbling around. Or maybe dragged? She still had no clue as to what was even wrong with Miguel. He had been on another mission, leaving Jess and Luz to man the console. But apparently, things had taken a turn for the worse; he'd called Jess in for backup, his unusally frantic tone setting Luz's teeth on edge.

But by the time Jess had arrived, Miguel's communication had gone spotty. All that came through was garbled yelling, and visuals dropped entirely shortly after. With even LYLA unable to reconnect with their leader, all they could do was wait. Mercifully, Jess had been unaffected by whatever had downed Miguel, her concern displayed in vibrant orange across the glowing monitors.

"Spider-man is compromised," she'd said breathlessly, tugging a disoriented, heaving Miguel onto her bike. "I'm bringin him back to HQ!"

Luz had heard nothing more since then, hoping that at least LYLA had been able to obtain some semblance of an explanation from the two as they hurried back. Pacing, she checked her Gizmo again, to no avail. With nothing to go on, she webbed up to the exposed rafters to vie for a better viewing angle. Plopping down with a huff, she dangled her legs restlessly off the edge, fiddling with the edges of her sleeves in anticipation. She was used to quiet comms when Miguel was on duty, he always preferred to keep the lines clear. But radio silence from Jess and LYLA too? That had sent her mind reeling, wondering what could possibly have left her, no, their, normally unfazed jefe so powerlessly dependent.

Finally, LYLA came back online, abruptly pulling Luz out of her anxious thoughts.

"Luz, we've got him in a containment cell, Platform—"

"—One, yeah, I'll meet you there!", she finished, tearing off to catch up with them.

When Luz reached the glassy corridors of the containment area, she found Jess standing alone, focus zero-ed in on the floating monitors surrounding her. At her footsteps, Jess broke concentration, gesturing for Luz to join her. LYLA pixelated in stride with Luz as she crossed the room, both filling her in on what she had missed.

According to Jess, she'd found Miguel screaming. He'd been clutching at his face, eyes screwed shut as his tech glitched erratically, his suit integrity apparently fraying at the seams along with his Gizmo's comms. Though wracked with feverish pain, he'd been attuned enough at the time to stumble alongside Jess as she sat him on the back of her motorcycle. He'd bit out a shaky explaination, mentioning something about the Scorpion anomaly he'd been giving chase. He'd managed a lucky strike, somehow penetrating his suit and injecting Miguel with something unlike any venom he'd experienced before.

Miguel's strength had been waning however, grip loosening and tightening repeatedly as he fought to maintain control of himself. At some point, he'd lost consciousness entirely, hence the shift to containment instead of the medbay. They'd been able to draw a small blood sample, but Miguel had too quickly regained consciousness. This time, however, his composure was dwindling by the second, seeming like he wanted to tear at his own flesh. Through his frantic pacing and agonied growling, Jess had been able to coerce him into a holding cell, where the two women presently stood just outside of.

"How is he now?" Luz whispered, pressing a hand to the small viewport in front of them. Through the one-sided glass, she could make out Miguel's hunched-over form, shoulders heaving through labored breaths. The room was dark, his back to them as his suit continued to depixelate and reform sporadically in an array of flashing lights. Clutching at the examination table in the center of the room, his claws were bared, edges deforming under the immense pressure of his grip.

"He's holding out," Jess sighed. She placed a comforting hand on Luz's shoulder, noting the poorly concealed concern etched across her face.

"Buuut, he's stopped responding. Hasn't spoken a word outside of snarls and grunts since we landed back in the building," Jess finished, leaning against the glass with her arms folded.

"…which isn't too different from usual, I guess," Luz added sheepishly, pursing her lips at her own poor taste in humor. Though, Jess fought back a grin herself.

"The good news is I've been able to isolate the venom he was struck with," LYLA chimed in.

The two turned to face her, curiosity and hopes piqued at her words.

"Miguel was right about it being different from usual," she continued. "Normally, venom works by introducing a slew of organic molecules to disrupt the body systems—and with Scorpion, its usually some nasty psychotropic stuff. This guy did something really quite clever," the AI grinned, pulling up a body scan.

Luz stepped towards the holographic display. Scrolling through the vital readings, Jess read over her shoulder, absorbing the rest of LYLA's analysis.

"It looks like Miguel's been struck with a nanotoxin; that is, he's been dosed with a mix of both organic and biologic nanotech disruptors. That's why his both his amygdala and his Spider-tech are going haywire."

"I've started synthesizing the antivenom," LYLA continued slowly. "Butttt," she winced, glowy fingers steepled as she spun in her chair.

"But?" Jess and Luz looked up, pressing in unison.

"BUT I can't be the one to stick him with it—and knowing Miguel's terrible rep with the poor med bots, its looking like one of you is gonna have to do it."

Jess threw her hands up immediately, shooting Luz a pointed look.

"Nuh uh, I already dragged his sorry ass back here, its your turn to wrangle your boyfriend," she teased, though dead serious in her refusal.

"Shut up!" Luz hissed, praying to all things holy that LYLA hadn't caught that. Spinning on her heel to face Jess, she flushed. "He's not my boyfriend!"

"And anyway, I was going to offer to do it myself," she added stiffly, ignoring the heat rising up her neck. Jess snickered, wiggling her brows suggestively.

"Ohhhh I don't doubt that."

It didn't take long before LYLA had finished synthesizing the antivenom. Luz watched as an electric blue stream steadily filled a fresh vial, though only halfway. The rest was capped off with a clear, viscous fluid before being sealed with a needle tip.

"You diluted it?" Luz questioned, eyeing the monitors as the antivenom underwent a final chem analysis.

"Yeah, I paired it with a fast-acting sedative…y'know, just in case," LYLA posited.

"Right," Jess said dubiously, sending Luz a sidelong glance.

"…just in case," echoed Luz. She met Jess's eyes, lips pressed into a thin line.

"And voilà!" LYLA exclaimed, a swathe of wispy cool white billowing out as the syringe was deposited into a metal tray, glass clinking lightly as it rolled.

Jess crossed the room, twisting the tube between her fingers slowly as she inspected the translucent blue substance. Giving it a final look, she held the syringe out to Luz, who reached for it slowly.

"Careful," Jess warned, pulling the vial back before Luz could grab it. She leveled her with an intense look, gaze insisting Luz not underestimate the situation. "His senses are way hightened right now and, well, he's not himself. So tread lightly, yeah?"

Luz nodded firmly as Jess placed the syringe into her outstretched hand. Squaring her shoulders, she tiptoed up to the cell door, steadying herself. She couldn't hear anything on the other side, though whether it was because Miguel had gone quiet, or due to the steel being so sturdy, she didn't know. With a final look over her shoulder, Jess tapped in the unlock sequence, and Luz pushed the heavy metal door open.

As its hinges groaned under its own weight, the icy hallway lights streamed into the darkness of the containment cell. Peering in, Luz could just barely make out the contours of Miguel's shoulders. He hadn't moved from when she'd seen him last, though with the door finally open, she could hear how ragged his breath had become.

"Miguel?" she called out softly, voice echoing in the stillness of the chamber.

A beat passed, and then another. No response. Gently pushing the door open a little wider, she repeated herself, this time a little louder.

"Miguel?" She let the door slowly slide shut behind her, taking a few steps past the threshold and further into the room.

Immediately, the overhead bulbs flickered on in blinding intensity, motion-activated sensors triggered by her entry. Miguel howled, body seizing as if struck. His retinas screamed from the stark white lights flooding the room, vision streaking at the intense fluorescence within the holding cell, bouncing off the stainless steel tables. Luz swore, tensing in terror and guilt all the same.

Blood pounding in his ears, Miguel jerked his head around, fangs fully extended as he snarled at the searingly bright intrusion. Doubled over to shield himself from the light, his bloodshot eyes locked onto Luz over his shoulder. Instinctively, she shrunk back with a gasp. His scleras glowed an angry red, pupils like pinpricks in a sea of ichor. Sweat beaded across his face, strands of hair plastered to skin that radiated intense, feverish heat.

"Get out," he ground out, shoulders constricted painfully tight as he dropped his head to his chest.

"I'm so sorry Miguel," Luz winced. She reached out to him, tentatively inching closer to his turned back. He looked distressed, she thought sadly, heart clenching at the way his handsome features were twisted in agony. Standing tiptoe, her wavering fingers fluttered just shy of the back of his neck. Brushing the damp curls stuck there, the thick, corded muscle just barely relaxed at her touch. Luz hesitated.

"But I can't do that."

While it wouldn't be painless, she'd hoped to at least be swift. Planting her hand on his shoulder, Luz propelled herself up, bringing the thick needle down to Miguel's trapezius.

And missed.

Perhaps it had been the slight shift in her weight, or maybe the change in her breathing pattern. Whatever it had been, Miguel had clocked her movements reflexively, dodging the needle tip just barely with a slight flick of his shoulder. Luz stared in panic as her wrist landed on his muscle instead, needletip glinting in mockery as it hovered in the air above its mark.

Miguel straightened up slowly. With a sickening chink, his claws unlodged from the metal table crumpled beneath his fists. Her stomach dropped.

Stammering, Luz backed away as the atmosphere shifted entirely, LYLA's "just in case" feeling more and more like the only case she should've expected.

"Wait, Miguel, listen—"

Whipping around, Miguel faced her fully, sucking in seething breaths through his sinister incisors.

"GET OUT!" he bellowed.

As if moved by the force of his ferocity, Luz found herself flattened against the same glass she'd been looking through earlier, head smacking against it with a flinch.

"Just let me—"

Luz shrieked as a blur of silver came hurtling at her, ducking to the floor as a deafening crash resounded over her head. Still clutching the syringe to her chest, she looked up from the floor, breath caught in her throat. Miguel crouched in the center of the room, hissing as he held his head in his hands, bolts still clinking across the floor from where he'd torn the table out. Luz watched as he lowered his damp forehead to the cold tile, dragging his clenched fists across the floor as he groaned in what she could only assume was frustration. Whatever effects the venom had had on his psyche, it seemed as if he was trying desperately to fight it.

"Luz! Get out of there, girl," Jess urged, her disembodied voice crackling through Luz's watch. "We'll figure something else out."

Luz's mind was still catching up to her pulse, reeling from the close call.

"LUZ!" Jess repeated, jolting her out of her stupor.

Quietly, Luz scrambled to her feet. Holding her hands out in front of her, she cautiously skirted the edges of the room, steps feather light as she made for the exit. Clearly, Luz thought, their plan had been a mistake, and she'd entirely underestimated the situation. The medbots had better odds; after all, they were repairable! And anyway, they could try aerosolizing the antidote if necessary, she reasoned. She'd nearly made it out, back brushing against the doorframe, fingers grasping the handle, before she caught the sound of…whimpering? Luz froze.

In the stillness of the room, she heard it again, the shivering sobs just barely escaping Miguel's lips.

Her shoulders dropped, guilt ripping through her chest. Had she such little nerve that she'd abandon him like this? Heart aching at his trembling voice, she pried herself off the wall she'd been clutching like a fool. Gently, Luz approached him. As she neared Miguel, she could hear his low voice, raw and exhausted, pleading desperately to himself. Brows knit, Luz took another step as she made to kneel beside him. But as she did, her foot nicked a stray bolt, sending it skittering across the floor. Miguel's eyes flew open, smoldering red as they locked on to Luz.

He pounced.

In a flash, Miguel was on her, his face inches away as Luz screeched, arms bracing against his jaw and collarbone as they came crashing down. The antivenom vial clattered to the floor as they fell, a hairline crack threading through the glass. Luz flung her arm out after it, fingertips ghosting across the tube before Miguel pinned her wrist to the ground, caging her in. Snarling, he yanked her arm behind her back, rearing to bite. All mercy now thoroughly out the window, Luz growled, pulling her knee to her chest before slamming her leg backward into Miguel's thigh. With a yowl, he toppled forward, fangs almost skimming her as she wrestled out from under him. Palms scuffed as she clambered backwards, Luz swiveled her head to find the syringe. Having spun out just a few feet away, Luz lunged for it, knees scraping across the tile.

Just as she grabbed hold of it, however, Miguel caught her right ankle. Luz yelped as he wrenched her back towards him, kicking wildly to get him to release her. He threw a taloned hand down to stop her flailing, hot breath fanning over her throat, claws cutting into the flesh of her thigh. Screaming in anguish, Luz stilled her thrashing to stop him from tearing any deeper, forcing herself to focus through the pain. At the same time, Luz's shrieks had struck something within Miguel, grip faltering as his pupils dilated slightly. Sensing this momentary change, Luz grabbed a fistfull of his hair, jerking his head sideways as she finally plunged the needle into his neck.

He let out a strangled cry, jolting as Luz firmly maintained pressure, before his strength failed him. Pitching forward, his face crashed into the crook of her neck.

Faintly, Miguel registered a whiff of strawberry before his vision went dark.

Their argument had been short, but the evidence of her exasperation with him had been nothing of the sort. A quick glance at the digital clock on one of his many screens confirmed it had in fact only been two days of passively avoidant treatment, but God, it had felt like a month. He hadn’t been aggressive or insulting –he always kept himself in check around Luz– but his damn stubbornness had pushed her past her limits. And though she was most often the type to silently fume, keeping her stronger emotions to herself, their disagreement had led to a short burst of raised voices and high tension. His own bad habits might have led to further clashing, but Luz had cut him off quickly.

It wasn’t her words that had stopped him in his tracks; no, those only registered with him as echoes in a too-quiet room. Rather, it was the fact she had gotten up and begun to leave that had rendered him silent and unsettled.

Now, two days later, he felt like he was losing whatever was left of his mind. Luz didn’t avoid him entirely nor ignore him, she was never the childish sort to do so. But she was so much quieter than usual, and had been spending less and less time in the control room with him than he had grown fondly accustomed to. It irked him, how much he missed her. And following her through the cameras throughout the building wasn’t enough to sate the ache of her missing company. The banter, giggles, and soft chatter to him or to herself as she worked had filled the echoey walls of the console room (and his heart) with feelings he barely had the words to express, let alone admit to anyone but himself. But now, he could feel the stillness and silence of the control room seeping back in, wholly unwelcome in its familiarity.

Lovesick fool doesn’t even begin to describe it, he rolled his eyes at himself.

He’d cursed himself for falling for her the moment they’d met, those 5 months ago. He cursed himself every time he realized he was doing something to impress her. He cursed himself for each second he spent considering confessing his feelings, and doubly more for time he lost his nerve. He cursed himself every time he found his eyes wandering to her during the day, or his thoughts at night, which was more times than he wanted to admit.  He cursed himself for the ridiculous jolt that shot through him every time she subconsciously fluttered her lashes, or brushed by him, or looked him in the eye, or, honestly, did anything in his vicinity.

He’d lost everything before, and though he’d been convinced his heart had iced over entirely, Luz had inadvertently chipped away at the hole in his chest, gently thawing parts of him he had forgotten existed. But now that she had freed that beating in his chest, Miguel found it hurt even worse than he’d been ready for. He’d lost before and he couldn’t bring himself to do it again.

Throwing his head back, Miguel cursed himself again, this time for practically losing the woman he never even really had.

“Joder, Luz, you’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs to the air, pinching the bridge of his nose. The soundless mechanical hummmm reverberates through his soles as he initiates the platform’s descent.

Miguel stood in the doorway of the endurance training room, eyes scanning its expanse for her. It hadn't necessarily taken him long to find Luz; his Spider bots had pinged her location before he had even left the control room. With his ability to navigate HQ almost second nature at this point, it would have only taken him a few minutes to reach her. But Miguel's usual ETA didn't normally require factoring in 20 minutes of dragging his feet and rehearsing in his head before arrival.

While no more congested than usual, the training platforms still overflowed with Spiders on all sides. Still, Miguel had picked Luz out of the crowd easily (to his own embarrasment), finding her surrounded by a few of the younger Society members. He stood there, staring, no, observing from afar. Even here, she glows, he mused, tracing her soft edges with his mind as she laughed at something he didn't catch.

Luz hadn't noticed his silent approach as she continued to giggle and banter with her unofficial mentees. In fact, the Spiders surroundeing her had clocked Miguel's trajectory before she had. They'd given him a wide berth, his apparently obvious tension leaving a palpable wake. It was only as the group had slowly started to scatter that Luz had realized he was here, standing in front of her no less.

Their eyes met at once, boring into each other in silence, waiting for the other to speak. Miguel traced the planes of her face, searching for signs of anger, but found nothing there. Luz searched his for intention, and came up equally short. And so they just stared.

Miguel broke first.

"They really like you," he started, tilting his head towards the gone-but-probably-still-watching gaggle of teens.

Luz bit her lip, releasing it as she nodded tentatively, trying to gauge his intent.

"Because I'm nice," she clipped, terse but not mean, angling her head to match his. She pursed her lips, fighting against them as they attempted to quirk up into a wry smile.

"Yeah…yeah, you're good at that," he almost whispers, his words rasped with an emotion she can't place. Miguel's eyes flick down for a moment. Luz recognizes the the soft hum that escapes him for that barely-there laugh she'd grown to love, a tell that anyone else would have missed it.

Her words failed her in that moment. She wanted to cry, no, she wanted to scream. There were a million things she wanted to tell him; how he made her heart ache every time he looked her way; how the way he spoke her name made her legs lose all feeling; how he'd taught her to find worth in herself beyond what she gave to others; how he'd filled her cup without ever asking if had been empty, again and again and again. Most of all, Luz wanted to seethe at him, tell him how he'd robbed her blind, stolen her heart from her chest so ruthlessly and swiftly. That she'd barely realized it had happened before it was too late to stop the fall, and that was somehow his fault too. But she couldn't do it. She just couldn't. And so she said nothing instead.

The air between them remained unmoved, time itself seeming to stand still. The awkwardness became unbearable, even passerbys shrinking from the intensity. Luz swallowed thickly, pushing her hair over her shoulder, a nervous tic Miguel had picked up on within their first month of knowing one another. Taking a few steps backwards, Luz opened her mouth to speak, making to leave.

Miguel's hand shot out to stop her, capturing her wrist in his hold. It's firm at first, but his grip losens just as quickly, giving her enough breadth to pull away if she wished.

"Can I speak to you for a moment?", he blurts, both blinking at each other, frozen.

"…Privately?", Luz deduces after a few beats.

“Yes.” It comes out rushed, not even a breath after her lips had stopped moving.

She starts to move again, this time pulling her wrist delicately from his grasp to lead him. When his legs finally find their strength, Miguel follows. Though his legs are much longer, Luz's anxiety propells her steps much quicker. She snakes through Spiders and platforms until she reached the furthest row of locker rooms, choosing to leave the lights off to draw less attention to their dark, secluded nook. She hadn't intentionally moved so quickly as to lose him, but was grateful to see he wasn't right behind her. She needed a minute to breathe.

When Miguel eventually pulls around the corner, trying to still his heart, she’s already waiting for him. Back pressed against the lockers and arms wrapped around herself, Luz's eyes are trained on the floor, her own pulse a pandemonium in her ears.

He stands beside her, hands planted on his hips in his usual manner, every bit the jefe she knows. Head hung and eyes shut, he inhales slowly, gathering every last ounce of will he has.

Turning to her, he pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning his side into the lockers. When he opens his eyes, Luz is already looking into his; quiet, patient, but waiting. Bracing his forearm above the two of them, he forces himself to speak.

“I’ve been an ass." A soft sigh escapes him. Taking her silence as permission, he continued.

"Look, I—you’ve been around less and less and I know it’s my fault, I know I upset you. But you have to understand, Luz, you're so—", he stops himself, mouth opening and closing as he searches for the right words. His eyes soften. "You're too good to me, querida."

"I've been doing this on my own for so long, I've gotten used to it. But then you come along and try to help me in every little way. And it drives me insane! Because you do it like its as simple as breathing." Miguel's tone is almost accusatory, and he knows it. He's panting slightly, running his hand through his sweaty curls. The words spill out of him faster than he can control, his heartstrings trembling from the outpouring of molten fervor, not even sure if he's coherent anymore.

"For some goddamn reason, you put up with me. You redirect me. You shut me up as easily as you stand beside me, and I don't know what to do with that. No sé cómo hacer esto contigo. Yo no se, por qué, I know I want to do it with you anyway.** I don’t want to push you away. I push everyone else away, but I don’t want to do that with you."

“I-I care about you," Miguel chokes out hoarsely. Unsure of whether it's confidence or delusion that overtakes him, his hand reaches out to the small of her back, gently pulling her towards him.

"I do. Too much to lose you."

There’s a pregnant silence between them. Miguel's yearning gaze sinks into her, searching, pleading, for her to understand the three words he cannot say. But Luz doesn't look at him. So many emotions cross her face, yet he's unable to place a single one. All he can hear is her heartbeat, thundering loud enough to mistake it for his own. It begins to tear him apart, chest caving and constricting until he can feel it in his knees.

Suddenly, Luz takes his wrist, and begins to remove his hand from her lower back.

Miguel's heart sinks, brows twitching into a fraction of a frown, before she stops his heart. Gently, Luz guides his hand with both of hers, bringing it to her lips and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Then, she tucks it into her chest, resting her chin on his hand. Subconsciously, her lashes flutter as she looks him in the eyes, and for once, holds his gaze. Miguel thinks if he isn’t dead already, he may as well be now.

“I know," she whispers, nose dipping to brush against his fingers. "I know you don’t want to push me away." Her hushed tone came in such contrast to Miguel's own explosive confession, he'd barely caught it at first.

"You wouldn’t be here now if you did. And I know you care too— in every little thing you do for me, for everyone. It’s not something I don’t see, it’s not something that I ignore. You work so hard, you care so deeply, Miguel, I don't doubt that for a minute." Luz paused in quiet consideration. "I just wanted to do the same for you—"

Her words go straight through Miguel, his lids drooping and lips parting in response. Gently, his fingers move to capture her chin, thumb brushing slightly against her lips once, and then twice.

A soft exhale breaks the pause before she finishes.

“—I care about you too, Miguel," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the pad of his thumb.

He didn’t realize how close he’d gotten to her as she spoke, but at her last words he drives himself forward to close the gap, finally seeking those soft lips he  can never tear his eyes from.

But at the last moment, she turns her head. His face lands against the side of her throat, her shoulder crooked to cradle his head. She pressed a firm but sweet kiss to his temple, slowly trailing down to his cheek. She held him there, nose nuzzled into his skin, matching each other’s breathing as they took one another in.

After what felt like a moment and an eternity all at once, Luz opened her eyes. She pulled ever so slightly away, lashes fluttering over a soft, pursed smile. Noses still touching, she was met unexpectedly with Miguel’s unblinking gaze. His round pleading eyes searched hers, seeking a reason for her distance. In that moment, she finally and truly recognized the extent of this seemingly detached man’s yearning, a glimpse of the tortured months of waiting and wishing behind his deep red eyes.

At his genuine confusion, a giggle erupts from her involuntarily. Dropping her shoulder, Luz places both hands along his jaw, angling his head to peck another kiss to his other temple.

As Miguel straightens up and opens his mouth to speak, she cuts in.

“Real kisses are girlfriend privileges, Miguel,” Luz says pointedly, through a bashful smile and lowered gaze. Her fingers lightly trace along the spider insignia on his chest, his mind reeling from the contact as she continues, “you have to ask me out to dinner before that." Her cheeky grin was paired with a deep blush, surprised at her own forwardness.

Miguel doesn’t miss a beat, snatching her wrist from his chest and sucking a kiss onto the back of her hand.

“Friday. 8 PM”, he mutters, punctuating each word with another peck.

In quick succession, Miguel’s hands circle her waist, sweeping Luz up into his powerful arms. Those deep, breathtaking eyes of his meet hers with a final look.

“Say yes.”

Finally stepping out from the secluded corner in which she and Miguel had been speaking, the two of them reluctantly parted ways. Luz made her way back to the training platform she’d left behind earlier, though couldn’t help but sheepishly look over her shoulder at him on her way. The little swoosh of his hair as she glanced back confirmed that he too had been unable to resist, craving one last look before leaving.

On her return, she was met with the six Spiders she'd been mentoring earlier…and then some. Their body language immediately set her on edge, leaning on one another conspiratorially. Like they knew a little too much for her liking.

“Soooo what was all that about, eh?” The question was out before she'd even fully stepped onto the platform. Oh boy.

“It’s nothing,” Luz shot out, too quickly to be anywhere near convincing. Wincing, she reluctantly elaborated.

“Miguel was apologizing, we had a disagreement earlier," she supplied vaguely, ignoring their snickers and avoiding their eyes.

“Hmm, sure. Apologizing,” one winked suggestively.

"Oh is that what we're calling it now, huh?" a third teased, nudging Luz with her elbow. Luz flushed six shades darker, face burning as she protested.

“He was! I—"

“I dunno, I heard an awful lotta giggling for an apology session,” another ribbed, a shit-eating grin spreading infectiously to the rest of the group. Her protests fell on deaf ears as raucious laughter erupted. There were too many wiggling eyebrows and kissy faces to keep under wraps, the interrogation starting to draw attention from nosy Spiders on neighboring platforms. Frantically, Luz began punching in as many training module start codes as possible.

"OKAY SHUT UP! We're getting started!!"

Though his legs were taking him on the long walk back to his console, Miguel’s mind (and heart) was still back in the secluded darkness of the locker room.

Absentmindedly, he ran his hand through his hair, trying to mask the persistent twinge tugging at his lips (and pants) as he wound through the throngs of Spiders along his way.

He let his mind wander through its usual course to Luz, though for once without guilt. The soft laughter emanating in the background reminding him of her melodic giggles and snorts bouncing off the cold walls of his console room.

He tosses a distracted perdón at Spider-cat – his foot eliciting an accusatory hiss at accidental contact – though, he can’t help but think of the adorably similar sound Luz lets out at minor inconveniences and clumsy spells.

The whoosh of a passerby’s hair has him clenching and unclenching his hands embarrassingly, his thoughts now consumed by the soft brush of her hair when she slips by him at the console. And more recently, more deliciously tangibly, the way her bangs nuzzled against his face at that first almost-kiss; the way he might finally be able to run his fingers through her soft curls, how her voice might hitch if he tugged just right a—

“Miguel!!” Whatever ghost of a smile had inched its way across his face immediately fell into a more natural frown.

“Peter.” A string of laughter paired with a clap on the back met him before his bathrobe and bjorn-clad friend did. A poorly-hidden twitch of annoyance was only barely registered behind a blur of red curls and stripes.

“What’s with the grin, big guy? I clocked it across the dang building, it looks like it hurts!”, Peter cackled, plucking an unruly Mayday off of Miguel’s head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he dismissed, quickening his pace to hopefully blush in the privacy of his office. His previously pleasant train of thought took a hard pivot, now fishing for ways to rid himself of his too-chipper and overly-observant tail.

But just as he readied his shot for a quick escape, a second headache appeared on cue. Miguel let out an exasperated "ay coño" as Jess fell into step to his left. “Is it because of that little C-R-U-S-H I’m not allowed to talk about?”, she teased, grinning like a cheshire cat. His half-hearted “no” only propelled her.

“Oh, so I AM allowed to talk about it now? Peter, Miguel’s probably thinking about—“

“NO,” he emphasized again, this time not even sure what his own response was aimed at besides some semblance of quiet.

Now half-jogging to get to the safety of the console room, Miguel hissed out a command code to LYLA, triggering whatever monthly drill might buy him some time and save him from further embarrassment. Behind his back, Peter and Jess snigger to themselves, sharing a knowing glance.

When Luz returned to the console room that evening, she tiptoed in sheepishly, unsure whether or not she preferred that Miguel acknowledge the events from earlier in the day, or acknowledge her at all for that matter. Normally, she'd always chirp a small greeting to Miguel before setting up on her side of the room. The last two days of muted presence had been an outlier, and directly tied to the disagreement they'd resolved this morning. Yet, Luz couldn't bring herself to speak, but this time for a very different reason. Nerves getting the best of her, she settled on just barely ghosting her fingers on his elbow as she passed behind him, letting out a "hi" so breathy, she barely heard it herself. Incredible work, she cringed.

Having clocked her hearbeat before she'd even entered the chamber, Miguel just barely smirked, trying to catch her eye over his shoulder. Luz, on the other hand, was doing everything in her power to avoid it.

They skirted around one another like this for the first half of the night shift. It was quiet once again, as it had been many times before. But this time, it was not uncomfortably so. No, this time the quiet was the nervous, timid, daresay playful kind. It wasn’t like waiting for the silence to be over, but rather, waiting for the silence to be broken.

Every once in a while, they'd catch one another staring in their periphery, flirty smiles reflected on monitor screens. And if not stolen glances, it was feather-light touches in silence. The brush of hands when sharing tabs, needlessly grazing past one another as if their close quarters were more confined than it really was.

At the tail end of the evening, marked by the increasing frequency of Luz's yawns, Miguel made the rare decision to wrap up for the night a little early. He'd been in an unusually pleasant mood (for good reason, he congratulated himself), and had every intention of dragging it out. And like a gambler on a high, he wanted to try his luck just one more time. So, sick of his own teenager-like behavior, he closed out of his current tab and crossed the room to Luz. Her posture straightened ever so slightly at the sound of his footsteps approaching, but just as quickly scrunched in on herself as Miguel walked up behind her.

Almost imperceptibly, he stroked her hair before his arms slowly, smoothly, caged Luz into her chair, planting his hands on the desk in front of her. She could hear the soft rumble of a chuckle through his chest behind her, just above her ears, and so impossibly close.

Luz found herself fluttering her legs under the table, admittedly stupidly so, but couldn’t help it beyond clenching her thighs to control herself.

"Shall we call it a night then, cariño?", Miguel purred, red eyes glinting under his lashes.

Leaning her head all the way back to meet his eyes, Luz nodded, not trusting her voice to follow through.

All night, they had been dancing around one another. But this time, Miguel seemed to be done with the little games. Five months of torture, and he just couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Unexpectedly, his arms encircle her for the second time that day, swiftly picking her up as he took her place in the chair, placing her onto his lap. Luz yelped at the switch-up, the imbalance from his rapid shifting resulted in her bracing her hands flat against his  broad, hard and oh-so warm chest.

Quickly catching on to her compromising new position, Luz blushed vividly, lashes fluttering over her widened eyes, dropping her gaze from Miguel’s smirking face to her fidgeting hands.

Her nervousness and their intense closeness had Miguel inadvertently spreading his thighs further. His hands, originally just barely kneading her hips, traveled gently up her waist, knuckles brushing her sides, and came to rest at her elbows. His ministrations instinctively made Luz arch her back, though it caused her to press her chest flush into his. Realizing this, she attempted to straighten herself out, but gasped as Miguel countered her by pushing a hand onto her lower back, gripping her chin firmly with his other. Eyes trained on her lips, he licked his own, his voice soft and raspy as he spoke.

“¿Qué fue lo que dijiste sobre besarte?***”

Barely processing his words, Luz’s lips parted, her own will battling her mind and losing. With her last ounce of self-restraint, she slung her arms around Miguel’s neck. Pulling her face close to the side of his, Luz peppered soft kisses along his cheekbone before delicately capturing the shell of his ear between her teeth and lips.

The guttural sound that elicited from Miguel was muffled as he launched himself forward, lips crashing against the crook of Luz’s neck. His deep breaths to control himself translated into wet, dark marks littered across her skin, followed by the jolting pricks of teeth, no, fangs grazing over the sensitive splotches. She gasped, lips pulling from his ear with a pop, followed by a whine of his name as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Hmm, I’m trying to be patient, bebita,” Miguel toyed, eyes flashing with amusement. The look dissolved into something more soft, something affectionate, as Luz stroked through the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

A smile broke across her face, nose scrunching as she huffed a small laugh. Luz blinked up at him sweetly, fingers still  playfully coiling through his hair.

“Try harder”, she teased, tugging sharply. And once again, laughter reverberated through the dark of the control room.

Translations:

You remember Miles saying his mum was Hispanic. Even if his Spanish wasn’t top notch you’re sure he’ll understand at least a few words. Understand the sentences Miguel made you say.

You spot Pav talking with some other spider variants, using large hand gestures. "Pav!" You call, walking up to him.

He shifts his gaze to you, a smile soon following. “Y/n. How are you?”

You smile. “Good…yeah, no I’m good. I was just wondering if you knew where Miles was?”

“Oh.” He spins. “I swear I saw him over there.” He points in a random direction. “…now he’s gone. Maybe with Gwen.” He nudges you, raising his brows. You chuckle, understanding the meaning of those raised brows.

“Well, this will only take a moment. I just need translation for something.”

“Translation? To what language?” Pav asks.

“From Spanish to English. And I heard Miles knows a bit.”

“Ah…wait, but doesn’t Miguel fully speak it?” Pav pauses. “Yeah, he’d know a lot more than Miles.”

You nod. “He just won’t tell me.” You mutter under your breath.

“What was that?” Pav asks, brows furrowed.

You look back up. “Miguel’s just kind of busy right now.” You had no idea if he was or not. “And so I thought Miles might be free.”

“I see.” Pav nods. “Come on, I’ll help you find him.” Pav begins to head down one of the paths in the communal area where bunches of spider variants sat and stood talking.

“Miles!” Pav called out to nowhere in particular. “Miles!?”

“Is yelling his name really gonna help?” Your brows furrow.

“I like to think yelling will conjure up the whole ‘spider-sense’ thing.” Pav says, still gazing around. “Wait, maybe I need to sound more in distress.”

You chuckle, looking around. And that’s when you spot Miles and Gwen. “Miles!” You walk over with a smile. Pav is hot on your heels.

Miles turns, and copies your smile. “Y/n, hey.”

“Okay look, I’m sorry to ask this but can you translate something for me?” You ask, hopeful.

Miles tilts his head slightly. “Yeah, sure. As long as it isn’t French, or Dutch, or Russian. Or practically any language I don’t know.”

Your smile widens. “No, no. None of those. It’s just Spanish.”

“Oh.” Miles stands straighter. “I’ll warn you I don’t know a heck of amount. But I can give it go.”

“Thank you.” You grow more excited in way. All of last night you had been thinking about what you had said, really trying not to just roll over and grab your phone.

“Okay, so it’s two sentences.” You begin. Miles nods. “The first one is…’Me encantaría usar…tu cama para otras…cosas’.” You say it somewhat slowly, making sure you got it right.

When you look back to Miles, he’s staring at you blinking. You stare back. “What?” You ask.

“Um.” He scratches the back of his head. “I’m probably hearing it wrong.” He mutters to himself before he’s looking back to an expectant you.

“What was the second one?” He asks, a little more curious this time.

“Uh…’¿No crees que…me vería bonita atrapada entre…tus sábanas?’”

Now miles is staring at you. You eye him, brows furrowed. “What does it mean?”

He coughs. “Who said that to you?”

“Oh, no I said it to someone.” You answer. “Well, they asked me to say it…”

“You said it someone…” he drifts off, slightly gulping.

“What? Is it…bad?” Your brows are further furrowed. “Come on, Miles, please. I’ve been dying to know what it means all of last night.”

“Well, the first one…it means ‘I’d love to use your bed for other things’.” He mutters it out extremely quickly. That you think you don’t catch it right.

“What?”

“And the second one means ‘don’t you think I’d look pretty trapped in your sheets?’.” Miles’ has looked away, scratching the back of his neck again, clearly a fraction flustered.

This time you’re staring at him, or more so through him. Then you blink. “What?” You repeat stupidly. That can’t be right. Why did miguel ask you to say something about his bed…

Now you weren’t dumb you were just…in shock. Because how does that make sense. And as the words settle in your mind a little more, you begin to feel the familiar burn in your stomach.

Recently your skin had begun to feel hot. In specific scenarios, around a specific someone. Every moment that he had touched you in some way you had either been injured, or fainting, so you hadn’t realised the reactions in the moment. But now, having your mind clear and your body healthy enough your skin grows prickly.

Then there was the touches on your chin…

At first you thought that they were a form of showing his superiority. It seemed like something he’d do. But when you really thought about it, you realised that he wasn’t grabbing Peter’s face like that, he wasn’t leaning over a chair that Gwen was sitting at.

Now you’ve grown hot. And your cheeks are probably bright red, considering how Pav is eyeing you. “Um.” You nod. You don’t know why you’re nodding. You just need to do something that isn’t stare off into space.

“Who, um, asked you to say that?” Gwen asks.

You shift your gaze to her, still slightly stuck in your own head. You felt the urge to fan yourself, but realised how implicating that would seem. Miguel got you to say that stuff? That seemed to be a repeating question in your head.

“Oh, uh, nobody.” You didn’t really want to tell them that it was Miguel. You felt it would put pressure on something that you were sure wasn’t even something. It wasn’t…right?

But now as you quickly thank miles and skim past them, your mind is whirring. Did Miguel…? You press your lips together at the thought, unbuttoning the first button of your dress shirt. You were sure you were reading into it. Though…part of you was actually hoping the underlying meaning you were thinking of was the truth.

You were even slightly shocked at yourself at this revelation. It’s as if it had always been on the tip of your tongue. Not falling off because Miguel is well…Miguel.

;;

“What was that about?” Pav asks, watching your leaving form. Gwen watches you go as well, eyes narrowing in her own inspection.

Miles was still going over the sentences in his head, really double checking he got them right. “Yeah…nah, that’s right.” He mutters. “My translations right.”

“Who asked her—“

“Asked who what?” Hobie appeared, clearly just back from a mission, as he leaned against Miles, resting his arm on his shoulder.

“Y/n.” Gwen says. “She asked Miles to translate something for her.”

“See, I knew this guy would be helpful.” Hobie slightly shakes Miles’ shoulders.

“I think someone has a crush on y/n.” Pav says, making Hobie shift his gaze to him.

“Who?” Miles asks, suddenly interested in the small ordeal.

Pav shrugs, but Hobie shakes his head, scoffing. Pav hadn’t seen you and Miguel interact a hell of a lot. Gwen didn’t pay that much attention to people’s gazes, and Miles was well…new. So, maybe Hobie could give them a break, but he still couldn’t believe how oblivious they were.

Hobie began to figure out Miguel’s little crush on you when Miguel had called him in for a last minute mission that Miguel could have easily done himself. He hadn’t needed Hobie.

And when Miguel’s jaw clenched at the mention of how he was supposed to be hanging out with you, Hobie began to clock on.

“Come on, you lot.” Hobie says staring at them. “Tell me, who speaks Spanish here? Fluently?”

Gwen looks down, thinking. “Miguel.”

Hobie nods. “Uh huh.” He presses, seeing their slightly furrowed brows. “Oh bloody hell, you lot are thick.”

“Oh…” Pav mutters. “Oh!” He realises, and Hobie gestures to him, sighing in relief.

“Thank anarchy.” He mutters, thankful one person caught on.

“Miguel likes y/n?!” Pav practically exclaims, earning a few side glances from other spider variants.

“It’d seem so.” Hobie smirks.

;;

Later that evening, you stood, not meaning to feel as flushed as you were. Standing in front of Miguel's bedroom door, you felt hot, your breathing quickening. After having found out what he got you to say—and having gone through the stages of confusion, denial and then shock—you've arrived back to sweaty palms.

You take a breath, knocking, but instead of the solid feel of the door, your hand falls through, the door having been cracked open a fraction—your nervous state must have forced you not to notice. It swings wider and your breath hitches.

Miguel's room is a mess, and not just his bed this time. Things are smashed, and his chair is thrown, lying lifeless on the floor. You then shift your gaze up to a heaving Miguel. He finally notices your presence, meeting your wide eyes.

Miguel had always been someone who was controlled. Sure, he got agitated easy, and clearly had some anger issues to deal with, but 'messy' was never a word you associated with him. And here he was hair ruffled, wet from the outside rain, and covering part of his eyes. His chest heaved to a mismatched beat, as his nose twitched in a snarl, his fangs very visible in the dim light. He looked like the definition of ‘a mess’.

"What are you doing here?" His low tone breaks you from your silent stance, your lips coming closed to rub against each other in...thought? You weren't entirely sure.

You gulp. "Did something...happen?" You scan his body for injuries, but find none. You glance at his open window. "Did you go on a mission?"

"Did you need something?" Miguel doesn't mean for his tone to come out so harshly. And watching your face twitch a fraction made him grind his teeth in annoyance at himself.

"I was going to ask you something, but..." Now you weren't so sure that this moment was the right one.

Miguel gulps, turning slightly away from you. "If you have nothing to say…go."

Yes, Miguel was acting clip and rude with you. And yes...maybe he did turn away so he wouldn't see your expressions. But then he hears your steps slowly draw closer. He shifts his gaze back to you.

Right now was the worst time to see you, he didn't want you to see him, he wanted you to go.

"I thought you had nothing to say?" Miguel briskly asks, but you caught the slight crack in his harsh tone. A crack that displayed a mix of emotions—stress, anxiety,...fear?

Before you know it you're moving closer, your feet, the rain and his breathing filling the other wise silent room. "Now's not a good time." His tone cracked even more. This time with anger.

You stop, a decent distance away. And maybe you should leave, leave him to this. But what is this? You voice that. "What is this?" 'This' as in the mess. 'This' as in Miguel's body language. He looked like he was not even a minute away from exploding.

"Are you...okay?"

Part of Miguel's facade broke at that. "I'm perfectly fine. Do I not look it?" He spits this, fully turning to you. Some droplets of water, that had drenched his hair slides down his cheek.

You know not to be taken aback by Miguel's words. But you'd never seen the word 'crazed' written in his eyes before...'frantic'. "No...you don't look it." You say, eyeing him. "You look...you don't look like yourself."

Miguel mockingly nods, his tongue dragging across one of his fangs, and actually drawing blood. "Right." He forcibly chuckles. "I forgot, I'm supposed to look...what? Composed? On task? In control?" He's stepped closer to you, each word coming out like a snarl.

"Not everything stays the same." Miguel is saying. "Not everything goes the way we plan." He grits out 'plan' like he despises the word altogether.

And as you glance from his hair to the window, to then his too clean of a suit, you realise something. It wasn't a mission, but he had gone somewhere.

"Miguel, where did you go?"

"I didn't go anywhere." He scoffs out.

"Yes you did." You say, narrowing your eyes in thought. And maybe now would be a good time to leave, leave him be. But of course you wouldn't, 'worry' now tieing you up tight. Then you pause. "Why are talking about things that don't go to plan? What hasn't gone to plan?"

"You know, you can be real nosy sometimes." Miguel wanted to punch himself. Why did he say that? You had never been nosy, only observant. Maybe too much for your own good, but it was surely a talent of yours. And here he was shaming you.

But in this moment you weren't fazed. Something was wrong. "Miguel, you've clearly just come in here angry. You're hair's wet from the rain, so obviously recently. Your room is a mess. It's never a mess. You're...never a mess."

"Oh, plenty of things can become a mess, y/n."

"Yeah, but never you. Sure, you've gotten angry before, but you've never trashed a room. There's glass on the floor...you broke that mirror." You gesture to the one hanging on the wall, a prominent fist imbedded in the middle.

"Don't tell me you're gonna deduce where I've fucking been by the glass?!" He was yelling. Not at you. Never at you. At himself. But he's always been very good at projecting. Especially when you're around.

"No." You breathe. "I'm asking you." You say, letting a hint of your concern shine through. You were concerned. Very concerned. Maybe Miguel would have noticed your concern, if he wasn't slowly loosing it. If the messed up room wasn't enough of a tell, he's hit his peak.

"What happened?" You ask again, and this time you finally get a response.

"I fucked up, okay?!" He exclaims, his heart pounding a mile a minute. "I can't take it back. And I've tried. I've really tried. But you know what? Maybe this is meant to happen. Maybe I'm meant to screw everything up."

You stare at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I..." Miguel drifts off, fisting his already disheveled hair. "I let them take it..." Hs voice has softened. But not to a nice kind of softened—a broken one.

You step a fraction closer. "Who? And take what?"

You can visibly see Miguel's strength ebbing away. He looks exhausted, and all in all done. Done with everything. You didn't like that look, you didn't like the inclination of it. "Miguel." You say slowly.

But he's going farther and farther back into his mind, getting tangled up in thoughts you could tell had begun to haunt him. Screwed up? What had he supposedly screwed up?

Then before your mind could work on overdrive, millions of questions wanting to surface, and before Miguel could step further back from reality, you stepped much, much closer, reaching up on your tip toes. And then you wrapped your arms around his neck...hugging him.

Miguel is frozen. Entirely frozen. His mind stops trying to murder him and the drowning sounds in his ears fade away. Now he can hear your breathing, a nervous beat clear. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if he should do what he’s thinking.

But then you’re slowly drawing back, arms leaving his body. And he can’t have that. He swiftly wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you back to him, as his hands clench around your shirt.

Your breathing hitches as Miguel’s breath hits your collarbone, his head choosing to rest in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing part of your skin.

No. He had told himself he wouldn’t think like that anymore. It was exhausting, and he was tired enough as is. His grip tightened around you. To all the doubtful voices in his head, he was using you to say ‘shut the hell up’.

You could feel Miguel’s entire body practically slump against yours. And though your cheeks were red hot, and your heart was screaming you wrapped your arms back around his neck, your wrists meeting together by his hair.

For once Miguel heard silence. He had always had too many voices in his head telling him this and that. And that ‘this was what has to be done’ and that ‘no, you can’t get distracted’.

Now he felt a much relieving calmness engulfing him. You. His breathing slightly shuddered against your neck, the open of his mouth leading his fangs to lightly brush across your skin.

You shivered at this, earning Miguel to lean his head back. But he didn’t let your waist go. You stopped those voices and he’d be damned if he let you step away from his body now.

Your breathes met, as did your gaze. You were close, the seeming millimetre making you seem even more so. You could feel Miguel’s fingers fiddle slowly with the back of your shirt, your front still pressed against his.

“I’m…” You gulp, your voice coming out much shakier than you intended. “Sorry…I probably shouldn’t have hugged you.” You could practically taste his breath.

“Yeah…you probably shouldn’t have.” His tone is breathy, sounding out of body, as his gaze flickers to your lips.

They’re dry—of course. And now at the close proximity licking them made you feel ten times hotter. You prayed he couldn’t see your blushing cheeks.

“I’m sorry that I just…sorta came in.” You felt you had to fill in the silence. Miguel didn’t seem to mind it though, cause it meant that he could listen to your voice. And replacing your voice with the one’s in his head is probably the smartest choice he could ever make.

Well maybe the second smartest choice… He stared at your freshly wet lips, breathing harder. His thoughts had changed from ‘how much more could he take’ to ‘how much more…more…more’. He wanted more. More of your closeness, this seemed to not be enough.

In response to his thoughts his hands glided up your back, making your body lean more against him. Chest to chest.

“A-and I probably shouldn’t have assumed all that stuff…” you breathe out, as Miguel tilts his head, looking down at you. It’s safe to say your were flustered.

“I think you did alright.” He partially whispered.

“Well…you’re not throwing a chair..so..” Stupid, stupid, stupid—you think to yourself. “I mean…”

And to your shock you notice his lips begin to curve up. And not just to stop at a certain point. No. His lips continued to widen until he was smiling. An actual, genuine smile, that oozed amusement, and it made him look…happy?

“Careful.” You say. “You look like you’re expressing a ‘sparkly emotion’.”

“Oh no.” His grin doesn’t fall, and it only makes your heart beat faster. “We wouldn’t want that…would we?”

You quickly shake your head, and Miguel presses his lips together with further amusement, his eyes darting. “…cute.”

You freeze. And Miguel seems to realise his small slip up, as his eyes grow a fraction wider. He had slipped up in English. Goddamn English. You understood.

But what he didn’t know was that you understood a lot more than just that word. And as the reason for your arrival to his room came back to you, the simple word ‘cute’ seemed to mean a whole lot, lot more.

© 2023 messylustt.tumblr

I’m sorry this one’s kinda short, and not too much is going on. but I wanted them to have a close moment like this before they…well…y’know.

at this point I’ve decided to do nine parts (it fits better) so next part…mhm…FINALLY we can get some closer HaPpIniNgS

plus next part im gonna go onto a deeper dive of where Miguel went and who the masked men are — i just needed a bit of tension filled fluff

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So when the blanket lifts and the mattress shifts under you with the fluid movement of his body sliding into place next to yours, you hum and shift to make room for him. You don’t get far before one of his arms snakes around your middle. There’s a brief moment where a TV show your mom used to watch flashes through your mind, a woman calling a man’s arms ‘pythons’ and biting her lip in a comical display of attraction. You remember the man in question, and you think if his arms were pythons, Miguel’s are anacondas.

The thought makes you chuckle through your nose.

“What’s so funny?” He whispers, his breath swirling over the back of your neck, tickling and warming the skin there in equal measure.

“Mm. Just something stupid from when I was a kid,” you mumble-whisper back, taking his hand in yours and pulling it up to cradle against your chest, your heart, fingers intertwined.

He hums, shifting and pulling you more snugly against him, resting his face on the back of your neck, the soft breaths from his nose going down the loosened back collar of your pajama shirt. It’s really just an old oversized t-shirt, one you’ve had for much too long and lined with holes around the peeling graphic that rises from the hem, but Miguel has never made you feel bad or self-conscious about it. You both understand the need to hold on to something from the past. He has his videos, and you have old clothes.

You let the silence grow, wrapping the two of you in its soft cotton cocoon. Letting out a deeper relaxed breath, you start to disentangle your fingers from his. His grip tightens, his body tensing so imperceptibly that if you hadn’t been pressed against him with nearly your whole body you wouldn’t have noticed. Even his breath catches for a moment.

“Shh,” you soothe. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He lets out a measured, shaky breath, nodding into the back of your neck. He squeezes your hand gently, and then releases it.

You hum, letting your hand rub comforting lines into his forearm, moving up and down the soft skin and hair. He’s had the forethought to take off his suit this time, at least, and donned the spare clothes you keep in your closet so that he doesn’t dirty your sheets with multiversal grime and blood.

His relaxed grip pulls you in even tighter now—his arm a roller coaster safety bar across your ribs, your back now a part of his chest instead of being pressed to it.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “Everything is okay.”

You know it’s harder for him some days than others. The trauma of his loss, the weight of his self appointed responsibility in the wake of it, as if he can atone for his sin of having ever wanted.

And then he shivers, and with the fusion of your spine to his sternum it rolls through your own body as if it had started there. You realize, with his next shuddering breath, that he’s not shivering—he’s shaking.

“Miguel? Hey, hey,” you whisper again, shifting in his grip. The safety bar of his arm loosens enough for you to roll over to face him, and yet he still tries to hide his face in your neck, in the pillow. He’s not actually crying, not yet, but you can already see the dam beginning to spill over. It finally breaks when you try to duck your head to see his face, pulling back so you don’t go cross eyed looking for him.

The first tear rolls from his eye closest to the pillow, running a smooth path as it escapes to land on the pillowcase, and his face twists as he holds back a sob.

Immediately you pull him back to you, pulling his face against your collar bone, cradling his head and stroking his hair.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper into the hair above his ear. “I’ve got you.”

And the dam breaks, great shuddering breaths fighting their way out of his chest, up through his throat, out of his gritted teeth to land on you and the space between. The tears come in earnest, and soon your neck is wet with salt and grief, his face pressed into the juncture of your shoulder and neck as if it can protect him from whatever chases him. All the while he keeps his arms around you, his fingers fisting into the back of your shirt, digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t loosen his hold, not for a moment, as if any moment you could evaporate and only his embrace could keep your molecules from floating into the ether.

Eventually the shuddering gentles, then stops, the tears drying up altogether. You continue stroking his hair, your fingers gently grazing his scalp in soothing movements.

And then you do something you’ve never done before, instinct acting before you can second guess yourself at this late hour.

You kiss his hair.

His breath catches, then releases in a strong steady breeze across your salty wet skin and soaked shirt. All of the tension in his body seems to leave with it, his bruising grip going lax and his fingers releasing your shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t normally–”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘men shouldn’t cry’ types,” you mumble into his hair, tone light and teasing. Only now does it strike you how incredible it is that this enormous man who could probably level your apartment with minimum effort is bundled into your arms, face tucked into your neck. You wonder how it appears, him shrinking down to fit into the embrace of your much shorter frame.

“No,” he huffs through his nose. “No, I just…”

“I know,” you whisper into his hair, pressing another kiss into the soft caramel of it.

“Yeah.”

“Hard day?” you volunteer into the quiet after another moment of petting his hair.

“Why do I need to listen when you’d just tell me anyway, love?” you ask, and he only sighs.

“Yes, but I shouldn’t have to say it twice, amor,” he mocks and you laugh out loud. Your laughter is contagious because Miguel lets out a chuckle himself before continuing.

“She’s a villain from Earth-17502, her main weapons are wooden spikes that emerge from her back and a pistol. What she lacks in speed she has in brute force, and the spikes can be shot out at 100km per hour, regenerated with hammerspace,” he explains.

“So like…a demented Sonic the Hedgehog?” you snicker.

“What? No, I just said she wasn’t fast,” he says, confused.

“No wait, a demented porcupine,” you say, and he only snorts. “Sure, querida.”

“Ugh, disgusting. Romance,” a disembodied voice interrupts, and the two of you immediately go on the defence. From the shadows emerges said villain in question, a cruel expression on her face as she readies her pistol by her side.

Without warning she begins shooting, but the two of you are fast and in sync, splitting off and slinging away with your webs.

“Look bud, I’m sorry that your love life is sad but don’t take it out on us!” You shout, swinging around with a relaxed look on your face.

She only lets out a growl, continuing to shoot at you to no avail. Behind her, Miguel is making his own advance, but like a triggered trap her spikes shoot out before he can get too close.

“Shit!” he says, leaping out of the way just in time.

“It wouldn’t do you well to sneak up on me, little one,” she laughs cruelly. “Wouldn’t want to get skewered!”

Now it's a game of ‘try to avoid the bullets and the spikes flying in all directions at once’, and it seemed like you were at a stalemate.

“There’s no way to get close to her!” you say frustratedly, leaping from pillar to pillar as you continue to evade her bullets. It seemed her frustration seemed to reach a peak as well as she lets out a shout, unable to hit her marks. You move down to the floor, trying a new approach from the ground.

“We’ll figure it out, we always do,” Miguel reassures, and you let out a little smile.

But in that minuscule second of distraction the villain finds an opening, and before you know it a spike is flying straight for you with no time to evade it.

“NO!!” you hear him shout, but it was already too late. All the while, the villain only laughs in the face of your anguish. The spike impales your side, and for a few breathless moments, you don’t even feel it, as though it was nothing more than a punch to the side, a bit of pressure. The adrenaline pumping through your veins does its job of allowing you to not feel the pain.

But as you stumble slightly, it starts to settle in. All at once the searing hot pain hits you like a train, and you collapse to your knees, unable to hold yourself up anymore.

Every breath you take becomes more difficult than the last as a ringing fills your ears.

In front of you, Miguel fights with a new vigour you had never seen in him before, claws slashing and webs flying. Each action is served with purpose and no restraint on his strength, and the villain can no longer keep up. But before long your vision starts to fail you as well, closing in on your line of sight as you collapse onto your side with a wheeze. What felt like an eternity was in reality only maybe 30 seconds, but you were so, so tired.

Out of the corner of his eye Miguel sees you collapse, and all he sees is red. Before he can realize it his fangs are out, and he bites through the villain’s neck effectively paralyzing them instantly.

Within moments he is by your side, scooping you up into his arms as you blink blearily up at him.

“LYLA, SEND BACKUP NOW,” he shouts, his voice cracking at the end and for once there is no funny banter between the two of them as she does his orders immediately.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Slowly you feel your eyes begin to close, but he shouts your name.

"Talk to me, please. You need to keep your eyes open, just a little longer,” he begs, clutching you close. You’ve never heard his voice so broken, not even when he told you about his past.

“It-” you gasp. “It hurts so bad, Miguel,” your voice weak with pain.

He looks at you with panic and fear, but most of all a feeling of helplessness.

“Querida, come on. You’re strong, mi vida. Stay with me, alright?” he says, his hand gently brushing your hair back before he scoops you up, carrying you in his arms.

You can’t help but cry out in pain as he does, the spike digging deeper into your side.

“Fuck, fuck,” he says, moving as fast toward the portal Jess had just opened up. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I need to get you to the infirmary, alright? You’ll be okay, you’ll be okay,” he says, trying desperately to believe it himself.

But he doesn’t know anymore. You’ve lost too much blood, the injury too serious.

It throws him back to when he was carrying his daughter like this, frantically running as the world falls apart around him.

But this time it was you. His light, the best to have ever happened to him amongst the infinite possibilities throughout the multiverse, the one person that managed to pull him out of the pit he had fallen into after the destruction of his daughter’s world.

You were his salvation…and he was about to lose you.

“I love you, Miguel,” you say softly, before you let out a violent cough. “In case…in case I’m not here to say it anymore.”

“No, no. Don’t say that. You’ll be able to say it a million more times, alright querida? A million more, and even then it won’t be enough,” he says, but you can’t hear him anymore. You can’t even make out his beautiful face so broken in anguish.

All you can see are the colours of the space between the universes. The oranges, reds and blues.

~

You didn’t think death would be so cold and monotonous. You weren’t exactly sure if you believed in the concept of ‘heaven’ or ‘hell’, the Fields of Elysium were probably closer to what you expected the afterlife to be like. But you definitely didn’t expect it to be so…bland.

It was like an endless void you walked through, no warmth, no ‘light’ to go towards, just you and your thoughts.

Your thoughts.

Miguel.

The guilt hits you like a tidal wave at the fact that you left him alone. Another person was ripped from his grasp by the hands of fate. You couldn’t bear the thought of hurting him, and you did just that by leaving him behind. Even though you promised each other forever on your wedding day, here you were breaking that promise.

You couldn’t find the strength in your legs to continue walking aimlessly anymore. Like that fight in the factory, you fell to your knees, not because of your injury but because of the pain you felt in your heart for hurting the one you loved the most.

You remember his face as he held you in his arms, pleading for you to stay.

He was so warm. He always was.

You missed him.

“Miguel…” you whisper. “I’m sorry for leaving you behind,” you sob.

~

~

~

“Don’t leave me, querida,” a voice says, far off in the distance. Your head whips up at the sound, and you look around desperately trying to hear it again.

“Please…please, I can’t. I can’t do this without you,” the voice says, and in an instant you’re back on your feet following the sound.

“You were the best thing to ever happen to me, vida mía. Somehow loving me in spite of my brokenness. I don’t…I don’t know how to live without you by my side.” You’re running toward the voice now, running through the darkness with it as your guide.

“Don’t leave me…” the voice whispers before fading away, leaving you with nothing to follow anymore.

“NO!” you shout, and before you know it your webs are shooting out from your wrists, catching onto something, and then you’re swinging forward into the unknown.

~

Your hearing is the first of your senses to return, the steady beat of the heart rate monitor gratingly irritating after a while. It was ironic considering it was the first to disappear when you first got injured.

Next is your touch. You feel the weight of the hospital blankets, scratchy but warm.

Not as warm as the hand that grasped your own though, holding it tight.

Your sense of smell and taste come back around the same time, the sterile scent of the hospital unfamiliar, your mouth dry.

The last is your sight. Granted it was a bit difficult to see with your eyes closed, but you hadn’t quite found the strength to open them until now.

Blearily you blink as the bright lights temporarily blind you, but your attention isn’t on them for long. Instead, you turn to Miguel who sits staring at you in shock, eyes so wide it was almost comical.

“Hi,” you say softly, and he only blinks once before his forehead is pressed to your thigh, a broken sob escaping his throat. He grasps your hand all the tighter, as though he was never going to let go.

It makes you almost want to cry too, but instead you lift your arm up weakly before running it through his hair the way you knew he loved.

“I thought, I thought I was going to lose you,” he whispers, his face still pressed into your leg. He says it so quietly that you can barely hear him, like if he uttered the words too loudly they would come true.

“I could never leave you, my love,” you say. “I have to say ‘I love you’ a million times before then, remember? Or was it a billion?” He can’t help but chuckle, finally lifting his head up to look at you.

He looked exhausted, his usual dark circles darker than usual, his red eyes bloodshot. But he looked so, so relieved.

“No amount of times could ever be enough, vida mía,” he says before pressing his lips to yours.

You both smile into the kiss of a thousand swirling emotions, a million words left unsaid but you both understood even despite it all.

“Guess I’ll just have to get started then,” you say with a grin as you pull away.

“I love you, Miguel,” you say.

“I love you, querida,” he says in turn.

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These thoughts would usually keep him up at night. He would toss in his bed relentlessly, chasing after sleep, fighting this idea. He was not a monster. At least he didn’t choose to be one. It was easy to forget what he actually looked like, lost in the dark of the night, with his eyes shut tight. But as soon as the light came back, he had no other choice than to face it.

He was a monster.

Fangs filled with a paralyzing venom. Talons that could rip through almost anything. Glowing crimson red eyes.

How could he forget all of this ? Just facing his reflection in a mirror was a struggle. He wished he could go back in time, go back to his former body. When his body was his. If he thought too much about it, he knew he could lose his mind and fall down a spiral of self-loathe and regret he was not ready to deal with. If he ever became ready to…

Any place with a mirror was like a prison for him as he watched his reflection trapped inside this little space. The med bay was probably his least favorite place in all the Spider-society. First of all, he hated anything that could look like a hospital. These places only reminded him of the most unhappy times of his life. There were mirrors on multiple walls and every one of his features was clearer than ever under the crude light of the neon. But the worst was the look people gave him. He should be used to it by now, but it still hurt. He didn’t need to see himself to know how he looked like. Covered in cuts, bruises and blood still fresh from a recent fight, he knew people only saw a monster.

Miguel quickly learned how to patch himself up. With his regenerating power, he could heal faster than anyone else, so he rarely went to the med bay. That sill was one of the rare things he saved from his childhood. Hiding, concealing and maybe one day, healing.

That night, he was standing in his office, watching the screens, looking for any anomaly when he felt a stinging pain in his chest, just above his left rib. He had been hurt badly the day before and despite his attempt to patch himself up, he could still feel the aftermath of the hit he got. Drowning himself in work usually helped him forget his worries, but tonight he couldn’t bring himself to go over this sensation. Carefully, the pads of his fingertips brushed against his rib. He winced at the pain. His face grimaced in discomfort and his sharp teeth flashed in the reflection of the screen. Even in this moment, he couldn’t deny his true nature.

Pain stung again in his chest, stronger and heavier, as if his heart weighed a hundred of pounds.

The doors of his office opened and someone stepped inside. The familiar voice of Peter B. Parker echoed in the room:

“Miguel, have you seen Mayday by any chance? I let her out for a minute and she managed to… Are you alright?”

Miguel was clearly not alright. He was leaning against his desk, his heart beating fast as the sting in his chest spread to his shoulder. His face lost his colors except for his red eyes. He watched Peter moving closer to him in the reflection. His colleague, would he dare him to call him a friend one day, stood just behind him with a face full of concern.

“Are you...hurt?” Peter’s voice was low. He knew he had to look for the right words in this delicate moment. Anything out of place would only make the situation worse. He recognized that look on Miguel’s face. His teeth were gritted and the bags under his eyes were more visible. He looked painfully pale, almost like a ghost.

“I’m fine.” But Miguel’s voice was slightly shaking. He was hurt, he was not feeling alright and yet, there was no way to say it out loud. Something prevented him to say anything. He remembered the last time he got examined by a doctor. In his situation he was not allowed to play victim or present himself like one. If he happened to be hurt, it somehow was still his fault.

Just like when he was a kid.

“You don’t look fine, Miguel. Maybe you should get this checked?”

This will only make things worse, just like every time he asked for help. But, of course, Peter couldn’t understand. He wasn’t there the last time he asked for help and this backfired. That’s how he learned that he could only rely on him.

Peter brought a hand to his friend’s shoulder but before he could say anything else, Miguel quickly turned around. His face was distorted in a grotesque expression while the sting in his chest worsens. He hissed, showing off his fangs and his grip on the desk tightened. His claws almost ripped the metal and he growled:

“I said I’m fine.”

Peter took his hand back and looked at him like it was the first time he saw him. Miguel knew that look, the look of fear. He had seen him a countless number of times on so many things that he shouldn’t feel bothered. Then, why did it make him feel worse that time? He knew that if Peter, or anyone else, saw more of him in this moment, he wouldn’t be able to look at himself in a mirror for days. He might feel like the child he used to be, scared and broken, but his face was one of a monster now.

« Get out Peter. »

Peter could sense that something was off. This wasn’t just about a couple of bruises this time. Miguel’s voice seemed broken and he was almost out of breath. Peter tried to reply ; maybe if he insisted enough Miguel would give in… Instead the man in front of him slammed his hand on top of his desk, claws all out and growled : « Get out ! »

There was not a single sane person who would deny this order and so, Peter left the office even if his mind told him he shouldn’t. Leaving Miguel alone in these moments could be dangerous for his friend, but a more selfish thought surged in his mind. Staying here could be dangerous for him. And so, Miguel was left alone.

At least, that’s what he thought.

Once Peter had left the room, Miguel leaned against the desk, his hands and breath shaky. His head felt heavier and the world seemed to spin a little faster. Something dripped down his side, slowly soaking his suit. One of his cuts had probably opened up. The metallic smell of blood hit him like a punch. His body tensed up as he took a deep breath. “Don’t do it. Don’t do it.” No matter how many times he would repeat this mantra, he felt himself crumbling under the weight of his condition. His knees couldn’t hold him anymore and he felt himself slowly falling to the floor. He rested his head against the desk, trying to catch his breath while hot tears fell down his cheeks. For the first time in ages, he didn’t have the strength to get up and fix himself. Maybe he could allow himself one good cry before getting back to pretending that he had everything under control, when in reality he couldn’t even control himself. His claws were out as he gripped the edge of the desk in a pathetic attempt ti get up, but all he could feel was the cold material bending and ripping under his strength. There was not a single thing he would not destroy in his life, he thought.

As time passed, he found himself wailing on the floor, something he hadn’t done in such a long time. The last time it happened, he was nine maybe and he was lying on his bedroom floor in front of his father, at least the man he thought was his father. That day, he swore that he would never find himself in this position ever again, no matter who or what he would face.

If only he had knew what he would have to sacrifice for that, just to stand on his feet with his head up, he wouldn’t have gotten up that day.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely heard the person moving next to him. Her footsteps were light and the first thing he heard was her babbling words. Miguel found himself conflicted. He should call Peter so he could take his daughter back, but that would mean he would see him like that, shaking, almost feverish, and at his lowest point… Before he could make a choice, the little girl put one of her hands on his cheek. Her voice was just a whisper as she let out a light laugh. Since Miguel didn’t respond, her face shifted to a confused expression.

God, he really hated the Parker. He thought no one could see him in this moment of weakness and of course, the two of them had to be there. But as much as he wanted to bring himself to resent them, he couldn’t deny the fact that this will never reach the level of disgust he felt toward himself.

This must have been the fever hitting him, because when Mayday ‘s fingers brushed against his cheek, all he could see was one face. A face that used to live in his dreams and was now only in his nightmares, screaming and crying.

“Gabi…”, he whispered, hoping his eyes were playing tricks on him. She was the last person he wanted to see him like that. He may have had regrets but at least he felt relieved that his daughter never saw him like the monster he was.

Mayday didn’t cry either, she didn’t even make a sound as she just watched his face. Maybe in a few years she would be able to understand what he feels like. But for now, she just kept a genuine smile on her round face, unable to see what most people would see. And Miguel hoped that in her children’s eyes, she was right, that maybe, he was more than a monster.

=======

"It'll be like methadone," you say, stepping over a puddle of water with no apparent source. It must be seeping upward. 

He's lucky he didn't just get 'methadone' and nothing else thrown at him. Miguel fixes the flashlight up the oncoming stairs as you start to ascend, lightly chastened. Methadone is a drug intended to assist in heroin dependency. It has its own cons, but in lots of cases, it can help the user stop using the original drug. He assumes you're suggesting that whatever drug he synthesises from the 'spider adjacent creature' will help him wean off of the injections (unlikely), or maybe repair some damaged DNA (complicated but not favourable right now).

"It'll be safer," you say, walking into the room toward an upturned lab bench. "You can make something with it. I know you can." 

"I have to do it?" he asks, stopped in the doorway. 

"You're the geneticist. It's really quiet." 

The lack of changing cadence to your voice doesn't catch up with him until you're turning back toward him, your nervous expression lit by the torch. One second you're looking at him for reassurance, and the next you're falling through the floor, wood splintering up in a wave as the boards crack.

You scream. As loud of a sound as Miguel has ever heard from you, your arms slam forward to catch onto the edge of the hole your feet created. Miguel doesn't immediately move, aware that his weight over the weakened floor will damage the integrity further, but you beg him, shrill, "Miguel," you say, your voice strangled, "help me!"  

Your arms scrabble for purchase, you're pleading through sobs, "I don't want to fall–" 

He snaps his torch to his shoulder and flips forward. He grabs your arms, rolling across the shattered flooring to the opposite end of the room, releasing you as the weight of your bodies lands. You oof and roll out of his arms. 

He's quick to get on his feet. Miguel hardly felt it. You flinch away from him and hold out your arms, a sleuce of maroon blood spilling down your side from under your arm. "Don't! Miguel, don't concentrate our weight!" 

"You're crying," he says. 

"Stop moving!" you yell. 

"Alright!" he yells back, moving back toward a load-bearing pillar. "Calm down, estúpida! I'm not going to let you fall." 

"You can't come over here, the floor's gonna break again." 

"It won't break." 

"It's going to break!" 

You breathe harshly, staring at the hole you'd made. He understands why you were scared. The fall was sudden, and if you'd managed to slide through the hole you would have snapped your legs, perhaps your spine. Super healing doesn't negate pain. 

"Lyla?" he asks. 

She appears from his watch, in pyjamas with her hair held back by a white bunny-eared headband. "I was taking my fake nap. What do you want?" 

"I want a filter that accounts for a building's structural integrity," he says. 

"That's impossible without blueprints and– Hey, woah, what happened to Y/N?" she asks, keying in on your frantic panting. 

"Tell me how to get from here to there without breaking through the floor," he says, snaps, incensed by your panicked breathing. 

Lyla thankfully doesn't argue, nor does she make him beg. His heart pounds at the sight of you where you're shaking, certain you're a moment from falling again, your hands clamped uselessly to an outlet fixture on the wall. 

A blue path lights up Miguel's UI. It directs him with blinking arrows on how to reach you. Miguel follows along, and, wanting to carry you or at the very least wipe your wet cheeks, he lifts you onto your feet and walks you back to the door, directing you over stress points, hand held taut in his. The floor groans and sags dangerously underfoot, but it doesn't collapse again. 

You should've been wearing your suit, he thinks. You're an idiot. You came out here wanting to find something for him when you should've been directing your efforts to the cause of the strike force and the whole Society, but you wasted time, and now you're injured. You should've been wearing your fucking web shooters–

You try uselessly to bury your hands in his suit, your face dropped to his chest. You sob quietly, your shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry," you say, borderline hysterical. 

Miguel brings his hand to your shoulder awkwardly. You might have made a mistake, but you're kind. You're more than a brilliant mind, you're a person, with fear and want intertwined. You clearly hadn't liked the dark but you'd braved it for him knowing the chemical here in the labs could improve his quality of life. He shouldn't think about you so meanly. You couldn't have known about the floor. 

"What are you sorry for?" he asks with a sigh. 

His awkwardness comes across as reluctance. You stiffen under his hand. 

"I thought I was gonna fall," you say weakly, sniffling against his chest. 

Miguel starts to rub a slow shape into your back. It feels wrong to hear and see you cry, his quiet cariño, who haunts his laboratory offering little in the way of words but always a smile if you have it to give. "It's okay," he says, ducking his head to talk into your hair. He remembers how to do this. "Don't cry. I would've caught you." 

Miguel would've followed you down and wrapped you up to take the brunt of it without thinking, he knows that.

Your arms wrap around his sides. "When you didn't come get me I thought you were gonna let me fall," you confess, with a wet laugh as if to say, How silly am I?

Insanely silly. 

Miguel pats your back in a steadying thump, thump, thump. "Are you kidding? You think something like that would happen on my watch?" 

You shudder and give a little cough. He's surprised you didn't throw up, you'd wound yourself that tightly. Miguel pushes you away to make sure you aren't about to yak on him, and to check your face over for injury. He moves down to your neck, your bloodied side. 

"We need to go home," he says, holding your arm up away from the wound in as tender a grasp as he's capable of. 

"I didn't find the adendiam."

"Forget about it," he says. "We're going home. You're hurt." 

Miguel would pull you through the portal kicking and screaming if he had to, but luckily, you don't make a fuss. 

—

It's admittedly a blow to your ego to have cried in Miguel's arms. You don't know what to say or how to look at him now, miserable as he wipes down your skin with an iodine solution. His touch lingers: his hand on your shoulder, his reassuring hug less than an hour before like a cobweb on your skin. 

He passes you a change of clothes, a simple white shirt for moments like this. There's no need or want for a hospital gown. 

You pull it on, wincing at the soreness despite your quick healing and the nanotechnology that stitched your mean cut. You've deep bruises everywhere, especially under your arms where you caught yourself. 

You haven't managed to stop shaking, curled forward with a disposable bedpan in your hands. The smell of iodine makes you nauseous. 

Miguel audibly huffs. You can't face his disappointed glare. 

"Sorry, Miguel," you say. "I… wanted to do something to help you." 

"That was your first mistake. I don't need help." 

You wince and go rigid, clinging to your bedpan for dear life and cursing yourself for being an idiot as he'd lamented, when a weight shifts on the examination table. A blue bedecked thigh spread out next to your own. 

"Second mistake, thinking I'd leave you to fall. Third, thinking you owe me an apology." 

"Any more?" you ask weakly. 

Your waist grows hot under the touch of a hand. Miguel wraps his arm around you gently. "No. Nothing else." 

Miguel pulls you in for a half hug.

You lean in to his side. He's solid beside you, and he starts to talk. He tells you about Rapture, the first time, and the mistakes he made after it. How scared he was in few words but an honest admission, his arm never moving from where it curls around you, holding you close. "We all have things that scare us," he says. "But you can't let them stop you from moving forward."

"How do you stop the fear?" you ask. 

"No, you can't. You need to keep going. I wasn't going to let you fall, and I won't, but you need to be able to pull yourself up. I can't… lose you to fear." 

You look up at the side of his face. He's looking down at the floor, not bashful or nervous but determined. His brow is set, and when he turns his gaze to you, it doesn't soften. 

"I can't lose you," he says. "I won't." 

You stare as he wraps you in a hug, your wide eyes looking over his shoulder in shock, your hands moving weakly behind his back to reciprocate. He drops his face into your neck.