Chapter Text
My fucking head hurts.
A calloused hand caresses the side of your face, before you feel yourself being gently lifted a few feet into the air. A groan escapes your lips, and a soft ‘shh’ answers you. The air around you is frighteningly silent, so different from the chaos you remember from just moments before you were taken down, but your only thoughts are focused on the warm body readjusting you gently. “Don’t move just yet, okay?”
Not like I can, you think briefly, struggling to open your eyes. They almost immediately flutter shut, but not before you get a glimpse of the vaguely familiar broad chest and thick arms holding you against them. You sigh his name through chapped lips almost deliriously, relief coursing through you at the fact that your leader is here. “Miguel.” He’ll surely be able to fix everything that went wrong on this shitshow of a mission.
In the year that you’d been a part of the Spider Society, you’d rarely seen its leader outside of being assigned on an occasionally complex or difficult mission. It hadn’t even been Miguel that had come to the decision to recruit you, but one of the many Peter Parkers from the Society. While you knew that Miguel cared about the members of the society in some capacity, his cold exterior made it difficult to come to terms with the man above you and the version you knew of him. Never would you have expected him to be here .
The arms around you tighten minutely, but you can feel everything perfectly from being pressed up against the hard planes of his body. He hikes you up slightly higher against his chest, cradling your head gently in between his right shoulder and pectoral. His opposite arm comes up to cup your cheek and only then do you notice that he must have pulled your mask off. You lean into the palm with another sigh of contentment, briefly forgetting the aches and pains of your injured body. His voice is soft, lined with concern. “Help’s coming, don’t worry.”
Your eyes finally cooperate with your desire to see his face and open slowly. His full lips are pulled down into a frown that softens when his brown eyes meet yours. Your lips twitch into a weak grin. “C-Could never…worry with y-you here, fearless leader.”
He snorts at that, but his eyes are grim. You once again note that your surroundings are too quiet. The dimension you and your team were assigned to had been having trouble with not just one, but two different anomalies of surprisingly powerful stature. Your heart plummets. There had been four of you, usually a large enough team to round up any anomaly that had been encountered thus far, but now you can’t hear anyone else that had accompanied you. You struggle briefly in his arms so that you can turn and look around, but Miguel only tightens his grip. You meet his eyes, and he must know what you’re thinking, because he shakes his head sadly.
Your eyes well up with tears almost immediately but you blink them back. It’s not the first time that members have been lost and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But it had never happened on any of your missions. Most anomalies you’ve encountered yourself have been mostly harmless, nuisances that caused some degree of destruction. Not ones capable of taking out your entire team, excluding you.
You take in a shaky breath, alarmed to find that it’s difficult to breathe. Whether it’s from the panic from the situation or an injury affecting your lungs, you’re not sure. But Miguel hears the rattling of your breath and tries to shift you into a more comfortable position, leaning against a nearby wall to sit the both of you up against. It’s silent for several minutes, with him rubbing your shoulder in soothing circles. You shiver.
“It was my fault,” Miguel says suddenly. You flinch and look at him again. He’s purposefully avoiding your gaze. He eyes the spider colleagues emerging from their portals, most likely here to assist with clean up. “My intel was wrong, I got sloppy. If I hadn’t—“ His voice cuts out abruptly, and he inhales deeply. “I thought just the four of you would be able to handle it, but I was wrong. I got them killed and I nearly got you killed.”
Ah, he feels guilty , you realize. Despite this revelation, you can’t find it in yourself to be mad at him, not even truly believing that he’s responsible for the events that had transpired.
You hardly really know Miguel, besides as the man in charge of ensuring canon events in the multiverse go uninterrupted, but you know the remorse and grief on his face is genuine. That he’s beating himself up for what he believes was something completely preventable on his part. You shake your head, albeit weakly. “Wasn’t your fault.”
He lets out something not unlike a growl, pulling his hand away from your shoulder, but still allowing you to rest against his own. You immediately miss the comforting touch, but there’s not much you can do besides just lay there against him. The two of you watch as other ‘Spider-folk’, what you’ve become accustomed to calling your colleagues and teammates, scramble around the destroyed scene. You wonder briefly about the two anomalies and look up towards Miguel, preparing to ask him what became of them when a sharp pain shoots through your side. You gasp for breath, arms flailing to try and alleviate some of the pain. Miguel stills you against him with another hush, looking frantically around for what must be a medic. When he doesn’t seem to find one, he looks down at you again.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks calmly, and a tear slips down the side of your face.
“Right s-side,” you croak out, shifting away from the large hand that trails down the side of your torn suit. He hisses through his front teeth as his hand comes away practically dripping in your blood. Your eyes are growing increasingly heavier by the minute. He curses.
“Where are the medics?” He roars, and you flinch away from the noise. His clean palm brushes against the side of your head absentmindedly, soothing you back into the comfort of his chest. Someone answers him, but you can only hear them distantly. Your eyes droop shut and you black out to the sound of his voice, the last thing you see being Miguel’s face staring down at you, his lips mouthing words that you can’t hear.
—
There's lunch on your desk.
Normally not something out of the ordinary, if not for the fact that you didn’t put it there. You wonder briefly if someone had gotten their desk mixed up with yours, but that thought is quickly shot down as you read your name on the plastic container. You limp closer to your desk, your stitches pulling painfully at your side as you bend over to undo the lid. You glance around nervously, feeling as though you're not allowed to open it despite your name being written on the top in neat script. Most people opted to do their mission briefings and summaries in their own dimension, so the office room you’re in is nearly empty. Confirming that there’s no one around, you pop the lid off.
A rich, mouthwatering scent fills your nose. A stew, filled with vegetables and large chunks of beef, is what greets you. While your healing factor was accelerated more than the average human’s, it was noticeably weaker than many of your coworkers. Your stay in the medical wing consisted of bland foods and fluids to aid in your recovery, and while you were never really one to complain, you missed food with actual flavor.
You slowly replace the lid, pushing the container off to the side of the desk. Having not had the time to initiate a repair for your suit, you’re stuck wearing a pair of sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt. Not having an issue with your identity being revealed around other members of the society, you had opted to recover on-site, largely due to the fact that this Earth’s technology is significantly more advanced than your own. While you still have your fair share of cuts and bruises, you were no longer on the brink of death.
Settling into your sleek chair, you let out a sigh. There wasn’t much you could do for the foreseeable future, except write your mission report and head home to finish recovering. You had been effectively benched for at least a month, one of the medics had told you. You weren’t going to argue with that. You sink deeper into the chair and begin typing up your report.
You outline the details of your mission quickly, but you pause as you reach the events that had led to your teammates’ deaths. Your hands tremble, slipping over the keys of the keyboard and causing countless typos. You backspace, but it’s only worse when you try to retype it. You sit back in your chair and hunch over, your head in your hands as you try to steady your rapidly beating heart. A throat clears from behind you and you jump, straightening up and spinning around in your chair.
Miguel is standing behind you, leaning against the entryway of your cubicle with his arms crossed over his wide chest. Despite his stoic expression, you can’t help but feel that he looks incredibly awkward. He shifts ever so slightly from one foot to the other, looking impossibly out of place in the small gap. Arms still crossed, he raises a hand ever so slightly in a wave.
“Hi,” he says, running his gaze over your body as if to check for any new injuries. His eyes linger on your side and you have the urge to stand and cross your arms over your body to shield yourself from his piercing eyes. So you do.
“Um, hi?” you say back nervously, clearing your throat before continuing. “What can I help you with, sir? I was just trying to type up my report of–” Miguel cuts you off.
“There’s no need,” he snaps abruptly, and your mouth clicks shut. His tone softens slightly, as if realizing that he’s just practically yelled at you for doing your job. “We got everything we needed off your watch.” Your shoulder slump in relief.
“Ah, okay, cool,” you say, relaxing a bit more. In the wake of the events that had transpired mere days ago, you find yourself wondering why he’s standing here in front of you. Especially considering how you were cuddling up to him on the verge of death. You feel the tips of your ears heat up. You laugh awkwardly as he continues to stare at you. “Sorry about the other day,” you say. “I was kinda–well, you know.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Miguel says shortly, uncrossing his arms and standing up straight. He’s even more massive now, almost a foot taller than the two walls of your cubicle on either side of him. Your face heats up, but for an entirely different reason than your own embarrassment.
Skin-tight suits are practically a requirement for Spider-Man. You know this very well and have become accustomed to the suits that sometimes leave little to the imagination. But considering most Spider-Mans in the Society are on the more lean side, Miguel’s proportions are significantly more…pleasing to look at. He shifts his stance again, and you watch as the muscles of his thighs ripple beneath his suit. You quickly shift your gaze higher, to his chest, but it’s not any less of a distraction.
You realize you’re staring and clear your throat. “Um, so what brings you here, sir?”
Miguel ignores your question, pointing his chin in the direction of the container pushed to the corner of your desk. “Why haven’t you eaten yet?”
You also look at the food, scratching your arm. You shrug. “I think someone might’ve left their food here? Or maybe delivered it to the wrong desk?” His eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head.
“It’s yours,” Miguel says. You look at him in confusion.
“I don’t think so?”
“I got it for you.” His tone is frustrated, but not angry. His brown eyes, which had been avoiding yours, meet your own gaze finally. “Hospital food’s shit. Figured you’d need something with more protein to recover.”
“Oh, well, thanks but I’m pretty good right now,” you laugh. “I really appreciate it, but–”
Your stomach growls and you freeze. He raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘really?’. You laugh again, internally cringing at the awkwardness of this encounter. “Well I’ll probably just take it home then, ya know? Don’t wanna be inconsiderate of the rest of the office and have my lunch smelling up the place.” Your stomach will not stop making noise, damn it.
“Have it in the cafeteria,” Miguel says simply, stepping further into your cubicle. He reaches behind you, coming impossibly close to your body that is still standing in front of your desk. He grabs the container and straightens his posture right in front of you. You look up at him and swallow thickly.
“Oka…ay?” you say. He smirks down at you and gestures for you to leave the cubicle first. “I can carry it.”
“I know,” he answers, offering no other elaboration as the two of you begin leaving the office. You both walk several feet and you try desperately to lessen the limp of your injured leg, but he notices almost immediately. “Can I help you?”
“Sure,” you answer, wondering if he’ll sling your arm around his neck and drag you off to the cafeteria. At this point, you don’t really care, too hungry to try and pretend as though you aren’t still injured. You’re surprised when he brings a big, but gentle palm to rest against the small of your back and pulls you against his side to lean against his. The support is appreciated, but not entirely necessary. Your back tingles where his hand rests against you. Nervous and caught off-guard, you begin the walk both you and Miguel hastily in the direction of the cafeteria. Your leg twinges and you grunt in pain.
“Easy,” Miguel murmurs, fingertips curling into your skin as a gentle reprimand, making you shiver. You slow down immediately, sparing a glance up at him. His eyes are dark, lips already parted around his next words. “Don’t hurt yourself, Spider-Woman.”
I am so fucked.