Chapter Text
The spider’s teeth bleed.
It curls into the dimmest, smallest space in its territory and tries to build a nest. When it twitches the muscles of its arm, no silk comes—only a burn that has it cringing away with a garbled noise of pain. It sweeps its tongue over the soft hurting skin on the inside of its wrist, underneath which the delicate organ of its spinneret lies. A scab peels up, and fresh blood oozes down its palm.
Its broken fang bumps the heel of its hand, and pain flash-bangs through its skull. It rears away with an upset hiss. Blood fills its mouth, salt and iron. Its venom glands throb, and its jaws ache with the urge to bite and drive away what hurts it. But its teeth are broken, and its venom only drips uselessly against its own tongue: a bitter, stinging flavor.
A sparking, orange thing appears on its shoulder.
Head-shy, it flinches away and nearly smacks its face against the wall. The orange thing chirps insistently at it. The high-pitched noise grates against the spider’s ears, and it clamps its hands over its head. Mercifully, the orange thing falls silent. It flickers in the edges of his vision a moment later, and then disappears.
The spider is alone again.
This does not feel right.
It lifts its head again, peering into the vast expanse of the territory beyond its hiding spot. It sees no webs, no nest, no prey. It sees no friends. It sees no spiderlings. Does it not have any? That can’t be right. The spider remembers having them: the spider remembers having family.
It spreads its fingers against the cool, smooth floor of the hiding spot to speak in tempo and tremor.
spiderling? it asks.
friend? it asks.
help? it asks.
No one answers.
Miles is halfway through a sheet of kinematics equations when Hobie calls.
“Ey, Miles, alright?”
“Hey, yeah,” Miles says, setting his pencil down and pushing away from his desk. Ganke glances over at him, eyebrows raised, and Miles quickly pops his headphones on so his roommate isn’t privy to their whole conversation. “I’m good, I’m great. You?”
“Smashing,” Hobie says, sounding anything but. His voice is flatter than usual, and if Miles didn’t know better he’d think it sounded disgruntled. But that’s impossible, obviously, because Hobie is so cool about everything all the time. “Look, we got a bit of a cock-up.”
“A, uh—a what?”
“Bit of a problem,” Hobie clarifies. “Miguel’s gone crackers again. Lyla called askin’ me to help out, but I figure if anybody knows how to deal with that bastard when he’s offit it’d be you.”
Miles is up and dialing his watch to Earth-928 about two sentences in. He hops on one foot as he tugs on his Jordans, nearly tripping over the laces. “What happened?”
“Got caught by some nasties in 68B. Sounds like they bashed him up pretty good. He made it back to 928, but he won’t let anybody near ‘im.”
“And Lyla called you?”
“Wild, innit?” Hobie agrees. “Apparently I’m his ‘quaternary emergency contact.’ You believe that?”
The portal to Earth-928 splinters open in the middle of Miles’ dorm.
Ganke gives him—and his unfinished physics homework—a judgmental look.
“What?” Miles asks. “I’ll be back in, like, two secs.”
Ganke shrugs and turns back to his comic book.
Miles hops through the multiversal portal, emerging on the portal pad in Spider Society HQ. The place is bustling. Spiders from all different universes wave cheerily to each other as they come and go, portals popping open and slamming shut without fanfare. An unfamiliar song—by Queen, if Miles’ ear for music serves him well—plays over distant speakers.
“Two secs might be a bit hopeful,” mutters Hobie.
“Yeah, yeah,” Miles says. “Meet you in front of the office?”
“Already there.”
“Right, I’m on my way.” Miles weaves through the crowded halls of HQ at dinnertime. He narrowly dodges Widow as she trots by with Web-Slinger in her saddle, nickering a greeting at him. He waves at them both but doesn’t slow. “What about Peter or Jess?”
“Pete’s on a mission with Ben, and Jess is in labor.”
“Labor?” Miles squawks.
“Yeah, mate. It’s what happens when a pregnant lady—”
“I know what labor is!”
Hobie snorts. “So that’s O’Hara’s top three busy. Guess that left me. But I figured he’d do better with somebody else around, even though—”
Hobie cuts himself off—a rarity, and one that makes Miles nervous.
“What?” Miles presses his palm to the scanner set outside of the office suites, and a set of crisp white doors folds inwards to allow him access. He finds Hobie standing outside of Miguel’s own office, leaning against the heavy metal door with his arms folded over his chest. “Hey, Hobie. Even though what?”
Hobie stuffs his phone into his pocket when he sees Miles coming. “Miles, my guy,” he greets. “Never mind.”
“Hey, Miles,” Lyla says, her holographic orange form materializing above the projector outside of Miguel’s door. “Glad you could make it.”
“So am I, like, fifth on the list of emergency contacts?” Miles asks Lyla, pushing his headphones back to rest around his neck.
“Oof,” Lyla says.
Miles’ face falls. “Sixth?”
Lyla grimaces at him.
“Seventh? Eighth? Am I on the list, Lyla?”
“The good news is,” Lyla says, brightly and loudly ignoring him, “that you’re both here now. I initiated Emergency Protocol 27 and called the paramedics as soon as Miguel got back to HQ, but they haven’t been able to get close to him on account of how bite-y he is.”
“I sent ‘em to wait in the other office,” Hobie says, jerking his head towards a nearby door. “Figured it’d be safer.”
“They’re on stand-by to see Miguel as soon as you two give the okay,” Lyla continues. “The emergency protocol outlines two options. Would you like to hear them?”
“Nah,” Hobie says.
At the same time, Miles says, “Yeah.”
They trade a look, and Hobie shrugs.
“Right, Lyla,” says Hobie. “Give ‘im the options then.”
“Option A: get close enough, through whatever means necessary, to secure Miguel with handcuffs and a muzzle,” Lyla says. Her expression says she finds this option rather distasteful, but Miles doubts her programming gives her any choice in the matter. “You’ll find the necessary equipment in the emergency box in Room 12B. Hobie’s handprint can unlock it.”
“Sounds terrible,” Miles says. “What’s Option B?”
“Option B: utilize the tranquilizer gun, also found in 12B, to sedate him. The darts are equipped with a sedative that should last approximately half an hour, given Miguel’s unique metabolism. That should be long enough for the paramedics to do their initial assessment and give him something stronger, if they need to.”
“No,” Miles says.
Hobie grins in vicious, slicing approval.
“I mean, no offense, but both of those options are awful,” says Miles.
Lyla sits on Hobie’s shoulder, swinging her legs. “I know. But they’re the options Miguel provided me. However, I would like to remind you that I’m just a holographic AI assistant; I can’t make you follow protocol.”
As it just so happens, Miles and Hobie are probably the two Spider-men least likely to follow protocol—and Miles knows Lyla knows that. He smiles at her, and she snaps the metaphysical bubblegum in her mouth.
“Chop chop, boys,” she says. “Daddy Spider needs you.”
Miles grimaces. “Please don’t ever call him that again.”
“Ditto,” Hobie drawls, pressing his hand to the scanner beside Miguel’s office door.
“Do you prefer Mommy Spider?” Lyla wonders.
The office door hisses open, sliding to the side to allow them entrance. The room beyond is lit only by the small orange emergency lights lining the desks. The massive screens and computers have all been turned off, the usual busy humming of the room reduced to silence. Miles likes to think he has pretty good night vision, but even after his eyes adjust to the dark he can’t see Miguel anywhere.
“Lyla?” he whispers. “Can we get a little more light?”
“You betcha.”
The overhead lights flicker on, though they’re still far dimmer than usual. They give the office an eerie red cast. Miles feels more like he’s sneaking into an evil villain’s lair than going to see his—friend? boss? mentor? He still hasn’t quite decided what Miguel is to him, these days.
“There’s our guy,” Hobie says, nodding towards the far corner of the office.
Miguel has wedged himself beneath one of the large desks, curling into the corner it makes with the wall. His mask and the gloves are missing, but the rest of his suit appears to be fully intact. Miles can’t see any obvious crippling injuries, and he isn’t laying in a pool of his own blood. That’s a good start. But—
“No nest,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” Hobie agrees, eyes narrowing.
Miguel tends to make nests out of his webs whenever he’s injured or frightened. It seems to provide some instinctual sort of comfort for him; so it’s weird, Miles thinks, that he hasn’t made one this time. Maybe he’s more injured than he looks, or simply too exhausted to bother. He doesn’t even move when they enter—as though perhaps, if he holds still and quiet enough, they won’t notice his hulking blue-and-red form in the corner.
“Hola, tio,” Miles calls softly. “It’s just me and Hobie. Lyla told us you needed some help.”
Miguel shows no sign of hearing him.
Hobie says, “Alright, Miguel?”
Still, Miguel does not respond.
Smoothly, Hobie drops into a crouch and shifts forward. Miguel’s lip curls up and away from his teeth, which—
“Jesus,” Miles breathes.
Hobie stops and swears.
Miguel’s mouth is a mess of blood. One of his fangs is broken off at the root, while the other has fractured halfway down. As he peels his lip back in a half-hearted snarl, a thin bead of blood rolls down his chin. He tries to lick it off of his fangs, then winces away from the pressure of his own tongue. A soft, uncertain hiss escapes him.
“Whatever he bit must not’ve agreed with him,” Hobie mutters.
“I’ll say. Shit.”
Miles lowers himself to the ground and spreads his hands against the cold linoleum to drum out a message in spider-speak.
Hobie beats him to it and says, with a few careful taps of his fingers: friend.
Miguel lifts his head. His eyes slant towards them, narrow and assessing.
“I didn’t know you spoke spider, Hobes,” Miles whispers, ecstatic.
“Peter taught me a little after that stent on 666.” Hobie shrugs like he hasn’t just made Miles’ day. The guy always acts like he doesn’t care, but he so totally does—even where Miguel is concerned.
An idea takes root. Miles tries not to grin as he says, “You said it a little wrong, though.”
Hobie arches his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” Miles continues, undeterred. “You need to put an extra beat at the end, and kinda make it sound more vibrate-y.”
“More vibrate-y,” Hobie repeats.
“Yeah, more vibrate-y.”
“What, like this?”
Hobie taps his fingers against the floor once more, the way Miles had told him. He says, parent.
Miguel slips out from under the desk and prowls towards them.
“Oi, you numpty,” Hobie says. “What did you just have me say?”
“Daddy Spider,” Miles tells him, with glee. “Or—Mommy Spider? I dunno, I think it’s a pretty gender-neutral term.”
“Think you’re real cheeky, don’t you,” Hobie mutters, but there’s an amused glint in his dark eyes. “If he snatches me up, I’m blamin’ you.”
As Miguel approaches, Hobie shifts to place himself in front of Miles. Miguel stops in front of him, crouching with his fingers spread against the floor—listening, intently. His nostrils flare as he scents them, his eyes darting uncertainly over their faces. He twitches his fingers and asks, spiderling?
friend, Hobie insists.
parent, Miles confirms.
Thus convinced, Miguel scoops Hobie into his arms. It’s pretty much what Miles had expected to happen, but Hobie still reacts with some surprise. He tries to flail out of Miguel’s arms, yelping, “Hey, let go, you bloody wanker! You can’t just go grabbin’ people—!”
Miguel simply readjusts his grip, terrifyingly nonplussed, as he carries Hobie back to the desk and stuffs him underneath. He returns to Miles, who allows himself to be picked up without complaint. Miguel wedges him in next to Hobie, then sits down in front of them with an air of finality.
spiderlings safe, Miguel decides, which doesn’t bode well for the possibility of escape in the near future.
Ah, well. There are worse things than hanging out with his super cool friend and his feral boss under a desk.
“At least he didn’t put you in a nest this time,” Miles offers to Hobie, who still looks rather annoyed by the manhandling. “Actually, d’you think we should make him a nest? Maybe it would help him calm down.”
“Unfortunately,” Hobie says, after a second, “I think that’s a good idea.”
Together, they work to weave a nest of silk around the underside of the desk. Miguel watches them anxiously, but grows less tense as the walls of the nest are constructed. The stiffness bleeds from his shoulders, and his head lowers. By the time they’ve finished the nest, he’s oozed his way into a large, languid lump on the floor.
Miles leans around Hobie to see Miguel better. This close, he can see small scrapes across both of his wrists, but no other injuries. Miguel had moved easily, too, when he carried them back to the desk. He had no noticeable limp, and he hadn’t seemed to favor any of his limbs. Relieved, Miles says, “He doesn’t seem like he’s hurt that bad, other than his teeth.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Hobie agrees. “Hard to tell what he’s hidin’ under the suit, though. Still oughta have the paramedics take a look at ‘im.”
“How are we gonna get him to stay still for them?” Miles asks.
“Riddle of the century, that.”
Miguel rasps his tongue across one of his injured wrists until Hobie reaches out, catching his hand.
“Quit,” Hobie says. “God knows where that mouth has been today.”
Hobie fishes in his pocket, pulling out a roll of gauze bandaging. He wraps one of Miguel’s wrists in it, taping it down securely, before tossing the rest of the roll to Miles. Miles winds the remaining gauze gently around Miguel’s other wrist. Miguel tolerates their fussing with endless patience, his eyes gone soft and quiet in a way Miles rarely sees. Once they finish, he rests his chin on the floor and settles in to watch the office door.
Miguel the Spider is, by all accounts, much easier to manage than Miguel the Spider-man. A spider is not, contrary to popular belief, an inherently violent creature—and while Miguel does have a handful of easily-triggered hunting instincts, his primary defense mechanism when he’s like this has always been hiding. He does not seek to fight or maul those around him, and he wants very few things: spiderlings, safety, nest, food, and water (in that order). Having provided him with three of those things, Miles and Hobie have rendered him mild as a lamb. The trick is going to be getting him to allow strangers close enough to treat his wounds. A cornered spider still bites, and this one bites particularly hard.
“Maybe we can treat him ourselves?” Miles suggests.
Hobie shakes his head. “We can do surface stuff, but we ain’t no dentists.”
Miles grimaces at the reminder of Miguel’s shattered fangs. “What do you think happened?”
“Beats me. He musta got a hold of the wrong chew toy.” Hobie hesitates, rubbing his palms against the knees of his jeans before saying, “Maybe we oughta consider the tranq.”
It rubs Miles the wrong way, stinging like salt in a fresh wound. “That feels like stabbing him in the back.”
“Eh, I’d probably aim for his shoulder.”
Miles can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know.” Hobie leans back against the wall of the nest. “Sucks that we gotta do it, but it’s probably the least stressful way for ‘im. A quick jab and then he’s asleep. He doesn’t gotta worry about everybody pokin’ and proddin’ him when he’s already hurting. You feel me?”
“Yeah, I feel you.” Miles draws his knees up to his chest and leans over them. He blows out a breath. “I just—he’s not an animal, you know?”
“They tranq humans too,” Hobie says, “if that makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t. Thanks anyway.”
“Don’t mention it.”
A moment of quiet stretches between them.
Miles finally breaks it: “I mean, I don’t know a lot about his past, but it sounds like a lot of people did a lot of things to him that he didn’t agree to. I mean, the last people he worked for drugged him just to manipulate him into doing what they wanted. Putting him out with a tranquilizer just feels like—like we’re doing what they would have done.”
“You’re a good kid, Miles.”
“Eh, I try.”
“And I get where you’re comin’ from,” Hobie adds. “But you gotta remember we’re not doin’ anything to hurt him. Besides, he’s the one who came up with that plan in the first place, right? He’d tell us to do it, if he were in his right mind. It’s safer for him, and for the paramedics.”
“I know,” Miles sighs. “I just wish there was another way.”
Hobie reaches over, ruffling his hair. “If there is, you’ll be the one to find it.”
Miles mulls it over for a minute, watching the slow rise and fall of Miguel’s side as he breathes. Then he says, “Hey, Lyla?”
His watch lights up in response, though Lyla doesn’t speak aloud—probably so she doesn’t agitate Miguel. A bright pink text bubble pops up on the screen, instead: you rang?
“How long until Peter gets back?” Miles asks.
He’s wrapping up his mission now. ETA 20 minutes, if he doesn’t get distracted, Lyla says.
“Can you tell him to come Miguel’s office when he’s done?” Miles requests. “Ask him to grab the tranquilizer from 12B and bring it with him. I don’t think Miguel’s gonna let me or Hobie go get it right now.”
You got it, chief.
A couple of minutes later, the watch chirps with a new update.
Peter’s ETA now 5 minutes.
“He sure sped up,” Hobie mutters, looking over at Miles’ watch.
“Well, we did request a tranquilizer. He probably has some concerns,” Miles says. He fiddles with his phone as they wait, scrolling aimlessly. Another thought occurs to him, and he asks, “Do you think Gwen’s on the list?”
“What?”
“Miguel’s emergency contacts list,” Miles clarifies. “Do you think Gwen’s on it?”
“I dunno,” Hobie says. “But she wouldn’t have been able to come, anyway. She has a ballet recital this afternoon.”
“I know that. How do you know that?”
“I asked.”
“When?”
“Couple hours ago. What is this, an interrogation?” Hobie cocks an eyebrow at him.
“Well, what about Pavitr?”
“It’s three AM in India, and he has school tomorrow. I didn’t wanna wake him up, so I didn’t call.”
Miles scowls at Miguel’s back.
“You seem miffed,” Hobie observes, leaning forward to try and catch Miles’ gaze. “What’s up?”
“It’s just—it seems like you thought of everybody else before me, too,” Miles mutters. “Am I last on everyone’s list?”
Hobie blows out a long breath. “Miles, it’s—”
Before he can finish, the door to Miguel’s office whooshes open again. Miles and Hobie look to the front of the nest. So does Miguel. He pushes himself back into a crouch, lips peeling away from shattered fangs and claws unsheathing.
“Good evening, everyone,” Peter says, a forced sort of brightness in his tone. “How are we doin’ in there?”
“We’re good,” Miles says; he can’t see Peter through the nest, but he hears footsteps gradually coming closer. “Miguel’s just a little spider-y again.”
greeting, Peter says, friend.
A low growl rattles from Miguel’s chest as he decides, threat.