Chapter Text
Opening your own cafeteria stall in the hub of one of the multiverse’s most elite strikeforces was definitely not something on your ten year plan. At the time of your high school graduation you imagined yourself to be doing more conventionally impressive things at this age, like buying your own house or putting a cap on your graduate degree.
Though you had to admit, getting bit by a radioactive spider during your freshman year of college was bound to shift a few priorities.
The job that was suddenly thrust upon you then forced you to make some sacrifices here and there—scrapping your dream of working for Alchemax’s tech team (for obvious reasons), and giving up most of your hobbies in favor of vigilante work.
It could’ve been harder, you suppose, without a police force competent enough to hold their own against the likes of supervillains, or the support of other masked heroes around the city. You weren’t much of the fighting type either—the bulk of your job consisting of siphoning collider information from the big bads and searching monitors for mission data—so you found yourself behind screens and speaking into headsets most days. You’d happily trade in bruises and broken bones in for minute carpal tunnel from typing too much.
But, as all responsibilities come, your role—or your canon, as you’ve learned—wasn’t without its fair share of burdens. The space your mantle took up in your life was made in the process of growing into it, loss making the necessary voids that your newfound identity could fill.
Your late uncle seemed the one anchor in your life that grounded the world in place with his company. It would’ve been easier to get over his death if not for his fault of passing his love of culinary to you—the fondest memories of your childhood and adolescence were brought to life with fresh spices and boiling stock.
You remember the times where it seemed like nothing could touch you, laughing with your uncle over stories he’d bring home while relishing in dinner—the product of your own seasoned hands working a fiery stove; you remember the teasing smile that had graced his lips every time you burnt or overcooked something, the absence of reprimand easily forming a guilty grin on your own; you remember how pride had etched his every feature even when he lay in his johnny gown, trembling hands that earned their worth of wear brushing your wet cheek and tapping his unspoken satisfaction in you into your skin.
Three months into your founding as a Spider had he passed—two years into your founding as a Spider had food only just begun to taste normal again. Eclipsing the lingering grief was difficult when there was no time to revive the reasons why you loved his work— your work. Bitterness was a strong taste, you learned the sentiment the hard way.
It’s been nearly eight years since then, ample time to shoulder stewing feelings with age, enough experiences lived in to have changed and grown.
When considering this, it’s rather ironic that the very occupation that stripped you of the piece of you that you never thought would return is now presenting you with an opportunity to take it back.
Standing in front of the stall in the cafeteria, it feels pretty surreal to be granted this large of a favor on such a short whim. The cafeteria in Spider-HQ is understandably still a work in progress, as the team of twenty-or-so Spiders have only been operational for four months, in and out of the main building, but the stall is more furnished than you expected.
A sleek, steel-plated countertop peers over the edge of fitted glass planes separating the delivery line from the interior serving station. Behind the register and front-placed holders for toppings, spices, and condiment bottles, an array of stoves, fryers, and grills. You can see the beginnings of at least two ovens just beyond the window of the double acting door to the back. Knives of all sorts are slid neatly into their casings, next to a large container of utensils ranging from spatulas to colanders.
It still pales in comparison to the humble stature of your uncle’s old, tin-foiled kitchen, but it draws a deep breath from you anyhow.
Next to you, Peter B. Parker is taking it all in just as you are, wearing the largest, dumbest grin you’ve ever seen on a mortal man. You’d never say it aloud, but you owe him lifetimes of debt for getting you the place—he was the one that brought you on board, after all. Following an incident in your home world that involved you swinging his unconscious figure to your apartment and making him chop suey for dinner, you two were practically joined at the hip for the week you’ve been in Spider-Society.
The sound of your shaky exhale breaks the silence for now. “Well,” you start, slotting your hands on your hips, “I should probably start with making a menu, shouldn’t I?”
“Probably,” Peter replies with a tilt of his head.
You turn to him with a small smile. “Any ideas, Pete?”
He looks back at you, a sparkle in his eye. “You do burgers?”
One week’s time heralds the product of a selection of dishes organized in a menu, shiny and tidy with big, bold colors and a crisp font. Physical copies of the draft are even laminated for a special effect—Lyla did it “as a favor,” but you know as well as she does that there’s little you can really do for the AI in exchange. Impartial as she may claim to be, you’re certain her sentience extends further than she perceives.
In the present, you pass the sheets around to the Spiders that have gathered in front of your booth for a taste test—Peter B., Ben Reilly, and Jessica Drew eye the menu as you provide a brief introduction.
“The current plan is just to cater for lunch, so I need to narrow down everything to the top ten items,” you say, gesturing to the tables in front of you, their surfaces completely covered with food of all sorts. “I trust that the judgment of my fellow peers will be of use?”
A blend of agreements sound from the crowd in front of you, and soon enough they’re deep into ranking and rating all that’s served to them. Burgers are an immediate hit with everyone, though they scrap the idea of putting it on the menu one bite into a kebab platter, and two bites into your birria tacos—Peter takes a not-so-guilty third when introduced to a consommé dipping sauce.
You find out that pork and noodle stir-fry hits Jessica’s pregnancy craving right on the mark, and that Ben despises the mouthfeel of avocado. Somewhere along the line, a rubric is made to judge personal preference and convenience separately. A handful of items are ruled out for a lack of the latter despite the positive reception—your five-layer lasagna and rib with mashed potato draw pitying looks from all the Spiders in their agreement to snub them. Others simply aren’t too popular—a common aversion to all things citrus seems present in the group’s reaction to lemon and herb mozzarella sticks and yuzu-spiced karaage.
Dish after dish, you manage to slowly chug through the tables without much intervention. It isn’t until you come to the end of the third and Peter’s in the middle of chowing down on a beef empanada does anything break the streak.
“You know, I think Miguel would really like these.” Peter’s comment comes through a mouth stuffed full of flaky dough and filling. He wipes his crumb-covered stubble with the back of his hand as you turn to look at him. “They taste really nice, and they’re easy to handle. Guy doesn’t get out much, so the convenience without sacrificing appetite would be good.”
The consideration has Ben and Jessica nodding, and you would’ve followed suit if not for the way it occupies you for an entirely different reason.
Miguel—or more formally, Miguel O’Hara—is a name you haven’t matched a face to yet. In your stupor, working in the tech chamber and busying yourself with your cafeteria stall, you had nearly forgotten that you still needed to meet the guy. Two weeks prior when Peter had given you a run-down of all the inner workings of Spider-Society he had mentioned the former, introducing him as the head of the entire operating unit. Not much was revealed about who he was or what his person was like, but Peter made sure to assure you that you’d warm up quickly to him once you got to know him, and vice versa.
Now that you think about it, perhaps that had been the case with Peter’s relationship with him, but as coming up with an image of him is a task that still eludes you, you think you have probable reason to doubt the promise.
Before you can dwell on it for too long, Peter cuts in again—“Why don’t you bring one to his place for him to try?” he asks, gesturing to the platter of pastries. “You can get another opinion.”
The notion has you eyeing him warily, uncertainty curling your lip and scrunching your brow. “Would it be too informal to just… go in without notice?”
“Oh c’mon, the guy’s cool,” Peter scoffs, waving off your concern. “He’s got no bite, you don’t have to worry.”
“We’ll keep eating while you’re gone,” Ben adds with a thumbs up.
You cast one last longing glance at Jessica, to which she responds with a lighthearted chuckle and the slightest upward movement of her head.
The motion is enough for you to take your plate of empanadas and start making your way to Sector Four—the gate leading to Miguel’s office.
The path to Miguel does little to ease your concerns about the true validity in Peter’s words. It’s not everyday you’re tasked with treading through old portal frames and past hundreds of buzzing, orange monitors while balancing a tray of baked goods in your arms.
Whatever chamber you’re in, it’s more quiet than you’re used to—even the ambience of all the blipping lights and fixtures dotting the walls doesn’t help calm your nerves in the least. The feeling gnaws at you, twisting your gut as you make your way through the halls.
Wires dip from the ceiling in arcs, through the holes of the grate structure that supports a larger network of machinery just up above. Tangerine soaks the scene with how permeating all the colored lights are, ginger soaking matte tabletops and bleeding into the tint of the floor.
Luckily, your vigor has you out within the journey of twenty steps—unluckily, you nearly drop an empanada on the floor when you stop at the mouth of the exit.
Blue light bears down on tilted towers and slanted bars, layered atop each other to carry the place on their backs. LEDs glow dimly in the corners of the space, illuminating moving screens and vials of bubbling green liquid. In the center of it all, a muscled figure elevated on a floating platform, a wall of screens surrounding his hunched figure.
In the moment it takes to regain your bearings, the figure shifts, his head turning. A glint of red winks at you from the reflection in his iris.
You swallow thickly, suddenly feeling a lot smaller than you entered.
“Uh… is Miguel O’Hara here?” you ask meekly, glancing up to gauge a reaction from the mystery man on the terrace above.
Slowly does the platform start to descend then, your eyes following the downward path it takes until the figure it holds stands on the same ground as you.
The position closer to you he paces into really puts into perspective how massive this guy is. He can’t be any less than six-foot-five, the sheer width of him and his rather unfair physique inconceivable, rippling muscles weaving under the fine fabric of his suit as he walks. His expression holds a similar sharpness, an edge to every line that etches his cheeks, chin, and forehead—it doesn’t help that he’s relatively attractive, either.
Intimidation has never hung so heavy in the air to the point of tangibility, but here you were, feeling it in all its force. You can only stare wordlessly when he stops in front of you, his hands on his hips.
“That’s me,” he says, voice raising gooseflesh on the back of your neck. “You’re the new recruit, right? From Earth-91046?”
“Ah yeah, that’s me,” you parrot with a tight smile. With every passing second, you feel your hands grow clammier against the foil of the container you’re holding. “Listen, uh, Peter told me you’re really busy most of the time so I don’t want to bother you too much, but I was wondering if you’d be okay with taste testing a dish I want to add to the menu for my cafeteria stall.”
“Depends on what it is,” Miguel returns smoothly, gaze flitting to the container’s contents.
You instinctively raise the platter a little higher upon his reaction. “They’re beef and potato empanadas,” you state. “And I made them with corn masa dough instead of bread dough, since I think it goes better with my recipe for the filling.”
A brief pause elapses before Miguel reaches for a pastry. Without hesitating to inspect or sniff it, he takes almost half of it in one bite, a firm crunch sounding from where the crisp dough breaks. Through muted chews and the occasional snap of crust, he doesn’t provide any commentary, though you do notice the way his brow eases in consideration and his change in stance. At the sight, whatever tension occupied you moments ago takes its sweet time deadening in your chest and shoulders. Seconds later, a gentle huff comes out his nose—you dare to hope it’s a sign of satisfaction—then he swallows quietly.
You stifle the urge to heave a sigh in relief when he takes another bite, leaving only a small, golden-brown corner piece pinched between his fingers.
After Miguel eats that last crackling bit, he hums. “It’s good,” he offers, features softened with something kinder, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned. “Could do with a little more cumin and chili powder and maybe some peppers, but I’d get it if you were offering it at the cafeteria.”
A grin splits your mouth at the (admittedly unexpected) response and advice. “Oh, that’s great, thank you for the feedback!” you chirp. You can feel your eyes crinkle and heart lighten in a blend of joy and repose. “They’re probably going to go on the menu… so if you ever stop by, I’ll always have some for you.”
“Sure,” Miguel answers, tone lilted by a small chuckle. “And thanks.”
There’s a beat of silence that proceeds his acknowledgement in which you scrutinize him for the second time. You ask yourself how it is that a man can change so much by doing so little in barely enough time. The heightening of his brow, the changed tilt of his lips, the absence of strain in his chin and forehead—only this and the once menace-like man has shed his stony exterior in a come-uppance into someone entirely new. And the easiness of it all keeps you curious.
It takes your eyes lingering on his smile a bit too long for you to fully realize that Miguel O’Hara is just an unlucky victim of stress—in a way, it’s rather charming.
Peter’s words promptly start to make more sense the longer you dwell on the notion.
“Yeah, it’s no problem,” you find yourself answering after the cursory quietude. “You’re free to have the rest if you want. There’s still a bunch of food out there, and I wouldn’t want to waste these.”
Miguel seems to perk up a bit at the offer. You take it as a “yes” and hand him what remains of the empanadas.
“I’ll get out of your hair now—I’m sure you’re busy,” you say as your arm brushes his in your retreat. “It was great to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” Miguel returns with a dip of his head. “I enjoyed this. Good luck with your stall.”
I enjoyed this. You don’t know why you seem to receive it so well—you’ve heard it more than necessary, but this time it feels less a formality and more a genuine affirmation. You get the impression Miguel isn’t the type for the former in his serious demeanor. Perhaps what spurs a switch to flip is entirely the way he’s displayed such a difference in his attitude compared to the man curated in your head who you were so sure had been avoiding you.
And maybe it’s not supposed to be much, the phrase, but the earnestness in which he delivers it flutters something in your gut. Your stare glides over the smallest bit to meet his own and suddenly you feel a twinge of warmth in the apples of your cheeks.
“Thank you,” is all you can muster out before turning on a heel and making your way out of his office.
The sensation follows you out of the exit and all the way back to the cafeteria, past the architecture of stacked screens and slanted pillars. Miguel’s tender expression remains at the forefronts of your mind, his compliment buzzing in your ears. Try as you might to alleviate the heat, if anything, it only spreads further down to nip at your jaw and toast the sides of your neck.
You wonder if you’ve gone insane more times than you can remember on the road winding away from Sector Four.
When Peter asks you if something is wrong upon your return, you shut him up with a slice of lemon cream cake.