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What is up with the shitty Spiderman luck that even simple in-and-out missions are fated to go awry?
Peter has seen worse. Way, way worse. More times than he can’t count, he has barely been able to push himself back up, body screaming in pain and exhaustion, and he has been too late to save people that mattered—everyone matters, of course, but it hits differently to hold your own uncle’s still body in your arms—and he even has had a day where he jumped into a universe, ready to find whatever anomaly was causing the energy shift that got the attention of Spider-Byte, only to find said-universe already collapsing, barely managing to pull Miguel out of there before the glitches could swallow them both.
So yeah, he has seen worse, but as his Spider sense screams and he sees—too late—that Doc Ock’s futuristic arm coming for him, he still has the time to internally sigh and mourn his day plans before steel meets flesh and up swaps with down, colors and shapes swirling together, then his back hits a wall and the world turns black.
The infuriating thing with this variant is how his mechanical arms refuse to stay close to his body, on top of being so unbelievably fast Peter is half-tempted to think they teleport. The Doc Ock of his home universe at least had the decency to sport easier limbs to keep track of, thank you very much. Miguel, with his lack of Spider Sense, had been struggling, seemingly receiving more blows than he was dealing.
Which makes it all the more insulting that it’s Peter who bit the dust first.
It doesn’t help his bruised ego that, when the lights turn back on somewhere in his rattled brain, he opens his eyes to have them fall on the figure of Doc Ock thoroughly hog-tied with glowing strings. There are impressive gouges raked into his steel arms, to the point where one is nearly severed. Peter squints, and he would swear the concrete sports a few more marks than before he passed out too. Someone went a bit feral.
That someone in question lands right next to him the moment after, and stumbles a little, catching himself on the side of the building before he crouches down. Peter pushes himself into a less slumped sitting position, an involuntary groan leaving him, and shakes his head to clear it—regretting it immediately as it makes his newfound headache flare.
“Don’t move.”
Miguel’s tone is clipped, emotions carefully tucked away, but his touch is oddly gentle. He’s still trembling, too, with the aftershocks of adrenaline, or maybe something else—Peter can feel it as clawed fingers carefully prod at his temple.
He humors the concussion check-up—“yes, I remember my name and what just happened, yes, I can count to three, no, I’m not overtly dizzy—Migs, I told you it’s okay!”—until Miguel considers calling Lyla to shine a light into his eyes to make sure his pupils dilate correctly or whatever, and then Peter finally bats his hand away with a click of his tongue.
“Only thing you should be calling our dear Lyla for, is to show us the way to the nearest Bob’s Burgers!”
To his satisfaction, the worry narrowing the eyes of the mask turns more into feigned exasperation. Half-feigned. Maybe Peter’s only deluding himself.
“We are not having breakfast there.”
“Breakfast? Excuse you, it’s lunch already. What, you haven’t eaten yet?” Then, as Miguel vaguely shrugs: “Oh we are definitely having lunch there. We can call someone else to dispose of our friend Doc Ock there, and— unless you’re injured? Migs, are you injured?”
He pushes himself to sit up a bit straighter, staring at the UMF suit as if the sheer power of his gaze alone could make it disperse and reveal the skin underneath, and whatever scratches and bruises it might be hiding.
“I’m fine.”
“Then it’s a date! We’re having burgers, come on.”
He uses the wall as leverage to get back to his feet, just in case he is just a bit more dizzy than he thought. He waits a few seconds, assessing the feeling, then deems it good enough and yanks his mask back onto his face, suppressing a wince as the fabric brushes against the tender spot. His healing factor however must be already kicking in. But it needs calories to work properly, and so does Miguel’s. That way, at least, Peter can make sure the idiot doesn’t throw himself into the next mission without even a spare thought to take a damn break.
“Peter, I’m—”
“No buts,” he interrupts, tutting. “If you’re okay, we’re having lunch. The alternative is, I’m dragging you to the infirmary. You’re not going back to your little den just yet.”
“I have work to do.”
“You always do!”
He tunes out Miguel’s grumbling about something like, responsibilities, and— Ah, he isn’t sure; he wasn’t listening, remember? Miguel’s watch flickers bright orange, catching his attention just before Lyla pops up in a flurry of pixels between them. Peter raises an eyebrow while Miguel sighs in resigned anticipation. Lyla’s smile only gets wider.
“Nothing’s happening right now and you don’t have anything planned!” she pipes in, way too cheerful for her own good.
For good measure, too, she pulls out an arguably very full planner and taps the empty period to the current time and day. It’s almost suspicious, Peter thinks, but he’s not about to watch a gift horse in the mouth. Is that how the saying goes? He wonders if it’s the same on Miguel’s Earth, given they don’t have animals anymore. Is a gift spider even a thing?
Miguel sighs, again, pinching the bridge of his nose. If Peter didn’t know any better, he would have every right to get offended; is it so damn inconvenient, to spend time with him? They are… not really dating, per se, because they are, what was said again? “Taking it slowly,” right. Peter’s married, Miguel is… well, Miguel. They are coworkers, too, and worse; they are Spidermen. So it’s been a while since they had gone on a proper date—not that today should even really count, by normal people’s standards.
But he does know better, so he only grabs Miguel’s arm, grinning maybe a little wider than would be natural.
“That’s settled! Now, I know your suit can sort of look like normal clothes, but mine doesn’t, so what about we order online and then, you know—” he mimes shooting a web “—yank the bag up? Fancy a rooftop picnic, hum?”
Miguel’s gaze is on him and, even though he isn’t saying anything and the mask is not that expressive, Peter can swear he’s smiling underneath—a small thing, something between fond annoyance and a deeper feeling, that neither of them wants to try and name just yet.
Peter lightly elbows him in the ribs.
“Come on, big guy, stop staring at my dashingly good looks, and use your words.”
“You’re masked, Peter.”
“That’s when I look my best!”
He’s pleased with the quiet little chuckle he receives in response, before the actual verbal confirmation he was waiting for. Oh, he has no doubt he could drag Miguel there if he truly wanted to—maybe even physically, because for all that Miguel’s built like a brick house, well, Peter does still have the superhuman strength—but, what’s the slogan? Consent’s sexy, and all that. He snorts at the thought.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’ll order for us both and you find us a quiet spot, okay?”
“Sure. No soda for me, by the way.”
“I know.”
He might have been seen webbing the bag up from the hands of a now extremely confused delivery girl, so to make sure he doesn’t tarnish the reputation of the local Spiderperson, he tosses her a generous tip before disappearing up onto the rooftops. He won’t let it be thought that any Spider’s a thief. Well, except the ones that really need it. Or when it’s for a mission, for the city’s sake, all that. But never from such a quality establishment!
He lands a bit more roughly than intended—he blames it on the hit to the head—next to Miguel, on a small patch of tin-plated roof nestled between two taller buildings. Perfectly shielded from view. He drops the food onto the other’s lap, plopping down and taking his mask off in turn.
He almost misses it, with how colorful the wrapper is—but he knows that burger place from his own Earth, enough at least to know there shouldn’t be any red splattered on its logo. He’s starting to think he did rattle something in his brain, though, because it takes him a good chunk of time to make the connection with blood.
“You said you weren’t injured!’
He ignores the inquisitive eyebrow Miguel quirks at him, reaching instead for his wrist and pressing just the way he knows makes the glove part disappear.
“That Doc Ock didn’t bleed,” he points out, deliberately giving a little shake to Miguel’s stained hand before it’s yanked out of his grasp.”
“I said I was fine, not that I didn’t receive a scratch or two.”
“Show me. And no, it’s not an elaborate ploy to see you naked.”
Miguel snorts, and the poor attempt at humor seems against all odds to be the tipping point in convincing him. He shifts slightly, moving his arm out of the way and making a small portion of the UMF suit disappear, revealing a long gash over his ribs. A small part in the middle of it is still sluggishly bleeding, though his healing factor has already taken over and it would be too late to attempt to stitch it up.
“Shit, Migs. What the hell do you have against the infirmary, uh?”
He waves a dismissive hand as the suit rematerializes over the injury.
“It’s going to heal just fine. And if I’m taking a break either way, I much prefer doing this.”
Peter falters briefly, then catches himself:
“For the record,” he says, doing his very best to glare sternly at Miguel, “I’ll let it be known that this attempt at sweet-talking me is not working.”
“Is it, now?”
Peter shakes his head and admits defeat. Then, as he looks back over the city stretching in front of them, his smile fades just a touch.
“Fine,” he repeats, his voice quieter now. “Do you know how many damn times I’ve heard another Spider-Person say that since I joined the Society? How many times have I said it, too…”
He lets out a little laugh, or maybe it’s only a sigh. In a brief moment of self-awareness, he wonders what is it, that none of the Spiders seem to be able to let themselves catch a break.
“Does it go with the part, you think?” he hears himself say out loud.
He thinks to joke about it being part of the canon but bites his tongue at the last second. Miguel doesn’t seem to notice.
It would almost be comforting, to think it comes with the whole “Spiderman package”—made of superhuman strength and durability, the best brand of humor, and a do-gooder heart paired with a glaring lack of self-preservation, all intricately woven into their very DNA. Is this what it truly means, to be Spiderman? That would mean there is nothing to do about it. That it isn’t an everyday decision to go out and risk his life, to gamble on his abilities to not make MJ a widow and Mayday an orphan. He knows he couldn’t stop—couldn’t live with himself if he did, so would it be so wrong, to alleviate the guilt that coils low in his stomach when he stops to think about it?
He shakes his head, forcefully pulling himself back into the moment. He reaches into the bag for his fries, finding at the same time three packets of ketchup to douse over it all with little regard to where it drips onto his fingers, and notices with a little quirk of his brow that Miguel’s already almost done eating.
“I thought you didn’t want to get food, big guy.”
He gets a grunt in response. Grinning, he leans a little to the side to knock his shoulder with Miguel’s. He tries very hard to ignore the part of his stupid brain that briefly short-circuits at the feel of the firm muscle there.
He wants to blame the concussion for what comes out of his mouth next:
“Migs? Can you promise me to be careful?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Miguel turning to him, lips parting open around a silent surprised breath, before he catches himself and his brow quickly furrows.
“Parker, I’m not the one that just got flung into a building. You’re the one that ought to promise that. You got your two ladies to come back home to, and all that.”
“And several dozens of Spiders have your world to go back to,” Peter argues. “What you built for them. For all of us. This is as much a home for a lot of them as that flat back on my Earth is for me.”
“Not many Spiders live after the fifties. My fifties, I mean—2050s. I just had access to the right technologies.”
“And the knowledge required to tinker both with quantum physics and genetics, I would add. All Parkers are brilliant, we all know that—” He grins when Miguel rolls his eyes at that. “—but not all Spideys got a PhD. Or two, for that matter.”
He pauses—for effect, of course, not at all to lick ketchup and salt off his fingers, and in passing notice the grease stain on his suit leg—then turns to the side, shifting so he’s facing his fellow Spider instead of the cityscape of this foreign Earth. Somewhere above their heads, the clouds part, and the midday sun makes the skyscrapers glisten under its rays. Miguel’s eyes shine like rubies in this light.
On impulse, Peter moves closer, resting one hand on a muscular thigh to invade the other’s personal space, stopping just short of making contact—their faces inches away, his breath ghosting over Miguel’s lips. This time though, he doesn’t even want to blame the hit to the head, but rather the general feelings of butterflies that he thinks should not invade his stomach with their fluttery little wings now that he’s approaching his forties, but ah, well. He also wasn’t expecting to meet another Spider that was just so… different, in all the best ways. Except maybe for the tendency to both blame and overwork himself. It’s a work in progress.
It’s Miguel who closes the distance between them, hesitantly at first, then returning the kiss in earnest when Peter’s mouth parts open. His hand finds Peter’s arm, claws peeking out, catching on the fabric of the suit but not enough to hurt. Peter finds it endlessly endearing, how they unsheathe when Miguel forgets himself—and hot, too, in some circumstances.
He leaves a chaste little kiss on the corner of Miguel’s mouth before settling back down, shifting until the tiles aren’t quite so digging into his skin.
“And, big guy? You have… you can return to… wait, I forgot your exact wording. But you know what? Please don’t get hurt. It will make me sad.”
He pouts for good measure, offering his best puppy eyes—prompting Miguel to groan, pulling away to drag a hand over his face. Peter suspects it’s to hide his smile, but he can still see the white gleam of a fang peeking out in between full lips that, batting Miguel’s hand away, he leans in to kiss again.