Chapter Text
You wake up bound in a net of spider web and you briefly wonder how you could have done that to yourself without noticing. It wouldn't be the first time your webshooters had acted on their own, nor would it be the first time it happened while you slept. A particularly embarrassing sleepwalking incident comes to mind. But you blink and realize that you aren't home- you aren't anywhere you recognize. Suddenly flooded with panic, you thrash at the restraints- your wrists are bound as well- and take in your surroundings. You've been captured before, perks of the job, but this place was different from anything you've seen before.
This room was large and clean and sharp, blue walls and surfaces with panels of technology you didn't think possible. It's dark, the eerie yellow-red glow of tech doesn't quite reach the ceiling. Very secret lair-esque.
With some struggle, you are able to push yourself up into a sitting position.
To your right there's an array of screens above what looks like a control console, some imbeded in the walls and some suspended mid-air. File names and schematics litter the displays and you scramble for any relevant information to form a strategy upon.
One of the glowing screens displayed a few family photos that struck you as instantly sentimental. Bingo. In one, a large man with brown hair shares a tender moment with what looks like his daughter- a small girl in a soccer (fútbol?) uniform who rides on his shoulders. He wears an affectionate smile that makes him look terribly attractive. Irrelevant. The photo next to that features the same man, but this time he is standing next to a beautiful woman in some picturesque location, hands intertwined. Lovers.
You frown. What kind of super villain kept photos of their beloved family out for their hostage to see? Well, you've seen them do stupier things. Not one to let an opportunity to pass you by, you focus on the woman's features. Your powers of mimicry work best if the model you work upon is a physical one- but a photo works just fine in a pinch.
Distantly, you hear the slight ringing of a woman's voice, followed by a much deeper one. It sounded like an argument, and it was getting closer. This was your chance.
It always came easy, hiding yourself. A voice in your head that sounded suspiciously like your therapist said something about identity issues. Ignoring said voice, your appearance shifts and turns until your face perfectly mirrors the woman in the photo. Your kidnapper was either A. Going to come face to face with a doppelganger, B. See their darling partner tied up on the ground, or C. Get confused as to why their victim was inexplicably some random woman now. B was preferable, and the most likely to give you a window to escape in your opinion. Still, any of these should throw them off gaurd enough and give you an advantage.
The voices stop, and you turn to the doorway with a face that's not your own.
There stood the man from the photos, now clad in an imposing navy and red skin-tight suit. He looked quite a bit older, more jaded and tired, the type of look you see in the mirror often. The face of someone carrying more than they probably should be. It fails to make his any less handsome, you observe grudgingly. On his shoulder floats a tiny glowing woman- but that's the least of your concerns when the man finally makes eye contact with you.
Immediately you realize that you had fucked up, based solely on his expression.
Initially, his eyes glint with a mix of disbelief and longing. The face of a man seeing a ghost, a name lost on his lips. It makes you feel a bit guilty. Not enough for you to not use it as an advantage, but a bit. His eyes dart over you with intense disorientation- the webs binding you, the vulnerable position, the suit. Something clicks and the expression is gone sooner than it appeared, suddenly replaced with palpable, righteous fury.
The tiny woman hovering near his shoulder suddenly disappeared. You figured probably to avoid witnessing your inevitable maiming.
He advances on in the blink of an eye, a savage blur. You don't have time to react before you are grabbed by the throat and slammed into the wall behind you with violent force. Faintly, you register that he has claws- and that they are piercing the skin of your neck.
"How DARE you-" The man is growling, but the impact has you dizzy and dropping your disguise in a last ditch effort of self preservation. Unfortunately, his grip only tightens upon seeing your real face.
"A shapeshifter...?" The man sneers, leaning ever closer with murderous intent. He has fangs, you realize. You wonder if that's going to be your last thought before he bites your head off.
"I'm not-" You manage to choke out when the little woman materializes back into existence, this time hovering over your shoulder.
"Miguel, don't kill our guest please," She says, hands on her hips. She teleports again, now to the space between you and the man- Miguel, she had called him.
"I was trying to explain that ol' Spider-Mimic over here is not an anomaly." She tells Miguel, who didn't seem to be listening, and adjusts her heart shaped glasses. "Originating from Earth 46-2, after being bitten by a radioactive spider- blah blah blah, uncle dies, etcetera etcetera," She reads from an equally tiny digital pad like it bored her. You try not to grimace as your backstory is read with such nonchalance. How did she know...?
"As you can see, they have the ability to mimic the appearance of anyone at will,"
"Actually I need to see them first-" You interrupt the woman, despite your best interest of not dying.
The woman glances at you, eyebrows furrowed. She must not know everything about you then. You gesture with you head as best as you can towards the floating photo of Miguel and the woman you had just been impersonating. She follows your gaze and gives a displeased huff.
Miguel rips his brutal gaze from you as well and somehow his scowl deepens.
"Lyla-" He grinds out and the photo disappeared wordlessly.
"Hey, I'm not the one who left it up-" Lyla protests before Miguel cuts her off.
"It doesn't matter. What matters is they were-" He doesn't finish his sentence, can't seem to find the words.
"... Wearing the face of your dead wife?" Lyla supplies gracelessly. Ah. That explains his reaction at least.
"Cállate." He demands, then speaks directly at you. "How ungrateful could you possibly be-"
"Ungrateful? For what, kidnapping me?" You ask incredulously. His eyes narrow but the grip on your throat loosens a fraction.
"We didn't kidnap you- we saved you. Did you fail to notice the increase of unexplained villains appearing in your city?" To be fair, you had noticed. Just last week you had to save a bus full of people from a green-skinned guy on a hover board who only spoke in Pig Latin.
"So what, you took care of them for me? How nice, but that doesn't explain why I'm here." You pull at your restraints for emphasis.
"Here's the thing," Lyla steps in and summons multiple of those floating files, this time containing photos of you. One of them features you eating a hotdog on the street, appearing as a young girl with red hair and freckles. The photo directly next to that shows someone in the same suit but now as a Latino man with tosseled black hair. Some of them even pictured your real face, not that it mattered. Who needed a secret identity when you could be anyone?
"We had received reports of anomalies in your area and when we looked into it, it appeared that there were multiple spider-people on your Earth." Lyla continues, swiping through the photos.
"On 'My Earth'...? No it's just me." You're still majorly confused but they seem to not mean you any immediate harm (Well, Lyla doesn't) so you relax minutely.
"You can understand our confusion then. This ability is rare among arachno-humanoids. We simply brought you in-" That's a kind way of putting it. "-to clarify why your Earth had so many spider people. Now we understand that that's not the case." Lyla explains. She has the decency to appear a little sheepish. Miguel on the other hand, not so much. He does however, release your neck and use his talons to tear through your restraints with impressive ease. You stretch your stiff joints as he rises and stalks away into the darkness without a word.
"What do you mean 'arachno-humanoids'...?"
Lyla gives you the run down and you pretend to understand. Well, you kind of understand but its a lot to wrap your mind around. It's also very exciting. A whole spider-society filled with people like you? Who wouldn't ask for that? You're introduced to a multitude of people of so many different varieties that it makes your head spin. All similar but so very unique simultaneously. Despite the rocky introduction, you were stoked.
You come to understand more about the multiverse and are offered a position in the society yourself. You would be more flattered if you didn't think they did this for every spider-person they met. Still, you accept the offer enthusiastically.
You go on missions with new recruits, not unlike yourself, to capture and retrieve what you now understand are 'anomalies'. People who have slipped through the cracks and ended up in the wrong universe. Your specific powers of mimicry aren't usually of any use, but you prove to be proficient with your run-of-the-mill spider abilities. It's not long before you work your way up to being a vauled part of the team, often one of the first people to be called in an emergency.
Despite that, you haven't even seen Miguel O'Hara since that fateful day, if you weren't counting his hologram when he addressed a group that you just happened to be in. You can't really blame him, not only is he the man in charge of this whole operation and therefore extremely busy, but you didn't exactly have a stellar first impression. Still, knowing that didn't soothe your curiosity. He was a bit of an anomaly (hah) on base, with a great deal of respect, and a healthy amount of fear, given to his name.
You try not to dwell on the guilt of what happened when you first met. It's not like you knew any better, plus he wasn't exactly welcoming himself. (The guilt doesn't care about such things) You have no reason to believe he's avoiding you, even if your gut tells you that's exactly what's happening. So you do your job and play your part regardless of the tension.
This approach works swimmingly until it doesn't.
Your mission of the day had been successful, maybe a bit rough but the Sandman varient was eventually brought to base and shoved in the go-home machine after some effort. The rest of your team are off celebrating the win in the cafeteria but you had volunteered to type up the report. So that had you in that familiar control room, tapping away at the screen on your watch while you leaned lazily against the wall.
You jump at the abrupt sound of the door whooshing open and a female voice yelling in. The figure that rushes in is immediately recognizable to you.
"Miguel, wait!" You think it might be Jess speaking, but the door is slammed shut behind the figure before you can find out. You vaguely remember hearing word that they were gathering intel today, but you cant remember exactly. Miguel presses a button and the door makes a clicking noise as it locks. He hasn't noticed that he's not the only one in here.
You mean to make your presence known, you really do, but before you can clear your throat or anything, Miguel is gripping at the console, hunched over and heaving ragged breaths. You can't process what you're seeing at first. It's hard to connect the terrifying Miguel O'Hara to this man who is struggling to breathe together as one in your head.
It feels wrong to see him like this, like you're invading his privacy. He's not injured physically, he wouldn't be in here if that was the case. No. You can recognize a panic attack when you see one. But for whatever reason, you don't try to leave. It feels worse, the idea that he would never know that you were here to witness this.
"O'Hara?..." You hate how he freezes at your voice. He casts one glance over his shoulder before hiding his face from your view again.
"Leave me." He forces out, pained. The fact that he isn't immediately yelling at you makes you uneasy. You ignore his demand and move forward. Hobie would say you had a death wish.
"I said-" He grits out, turning when you stand a few feet away from him. Without warning, your body makes a reckless decision by itself, and changes. Maybe its a defense mechanism. Maybe Hobie was right, and it's a death wish. Your stomach drops. You want to run. To slap yourself, slap this treacherous body of yours. You love this job, and now you're going to get fired, or worse. Because for the second time in your life, you stand in front of Miguel O'Hara wearing the face of his deceased wife.
Your eyes squeeze shut, an apology stuck clawing in your throat. You feel yourself getting grabbed and brace for impact, but the pain doesn't come. Your eyes blink open. You don't understand. You hear a heartbeat that isn't your own and it clicks.
He's hugging you. Miguel's arms are folded around you, gripping you desperately against his chest. His head is draped over you and you listen, dazed, to his rough breathing.
You weren't exactly short, for spidey standards, but Miguel dwarves you in size. His thick arms cage you so effortlessly that you're almost having trouble breathing yourself.
He's murmuring apologies, you think. Whether to you or the woman you're impersonating, you don't know.
It seems like hours before his heart returns to its normal rhythm, and even longer before he lets his arms fall away from you. You've dropped the disguise at some point while you were buried in his arms, so now you know without a doubt he is speaking to you.
"I'm sorry." He says and you want to scream. Why is he apologizing? He should be gutting you with those claws for your indiscretion. You should be on your knees right know begging for forgiveness. But he's not. And you aren't. So you find your voice and whisper:
"It's ok."