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Peter has never been particularly talented at the subject of arts and crafts, thriving more in combat and criminal takedown than in creation. Does he enjoy going to museums and appreciating the craft? Sure, no one can ever go wrong with art museums.
An artist, on the other hand? No. Maybe once the world falls into apocalyptic doom and he’s forced to scrounge for his own tools and food to survive, but that sure as hell won’t be happening on his watch.
So when Mayday begs him to make her a beanie out of colored balls of yarn and only his two hands, Peter found himself at a loss on how to respond. His daughter had always been a weakness for him, finding it extremely difficult to deny her anything she wanted. In his defense, only a sociopath could say no to her adorable, blue eyes and toothy smile but in his current state he really had no other choice.
Which was how he found himself heading to the Spider Society alone, with no Mayday in tow, feeling like he had just gotten his heart ran over by a bus. The sounds of her soft sniffles and the sight of her glossy downcast eyes, glazed with tears were still seared in his mind, stinging and painful.
It’s not like he didn’t try either — the rough calluses on his fingers can account for that, but all he had to show was an uneven, floppy square and a tangled mess of red yarn.
“Why are you in such a gloomy state today?” Margo asked, hidden behind a wall of translucent computer screens.
“Mayday’s mad at me.” Peter doesn’t pout, but it’s a near thing.
Margo’s head peeked out, curious. “Mayday’s not here?” She looked more upset over her absence than Peter’s predicament but he couldn’t get himself to be too miffed out. It’s Mayday, after all.
“She can’t even look at me, Margo!” He wailed, rubbing tired hands across his face. It’s an overdramatic display, exaggerated mainly for Margo’s amusement but the sadness Peter felt was no joke.
“So…what did you do?”
Peter sighed heavily, drawing the sound out as his shoulders droop like a wilting flower. “She wanted me to make her a Spiderman beanie but I’m no good at crafts. I didn’t even know what crochet was until she brought it up.”
Margo nodded absentmindedly, distracted by red blaring at her screens. Her hands moved swiftly and efficiently, clicking and clacking until finally the alarm died down, defeated.
“Crochet? Damn, fatherhood really did domesticate you,” She snickered. “I would have never even thought to imagine the sight of you holding a hook in one hand and a bundle of yarn in the other.”
Peter’s not so amused. “Har, har, har, Margo. Laugh at me all you want-“ A sudden pause as something she had said caught his attention. “You know what crocheting is?”
Silent hope lurked in his chest, waiting with bated breath.
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s only cause I asked Miguel after spotting it lying around in his office.” Her attention had already returned to the array of neon blue holographs but Peter wasn’t so ready to let go.
“Miguel?”
“Yea, why?” Then she stilled, looking back at him when dawning realization filled her system. “You aren’t…”
Peter grinned at her, hoping it would cancel out the anxiety pumping in his veins. It didn’t.
“What else can I do?” Peter spared a glance at an empty corridor. The same corridor that led to Miguel’s office. Peter’s next destination. Maybe his final, he thought grimly.
“I hate to say it, Parker, but you chose a bad day to ask and an even worse day to piss Mayday off.”
“Why?” Peter inquired. The somber look on her face told him all he needed to know. “Oh, it’s one of those days, isn’t it?”
Margo nodded, slow and solemn.
The universe must hold a strong grudge against him, given how they continuously lobbed train-sized obstacles in his life, one after another. It's as if they won’t allow him to even try and make up for his failure. The hallway seemed a thousand times more ominous now. Its emptiness and absence of life now appear more like an unpleasant premonition rather than a coincidence.
Still, Peter had to.
“Miguel has a soft spot for May, doesn’t he?” His voice was weak, desperate, and on the hinge of delusional. Margo’s nod seemed more out of pity than in agreement but her indulgence was more than enough to convince him.
Standing outside the doorway to hell, Peter gathered up all his courage in one breath before knocking loudly at the door.
Silence, and more silence, until a low and dangerous growl seeped out from the undercut and into his ears.
“What is it now?” His voice greeted Peter’s senses in the same deadly way a Grim’s scythe would. The sound was greatly muffled by the door but Peter could tell it was said reluctantly, as if ripped from his teeth.
“Hey, Miguel,” Peter said, in fake nonchalance. On his way, he had wondered if it was wiser to be polite but he barely even entertained the terrible idea before throwing it out of his mind. “I know you’re down in the dumps right now but I could really use your help. It’s non-universal related though so don’t get your panties in an even bigger twist.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No. Now get out of my hallway.”
It’s not even your hallway, Peter wanted to scream but held his tongue. With no other choice, he pulled out his final weapon. A contingency plan he hoped to never have used until only the most dire of circumstances.
“It’s for Mayday.”
Nothing. The unnerving silence returned, back for revenge and Peter was prepared to give up and slunk back to his Earth, where a sad, pouting Mayday awaits him. A stretched-out creak stopped him in his tracks and the door swung open to reveal the hulking form of one Miguel O’Hara.
“What do you want?” Eyes like blazing hellfire burnt his feet to his floor, darting across his figure as if searching for something. Or someone.
“She’s not with you.” He stated. His voice though gruff and coarse like sandpaper wasn’t raised into a shout, instead tinged with confusion. Perhaps Miguel had done enough shouting for the day.
“Yea, she’s mad at me,” Peter scratched the back of his neck, giving Miguel a rueful smile.
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Well,” Peter dragged the word out for anticipation but Miguel didn’t seem amused. “A little bird- or spider, told me that you happen to be fantastic at crocheting.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miguel panned, then made to turn and shut the door.
“Wait!” Peter’s foot shot out, preventing it from closing shut. The hard metal pressed harshly against his bones, throbbing painfully until Miguel’s grip relaxed. “Please, Miguel. You’re the only person I know who has any idea what I’m even talking about. You’re the only one who can help me and you know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
That wasn’t true at all and Miguel knew it as well. His face was pinched into a scowl, a vein in his temple pulsing. Peter clasped his hands into a praying formation, a second closer to getting down on his knees. Dignity be damned in the face of Mayday’s sorrow.
A lengthy breath sounded, loud and exasperated, then, “If I agree, you won’t tell anyone about this.” The ‘if’ in his statement was emphasized heavily, followed by an undertone of violence that accompanied the rest of his sentence.
“My mouth is shut!” Peter pressed his lips shut, mainly to show how serious he was but also to contain the smile threatening to bloom across his face.
“Can’t believe I’m even considering this,” Miguel muttered under his breath.
I can’t either, Peter thought.
Miguel shoved Peter’s foot out from where it was lodged, asking, “What does May even want you to make?”
“A Spiderman beanie but with those flappy things hanging down.” Miguel’s face was blank. “I’ll get Spiderbyte to send an image to you?”
A lone brow rose, his perceptive mind catching Peter’s slip-up before he even realized it himself. “So she’s the one who told you?”
“No?” Came his weak response.
Before Peter could plead for her survival, Miguel cut him off with a wave. “Whatever, you go do that, Parker, and send her measurements as well. Come back tomorrow with the yarn and hooks, I don’t have time for you today.”
“Miguel, you truly are an angel sent from heaven,” Peter stated earnestly. His constraint gave way, muscles now pulling his face into a grateful smile.
Miguel scoffed, unamused. He looked a second away from retracting his offer and Peter thought now was the best time to leave.
“You won’t regret it!” He gave one last thanks before he bounded for the exit.
“I already am!” Miguel’s voice traveled across the corridor and rang heavy in his ears, echoed by the blank, emptiness of the hall walls.
Excitement thrummed in his veins as he stood outside the door, two plastic bags clutched tightly in one hand while the other rose to tap at the metal. He knocked loudly, only once for safety’s sake.
“Miguel! It’s a new day and I’m back with what you asked for!” Peter waited for an answer, humming idly a catchy song he had heard on the radio.
The metal door swung open and with that came a cold breeze that brushed against his skin.
“You don’t need that much yarn,” said Miguel, voice disapproving. His stare alone criticized the bags more than any words could do.
“I know,” Peter said, ignoring the fact that the first thing Miguel did was condemn the quantity of his yarn. “One has food. Empanadas since I know how much you love those.”
“Oh.” Miguel seemed startled by his consideration. So extremely lost that Peter couldn’t even tease him for it without feeling like an ass.
A little unsure of what to do Peter shifted the plastic bags from one hand to another. Soft crinkles of plastic filled the air until Miguel snapped out of his shock and moved, just enough to let Peter in before he closed the door shut.
His office would have been unnaturally neat if not for the obvious mess at one corner of the room. It was clearly the most used with papers strewn across the floor, atop the desk, and plastered on the wall; a dozen books were piled on top of each other and placed in the corner of his desk; and glowing holographic screens encaged the area, carrying enough text to send Margo into overdrive. The papers and books seemed primitive in the presence of holographs but Peter wasn’t one to comment on how someone worked.
Miguel clicked his watch and the text faded away, leaving the screens a bare orange. He gestured to the vast, mostly empty floor and Peter sat, criss-cross applesauce on the cool metal. Neon red webs shot out from Miguel’s wrist and Peter jumped up, bracing for a threat.
Except there wasn’t one.
It was just Miguel being too much of a lazy bastard and choosing to use his webs to grab a piece of paper instead of walking a couple of steps like a normal person.
“Are your Spider senses malfunctioning?” He gave Peter an odd look as if he didn’t understand why Peter was startled. It was a poorly-made lie because Peter could see the smug amusement glimmering in his eyes. He lodged the bag of empanadas at him, aiming for the head but Miguel caught it with ease.
“Worth a shot,” Peter muttered, disappointed. He had hoped the suddenness of it all was enough to catch the man off guard but sadly, he was wrong.
The paper in his hand crumpled into a ball. For a moment, Peter thought he had messed up and braced himself for shouts filled with anger but a second later, the ball was sent flying straight at his face. His senses flared and his arm shot out, catching the object before it could make contact.
Seeing Miguel’s expectant face, Peter uncrumpled the paper with a grumble. It was a printed image of Mayday’s drawing of the Spider-beanie, with a list of notations written in the corner. He couldn’t understand what it meant though, the short letters looking more like abbreviations than actual words.
“MC, Eight Dc, SS,” Peter read aloud in no particular order. “Miguel, what is this?”
“Instructions for after I teach you what it means and how to do them.” It was a vague answer but Peter couldn’t help but be impressed. He had expected only a brief crash course on the basics of crochet but nothing else before he was kicked out. The best he had hoped for was Miguel making the beanie himself, which wasn’t a bad thing but Peter wanted to give Mayday a creation of his own making.
He whistled, staring at the paper with newfound wonder and appreciation. “You really put a lot of work into this, didn’t you?”
“I don’t go into projects half-assed, Parker,” Miguel snapped, busying himself with the empanadas.
“I know that now, and save me one, would you?” Peter requested, oddly enraptured by the care he took in unpacking the food. Miguel hummed quietly, which was as best an agreement as he could get. The crease and bulge of his muscles seem less tense today, no longer carrying itself with the anger that was practically over-brimming only one day before.
“You’re in a better mood today. What’s up, O’Hara? Finally woke up on the right side of the bed?” Peter teased, hoping to hide his curiosity with a joking lilt. He wasn’t sure why Miguel was so pissed off yesterday but he was familiar enough with his moods to know that it took a lot longer than a day for it to die down.
Miguel threw him a glare but doesn’t deign Peter with a response. Instead, he says, “I don’t have all day, Parker.”
Peter laughed, unfazed. He tossed Miguel a red ball of yarn and then stared blankly at the collection of hooks in the bag. The silver-engraved lettering gleamed orange and red at the face of Miguel’s dim lighting and glowing computer screens.
“Pass me the 4.5-millimeter hook.” Peter handed it over after a moment of searching. “Use the 4.0 one, it works best for this type of yarn.”
The familiarity Miguel spoke with was intriguing. A half-formed puzzle piece that slotted in Peter’s mostly empty image of the man’s past. Life before the Spider Society. Life before tragedy struck, hard, and changed him into the person he was today.
It was naive of him to assume Miguel was a one-dimensional character of bubbling fury the first time he met him but that’s what he did. As Peter grew to spend more and more time at headquarters, his assumption was quickly proven wrong, leaving a brand new puzzle he was itching to uncover. He wasn’t lying when he said Miguel had a soft spot for May and Margo knew it too. Anyone with two working pair of eyes could see the gentleness Miguel handled her with, even when she reaped havoc, climbing the walls and jumping from one ledge to another.
Before he knew it, Peter found himself endeared because buried underneath the hulk of muscle was simply another Spider-man — just another person who pulled one end of the short straw after another, until the only thing that kept him standing was grief and festering wounds. He wanted to see who Miguel was before, wondering whether he carried the same humor most Spidermen did after capturing a villain and if it came in the form of snarky, sarcastic commentary or by ridiculing the villain with a merciless yet comedic takedown.
Perhaps it was both. Whatever it was, Peter wanted to know.
Ignoring the way his heart jumped to his throat, Peter decided to take the risk. That’s all it is, after all. A leap of faith.
“How did you learn how to do this? No offense, Miguel, but you don’t seem the type to vent out your anger in the form of knitting needles.”
He shot Peter with a look, searching and irritated but after weeks end of subjection to those very same eyes, Peter knew more than not when it was truly meant and when it wasn’t.
Finally, a sigh, tinged with a wry sort of nostalgia. “She used to ask me to do the same.”
Peter swallowed the rare bit of information greedily. There’s no need to ask who ‘she’ was, his pinched expression telling more than enough. It’s mixed with a lingering fondness but there’s an unresolved sadness deep within his eyes that has Peter yearning to reach out to him.
He couldn’t though, so he settled for the next best thing. “I bet you made all sorts of crazy pieces. I mean, you made this pattern all by yourself so you must be a veteran at this.” He waved the wrinkled paper around.
“A beanie is easy, Parker. You’re lucky that’s all May asked you to make.” His tone suggested something more, a story that should have followed those words, but Peter had done enough leaping today.
“My lucky day,” he said instead, smiling.
Without wasting another second, Miguel dived into an explanation of the types of stitches he needed to know, followed by a slow demonstration of how to make them. In the end, there were only three he needed to use for the beanie, a lot less than he expected, but it was still a lot to unpack for Peter, who had always been hopeless in the topic of arts.
After his explanation, Miguel ordered him to make sample squares just so he could get a hang of the tension he needed and familiarise himself with the idea.
Miguel’s words, not his.
Of course, he was a giant nerd who did things all prim and proper with his arachnohumanoid polymultiverse bullshit. It was unexpectedly charming if he was being wholly honest.
Seconds later, he was told he wouldn’t be allowed to continue if he couldn’t make a flat square and Miguel’s need for order wasn’t so charming anymore.
A lie. Only mildly infuriating and still so very charming.
So while Miguel munched on his empanadas, Peter got to work, a comfortable silence gracing the two. It was sort of domestic, Peter thought, ignoring the way his stomach flipped at the idea.
He wasn’t sure how many minutes had passed but even after a dozen squares, the pieces still stayed curled and rippled.
He heaved out a frustrated sigh, holding himself back from slamming the hook into the floor. Miguel looked up from where he was making his own…something, too early in its creation for Peter to make an accurate guess.
“It’s your grip.” He pointed out. “The way you hold your hook.”
“My grip?” Peter frowned, then tried mimicking Miguel’s own.
“You can’t just copy mine, Parker. Everyone does it differently.”
That made sense, Peter supposed so he tried again, switching the way he held his hook and where he placed the yarn string. Yet despite his valiant efforts, every position he tried seemed to grow more uncomfortable than the last until finally, a loud groan of frustration cracked the silence in the room.
Not only did it crack the silence but it also snapped the last thread of Miguel’s patience.
Large hands encompassed his own, twisting his fingers into position. Peter blinked, then realized just how close he was to Miguel. His face was ducked down, more focused on his hands than on their proximity but Peter was aware. So fucking aware that it hurt.
He could smell the after-scents of his shampoo, the addictive saccharine smell entering his nose like opium. Only a centimeter away from being buried in the tresses, Peter could feel a couple of stray strands tickling his skin.
Then, Miguel looked up and he swore his heart withered out right then and there. Some of the slicked-back strands of hair had fallen off by now, a few curling to the top of his brow while others rested on the top of his sharp, angled cheekbones. Bold, red eyes flicked up to meet his own, followed by a hitched breath.
Peter watched entranced at how his pupils dilated, broadening until they covered nearly the entirety of his iris.
Plump lips were the next to catch his attention. Plush and pressed frozen into a line of determination. It would only take a second of movement. A second and they would have touched. Electricity skittered across his blood, forcing him to push down a shiver.
“Miguel, did you finish the report I wanted? You normally would have by now-”
An unwanted but not unfamiliar voice cut smoothly into the tension before cutting off abruptly. Miguel wrenched away from him and Peter tried not to feel too disappointed.
Lyla stared at the two with mirrored shock, glitching in a haze of orange-colored hues. She caught herself quickly, a smirk replacing her surprise.
“What’s this, Miguel?” She grinned, eyes flitting over to Miguel and then to Peter, amusement clear even through her pink lenses. A second later, she noticed the stray balls of yarn and the shock was back in her face, somehow even greater than before.
“Lyla.” Miguel's voice was low yet impactful, filled with a context that only Lyla could know.
It was clear there were unsaid sentences hidden beneath that singular word that Peter couldn’t uncover. Something deep and insistent. Intimate and private.
It felt almost intruding to watch but Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Lyla faired easily enough, raising her hands in a show of surrender. It was the first time Peter had seen her give in to Miguel’s request without a hint of protest and it left him curious, desperate to know more.
“You two have fun without me but not too much fun, okay?” She winked and then disappeared in an explosion of rainbow sparkles.
Silence filled the room as the two men took in her words at a snail's pace.
“Not a word, Parker.” Miguel was the first to speak, breaking the quiet in the most Miguel-type fashion.
Peter couldn’t have said anything even if he wanted to, focused more on forcing his face back into a normal, inconspicuous color. Preferably one that wasn’t as red as the yarn in his hands.
If he had looked up, he would have noticed Miguel’s face was colored a similar shade and if Miguel had looked up, he would have noticed the same. However, the two of them kept their gazes resolutely stuck to their work, not daring to even risk a glance.
Peter quickly realized after a few rounds of stitches that whatever Miguel did had worked. The square wasn’t bent nor furling anymore, instead laying flat against the floor.
Triumph tangled into the strings of his heart. He was about to inform Miguel of his success but he once again caught sight of his mussed hair and of course, once again, found himself at a loss for words.
He would have carded a hand into the tempting curls of his waves if not for the threat of getting his guts clawed out. With no other option, Peter had to settle with his fantasy; soft, smooth mocha-colored strands laced around his fingers.
“Will you let me continue now?” Peter handed the square piece to Miguel’s inspecting fingers. He wasn’t sure why his heart thrummed with trepidation but he still waited with bated breath for the verdict.
“Acceptable,” Miguel murmured which was more than enough for Peter.
He taught him how to make a magic circle and then ordered Peter to follow the instructions written down on the paper, advising him to count his stitches carefully. Peter absorbed all his words the same way cloth would a small puddle of water, soaking it in, before getting to work.
The beanie was different than his squares. It took much longer and required more of his attention but after ten finished rounds, he quickly got the hang of it. His fingers moved out of memory, now becoming more therapeutic than a struggle.
Every once in a while, he would risk a look at Miguel, who was too absorbed in his own work to notice. His quick sidelong glances weren’t intense enough to trigger his heightened senses and Peter found himself glad Miguel didn’t possess the same Spidey-senses most of them had.
With the help of superhero speed, Peter finished the base of the hat. He moved on to the eyes and by the time he was down to the last one, Miguel had long completed his project. He still didn’t know what it was, the finished product now tucked away from his line of sight.
He was now snacking on yet another empanada whilst the other hand skittered across bright vermilion screens. The sight made his heart lurch while his mind drifted off to treacherously domestic thoughts.
If one day was enough to send his stomach into a tangled, discordant mess of knots then what state would he be in after the next few months?
Peter finished tying off the last ends of his seams then raised the beanie triumphantly in the air. It’s not perfect but first tries never are and Peter’s satisfied with his work, pride settling in his chest.
“What do you think? Worried I’ll give you a run for your money?” Peter gently nudged at his ribs, giving him a light-hearted grin.
Plump lips curled into a rare gentle smile, small and barely noticeable yet so breathtakingly beautiful it knocked the breath out of Peter’s lungs in one swift punch.
“Is that a smile, I see?” A mocked gasp buzzes through the air.
The expression fell, gone in a single blink but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “In your dreams, Parker.”
His statement isn’t wrong in the slightest because Peter will definitely dream of his smile the next time he goes to sleep. He could already see it, the image practically making itself at home in his mind; the stretch of ample lips forming a relaxed smile that softened what he had previously thought were permanent wrinkles that creased between his brows.
Peter stood, brushing the dust and strands of yarn from his pants. He collected the leftover balls of yarn, cleaning up his mess while he was at it then cracked his knuckles loudly. He wrung his fingers, trying to shake the numbness out of them. It didn’t help much but it was enough that he finally regained a mild feeling, tinged with tiredness and cramps.
“Thanks, Miguel,” Peter said for the hundredth time. “You really didn’t have to.”
He didn’t get a reply, but he didn’t expect one either. As much as he didn’t want to, Peter was preparing to say goodbye but Miguel stopped him before the words could even leave his mouth.
The plastic bag Peter had tossed at him, in the beginning, was being lodged back. He caught it, surprised by its weight. He shook it gently but couldn’t see what was inside because it was tied tightly into a knot.
“Open it when you get home, Parker,” Miguel ordered, his voice gruff as his eyes darted away. “There’s a gift for May. It’ll be useful in the coming winter.”
His brows flew up in shock, then recalled Miguel’s mysterious project. It was for May, he realized. His heart sprung with something close to adoration, finding himself deeply touched by Miguel’s kindness.
Definitely not a frothing ball of anger.
“You didn’t have to but thank you.” Peter hoped his voice conveyed the sincerity he wanted it to. There were really no words that could express his thoughts so he left for home after giving Miguel one last grateful smile.
When Peter arrived, his house is dark like he had expected and as empty as when he left it. Yet, this time he isn’t so bothered by it. He opens the plastic bag, trying to hold back his smile when he sees one empanada and then failing altogether when he spots a pair of gloves.
It’s Spider-man-themed, but not Miguel’s 2099 costume. Instead, it's a mimic of Peter’s own and matches perfectly with Mayday’s beanie.