Chapter Text
He can’t even remember why he was mad in the first place, after it happens.
He’s halfway to yelling from frustration, his tone barely held to a reasonable hiss, his head throbbing steadily. He knows he hasn’t slept enough recently, knows that he’s likely making a big deal out of something that’s too innocuous, but he’s exhausted and aching from a recent injury that hadn’t healed right—and at that moment, he doesn’t care.
He turns to Peter abruptly when he mutters something smart under his breath, his arms crossed and brows raised as Miguel instinctively bares his fangs—
And then Parker’s finger hooks over his teeth, his mouth twitching into an exasperated smile. Miguel freezes, eyes wide as Peter doesn’t pull away, shaking Miguel’s head with the finger caught behind his teeth, sighing as if in disappointment. Like he’s holding the teeth of a large predator and is completely unfazed by it.
“Should really stop threatening people with these, y’know.” He snorts, “Calm down. We’ll figure this out, alright? Without you trying to rip anyone’s throat out.”
Miguel swallows, tongue flexing against the taste and smell of him, head swimming as Peter looks at him, his brown eyes glittering with amusement. Slowly, Miguel nods, jaw twitching around Peter’s finger, hunched over and pulled closer to the other man. Peter gives his head another playful shake and Miguel huffs, biting down just slightly in threat. Parker only laughs, patting his cheek with his free hand.
“There you go. Was that so hard, grumpy pants?” He snorts and Miguel is caught between a snarl and melting into the damn floor.
But Peter smiles in satisfaction and carefully dislodges his finger from his mouth. His lips stay parted even after Peter has backed away.
And then he just—goes back to what he was doing, leaving Miguel to lick over his teeth and swallow against the permissive heat in his face, something thudding hard and loud in his chest.
“Right.” He rasps, and tries not to think about it.
_______
He’s pissed about something again, quietly fuming as he mulls over files scattered across the console. He mutters quietly to himself, flexing his claws and chewing on the inside of his mouth, trying to keep to himself. He’s conscious enough to know that if he were to seek anyone out, he’d only grow frustrated with them, and he doesn’t actually like getting pissy with the others, contrary to popular belief. He just has a bit of a short temper at times.
But then Peter walks up next to him and rests a warm palm over the small of his back.
He immediately loses his train of thought.
His eyes snap to his face, watching Parker’s mouth move, knowing he’s saying something but unable to focus on anything other than that hand absently smoothing down his spine. He can’t remember the last time someone has touched him like this—casually and softly, a thumb tracing the curve of his waist like it belonged there.
He shouldn’t be allowing Peter to do that, but he does.
“O’Hara?”
“Huh?” He mutters before he quickly straightens, sending Peter’s hand sliding down before he pulls away. He bites down on the inside of his cheek so hard that the skin breaks. “Oh, uh, right. Right.” He looks at Peter and then away, fidgeting with the files in front of him, trying to remember anything Parker had told him.
“You have no idea what I just said, do you?” Peter chuckles and Miguel wants to wring his neck and maybe get his hand back on him as soon as possible.
He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me again?” He grumbles and Peter’s eyes glimmer, brows twitching just slightly in thought, and relays whatever he had been saying before.
Miguel’s eyes keep darting down towards his hands as he talks, and he’s too embarrassed to ask Peter to repeat himself for a third time.
_______
The small touches don’t stop. They only seem to grow bolder as Peter spends more time with him.
Miguel is waiting in line for one of the coffee machines, tapping his foot absently and trying to ignore the sound of another Spider conversing with a group of others, telling the same story that Miguel has heard a hundred times over. He sighs, eyes absently flickering over the crowds and stuck in his own mind, ruminating over the work he needs to get done.
“‘Scuse me.” A familiar voice chuckles, warm palms settling on Miguel’s waist as they move past him, “Stuck in your head, O’Hara?” Peter says, one hand still resting close to Miguel’s hip even after he’s already made his way past him. Peter seems to run hot, large hands uncovered by his gloves, absently squeezing just slightly over Miguel’s side. It makes sparks skitter over his skin, a slight shiver crawling up his spine that he stubbornly represses.
Miguel swallows thickly, staring at the flex of Parker’s fingers over him, lips pressed tightly together. Peter pulls away, throwing his hands up in a placating manner. Miguel meets his eyes, ignoring the insistent twist behind his chest that’s disappointed.
“Sorry about that.” Peter huffs, smiling slightly as his brows scrunch, “You feeling alright there, O’Hara?”
Miguel wants to ask him to put that hand back. He decidedly does not say that.
“Fine.” He finally reaches the coffee machine, ignoring Parker as he leans against the counter, a frosted cookie in his hand. He nibbles at it, peering over at Miguel as he fixes a large mug for himself.
Miguel hesitates for a moment before he reaches for the cream and sugar, pouring a generous amount into his cup before stirring. He immediately regrets it when Peter makes a surprised noise, pressed nearly into Miguel’s side as he watches in fascination.
“It’s just coffee, Parker.” He grumbles, glaring at him over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip, stepping off to the side to free up the machine for anyone else behind him. Peter follows him, a box of cookies held in his hands, another hanging from his mouth. Miguel ignores him.
He goes to return to his own room, to continue his work or find something more productive to do, but Peter takes him by the bicep, leading him to one of the small two-seater tables in front of a window. Miguel sighs but doesn’t bother fighting him on it, settling into a seat as Peter places his opened carton of cookies between them.
“Should have known you didn’t take your coffee black. It’s too cliche.”
Miguel sighs harder this time.
“Got a secret sweet tooth under all that angst?” Peter says thoughtfully, chewing slowly on a frosted cookie, bits of pink and white sticking to his lips.
“You eat like a child.” Miguel informs him with an annoyed mutter. Parker only responds with a shrug, like he considers it a fair assessment. He does lick at his mouth though, catching bits of spare frosting as he runs a callused hand through his hair.
Miguel sips delicately at his drink and pointedly looks away.
“Want one?” Peter says, offering a cookie to him with a lazy smile.
Miguel stares at it for a few moments, holding his mug in between two hands and blinking at him slowly. Parker wiggles it in front of his face, as if he were enticing a stubborn dog. Miguel scowls and snatches it from his hand, nearly squishing it with the force of his hold. Peter makes a triumphant sound.
It’s soft and sweet when he bites into it, frosting and sprinkles melting on his tongue, and he can admit that it’s not bad. He hums and Peter looks satisfied, his warm brown eyes watching him with a pleased expression, crows feet wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. He looks nice like this, honey eyes glinting in the sun, his chin resting in one of his palms.
Miguel wants to reach out for the hand Parker has resting on the table between them. He has no idea where the hell that thought comes from—
But Miguel promptly chokes.
It sends Peter into a laughing fit, barely stopping himself from spitting up his own food as he hides his mouth behind one hand. Miguel takes a large gulp of his cooling coffee, claws scraping over the glass of his cup.
“Shut up.” Miguel hisses as soon as he swallows, though there’s something that bubbles in his chest, far lighter than anger and more pleasant than irritation.
Peter does not shut up, predictably, laughing through a garbled mess of words. Miguel does not mind as much as he likely should, nursing a cup of coffee and reluctantly accepting a second cookie when Parker offers. But he calms down quickly, one of his feet stretching out, his ankle brushing against Miguel’s own beneath the table.
Peter ends up showing him videos he’s taken of Mayday on his phone, his chair slowly migrating to Miguel’s side as he scrolls through pictures of her.
He glares at anyone who thinks it’s smart to look at them for too long, and it quickly sends their gazes awkwardly skittering away.
He returns his attention back to Peter.
_______
Miguel doesn’t know how long he’s been working, shifting through screens of files with an absent-mindedness that comes from exhaustion. He flexes his claws in concentration every few moments, working out kinks in his wrists or fingers, clenching and unclenching his jaw.
He had tried to sleep earlier. But all he could smell was blood in his nose, images flickering behind his eyelids and something caught in his wretched throat, his arms curling around himself in a memory of a smaller body there. He had given up on searching for rest quickly.
And now he sits, quiet and alone as he is on most days, and tries to force his overworked brain into doing something productive. It doesn’t particularly work, which only serves to further his irritation. His jaw clamps down and iron floods his mouth when he bites into his gums.
He ignores it.
The silence and monotony is only broken when a plastic carton is placed down next to him, slid over the console. He recognizes the scent of both the food and who’s giving it to him immediately; lotion and baby powder and shampoo and the spice of his food.
“Thought you might be hungry.” Peter says, leaning over his shoulder, head craning as he tries to get a glance at whatever Miguel is looking at. He’s so close that Miguel can feel his heat, Peter’s large hand resting between his shoulder blades, palm laid out flat.
He nearly leans into the touch before he remembers himself, clearing his throat. “Thanks.” He mutters, scrounging up enough manners to say it.
Peter pats him over the head with a snicker, ruffling his hair, and they both freeze. Miguel, because electric sparks skitter down his spine like a clawing weight, and Peter, because—
“Holy shit, what do you put in this?” He marvels, fingers running through thick, dark strands. Peter scratches lightly at his scalp and Miguel shudders, holding still if only to keep himself from pressing into his fingers for more.
He turns his head to the side, catching Peter’s gaze, a warm hand still in his hair. “Parker.” He says tersely, Peter’s face carefully innocent as his palm rests over the nape of his neck, fingers scratching at the base of his skull.
“Always thought this looked soft, nice to feel the real thing. When do you get the time to go through a fifty step hair routine between brooding and working yourself into the ground?”
Miguel is going to bite Peter Benjamin Parker and he's going to deserve it.
“Go find someone else to pester, Parker.” Miguel grumbles, but he makes no move to shove him away, his entire chest gone strangely warm as Peter massages over his neck. Parker’s hand isn’t invasive, not as much as it should be. His shoulders involuntarily drop, his fingers unfolding from his lap as they slowly relax.
He reaches for the container Parker brought for him, opening it up to the same empanadas he always gets from the cafeteria. The sight of food makes his gut feel tight. He can’t remember when he last ate.
“Hey, I was just making sure you didn’t starve yourself while locked up in here.” Peter gives one last squeeze to Miguel’s nape, a harsh breath pressing past his teeth before Miguel can restrain it, and he moves out of range. Miguel acutely notices the loss. “I’ll be quiet. Promise.”
Parker makes a zipper motion with his lips, collapsing into a spare rolling chair. Miguel stares at him for several moments and Peter only looks back, tilting his head towards the open container of his food. Miguel sighs and slowly begins to eat, unable to stop himself from humming in appreciation at the taste. Maybe he’d been hungrier than he thought he was.
“Good?” Peter smiles, leaning on one of his palms.
“I thought you were going to be quiet.”
Peter snorts, turning away and holding his palms out in surrender, “Alright, alright. You won’t even know I’m here. Starting now.”
And true to his word, Peter actually does remain quiet. Miguel finishes his food and returns to his work, his head thrumming with the steady thump of Peter’s heart, his tongue pressing absently at his fangs. He’s incredibly aware of his presence, and there’s something grounding about sitting in the company of someone else, silent or not. He doesn't mind it.
The quiet lasts for about thirty minutes.
He hears the wheels of Peter’s wheels rolling to his side, their shoulders brushing. Peter looks over the screens and files, flicking absently at the ones Miguel isn’t currently looking at.
“Parker—”
“Hey, I’m just looking, big guy.” Peter pets gently at his hair again, as if soothing a fussy animal. “Don’t mind me.” He leans into Miguel’s side, an arm resting on his shoulder as he reads.
It placates Miguel more than it should, makes him feel calm and just slightly buzzed. Like the ache of something new, the ache of something he didn’t know he needed. He sighs and pretends like Peter’s not even there.
Except that plan doesn’t exactly work.
His tongue flexes in his mouth, every expanse of his chest filling his sensitive nose with Peter’s scent. He’s become increasingly familiar with it through the past few weeks, something he can recognize through memory alone now. He doesn't want to think of that, not even a little.
Peter’s hand returns to his hair, scratching carefully at Miguel’s nape as his chin rests on his shoulder. He can feel Parker’s eyes on him.
“What do you want?” He mutters, his eyes darting over flickering screens and not absorbing a single world. He’s more focused on the gentle scrape of Peter’s nails over his scalp.
“Just looking.” He murmurs, and Miguel can hear the thud of his sting heart in his ears.
He’s still touching him. Parker has been doing that a lot recently, Miguel has noticed, his hands easy and casual and with no fear towards him. With barely a moment of hesitation and with all the warmth that he would do it with anyone else. It’s been a very long time since Miguel has been treated like this, since a single person has even tried. Not as if many have the persistence that Peter does, though, left nonplussed by Miguel’s attitude completely nafraid to irritate him.
It’s nice, he thinks. Sometimes, at least.
Like now; Peter’s head warm on his shoulder, his fingers a comforting press and his eyes soft and exploring. Though Miguel can’t possibly guess at what must be so interesting about the side of his face that has Parker so enraptured.
“I don’t think I can figure you out just yet.” Miguel says slowly and Peter laughs like he’s made a particularly absurd joke.
“What’s there to figure out?”
Miguel turns to him and they’re so close that their noses nearly brush, Peter’s eyes glimmering as if he were—anticipating something, almost. Miguel’s breath hitches softly, Parker’s hand wrapped firmly around the nape of his neck.
“Why are you doing—this?” He mutters, swallowing quietly as Peter huffs.
“You’re not an idiot, Miguel.” Parker smiles, waving his free hand in the air, “Not all the time, at least.”
Miguel growls and Peter laughs, leaning further into his side, and they’re so close that Miguel can nearly taste him—
Peter’s hand slips around the side of his neck, fingers trailing over his jawline instead.
“Come on, big guy, you can put two-and-two together. I thought I was being too obvious.”
“Obvious?”
Peter’s eyes search his for a few moments before he just sighs, “Apparently not, then.” His thumb twitches over Miguel’s bottom lip, twisted in his chair so their knees brush, his breath warm as it fans out against his chin.
“I think this is the part where you figure out whether you wanna tell me to fuck off or not.”
Miguel swallows, sucking in a soft breath as Parker’s eyes flit down to his mouth.
He doesn’t tell him to fuck off.
When Peter slowly leans in, Miguel uses a clawed hand to yank him closer, their mouths clacking together harshly. Peter yelps, kissing him back with slightly clumsy lips, his fingers twitching over Miguel’s nape. Peter’s hands squeeze over his shoulders, digging into firm muscle that doesn’t give at all, made of taught lines that don’t ease.
Peter pulls away after just a few moments and Miguel makes a small, involuntary noise that he quickly stifles. He immediately goes to turn away but Peter holds his face still between two warm palms, slipping out of his chair so he can stand in front of Miguel. It’s the only time he’s ever been capable of towering over him.
“Hey, no, I just need a moment—” Peter cards his hands carefully through Miguel’s thick hair, “And you need to calm down, you’re too damn tense. I’m trying to kiss you, not get mauled by a bear.”
Miguel growls and Peter plants a loud kiss against his forehead, accompanied by a wet smack. He’s too stunned to find whatever annoyed thoughts he had been grasping at beforehand, and Parker looks far too pleased with himself.
“Just try letting me lead, alright? I promise that you won’t combust spontaneously.”
Miguel frowns, his brows twitching, “You’re on thin ice, Parker.”
Peter snorts, thumbs tracing the severe lines of Miguel’s cheekbones, slotted in between his spread legs. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But maybe consider calling me Peter when I’m about to have my tongue down your throat, alright?”
Peter is kissing him again before he can even deign that with a response. He cups Miguel’s face gently in his hands, holding him still as moves his lips against his. It’s slower and softer this time, and Miguel obediently lets Peter lead for once, his shoulders slowly falling. It’s a warm, heated press that makes him feel calm rather than harried for something more, savoring the taste and warmth of him. Peter makes small humming noises in the back of his throat every few moments, content murmurs that Miguel easily swallows.
His eyelashes flutter when Peter’s tongue brushes against his own, slipping into his mouth. He brushes over Miguel’s fangs, groaning low in his chest when he scrapes over the points of them. Miguel shivers, large hands resting over Peter’s hips, claws pricking at the fabric of his sweatpants as his fingers flex and squeeze.
Peter keeps the kiss slow, a languid press of liquid warmth and Miguel melts into his hands, going nearly limp. He feels relaxed and hazy as Peter tilts Miguel’s head the way he wants him, thumbing over his chin and urging his mouth to part as his tongue delves in more thoroughly. Miguel feels heat pool in the pit of his gut, molten and burning as Peter’s tongue curls over his palate.
When Peter pulls away it’s with teeth nipping on the bottom of Miguel’s lip and a soft gasp. Miguel catches his breath, palming over Peter’s sides and slowly blinking up at him.
“You feeling alright?”
Miguel hums in contentment, leaning into the press of Peter’s palms. He scratches at the back of his head indulgently.
“You really are just a big cat, you know that?”
“Don’t make me kick you out now, Peter.” He grumbles, “You were doing so well.”
Peter’s tongue darts out to swipe over his bottom lip, looking down into Miguel’s hooded eyes with a swallow. “Uh—right. Shutting up now.”
Miguel huffs softly, the closest he’ll ever typically be capable of a laugh, and Peter kisses him again.