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@eideticspider
WHEN I’M LIKE THIS, CALL ME – SILK!
| eideticspider ✗ indie, private cindy moon/silk from marvel comics |
✗ loved by cait ✗ mun is 28+ ✗ she/her ✗ mutuals only ✗ please read rules before interacting ✗ affliated with spiderbyhalf ✗
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At Senior, Miguel nodded politely and on passing into the kitchen, greeted by Junior, he grinned gamely. "You should see me when I put in effort."
He then turned to Cindy and glanced briefly at her work before leaning into her ear (though fairly certain Al could hear). "By about a point. He'll tell you he won fair an' square but I'm feeling generous. There somethin' I can do?"
Al rolled his eyes and shakes his head, teasing in his gestures. "Yeah yeah yeah, old man. Bring it when I'm not stuffed with Christmas cookies, yeah?" He grins, eyeing the plate on the counter. Nari narrows her gaze at her son, a silent warning.
"Well, I should call you Miguel the Magnanimous then," Cindy grinned, glancing over at him through a slight curtain of black hair. She gives a little huff of laughter, glee glimmering in her eyes before shaking her head. "I'm just about done, but if you wanna grab the glasses from the counter and help set them up..."
Another little wrinkle of her nose, arching a brow. "Since you're feeling generous," she teases.
Spider-Gwen: The Ghost Spider #4 - "Haunted IV" (2024)
written by Stephanie Phillips art by Paolo Villanelli & Matt Milla
"Yeah..."
Miguel started to his room before double taking over his shoulder.
"Hey. Least it wasn't your mom."
Leaving Cindy to ponder that horrid scenario, he disappeared and began raking the dryer comb through his damp locks, chuckling to himself as the heat soaked into his scalp. Upon completion, his hair had a little more body than he'd bargained for. So well had the dryer done its office, he looked like he could sing.
Spiffy.
Miguel sighed and combed out his mane into softer waves, giving the front a bit of a bump but nothing too pretentious (he didn't need Nari cutting her eyes at him more than he deserved). Resigned more than satisfied, he went downstairs.
Her nose gives a little wrinkle and she shakes her head, lips curling into a slight grimace. But, Cindy rolls her eyes playfully and quietly slips downstairs. The specter of mortification.
When their guest joins them, Albert Senior offers up a small smile, tiling his head in greeting as he looks up from his book. The fire crackles and snaps, filling the living room with a comfortable warmth. Cindy lingers in the kitchen with her mother, effectively distracting Nari as Al snatches a cookie from the plate.
"You clean up reallllll nice, Miguel," Al grins, arching a brow. He knows what he's seen--knows that there's an intrusive thought that tells him to tease both his friend and his sister. But, the sweeter, lighter angel on his shoulder stops him.
But he knows.
Cindy glances up from setting the table and meets Miguel's gaze for a moment before tilting her head in a look reminiscent of her father. "You kicked his ass on the court, right?"
The Spiders (art by Ejikure)
"C'monnn, Cindy. Life's too short," Miguel assured, and she could infer that however she chose.
"...I didn't see anything." He crossed his arms and glanced over his shoulder. "Trust me. Just don't make it a habit. And remember: you still beat me at sparring."
She feels something akin to relief settle in her bones and it glimmers in her eyes. Cindy snorted softly and passed him the hair dryer. "Don't worry, Migs. I promise...no more naked run ins," she teased. There's a little pang in her throat, a vague feeling of being undesirable...
But she ignores it. It's the holidays after all. She had enough to deal with her regular depression...she wasn't going to allow seasonal depression to sink its claws into her and ruin their Christmas. Tossing her damp hair over her shoulder, she glances up at his face, nose wrinkling slightly. "I'll...see you downstairs?"
Mortification was mercifully brief, a flash in the pan; however, that it was Cindy, not he, who'd stepped out the bathroom made all the difference. It could only be amusing to him that his timing had been be so good (but so fateful to her), but it was well and truly as innocent as accidents could be. He'd seen her shoulders, bare and damp with tendrils of raven slicked to them like spilled ink, and that was quite enough; and though they were pretty and easy to imagine paired with certain necklines, Miguel was confident whatever dignity had been injured on either side could still be salvaged.
As he emerged from his own shower into a fog of steam, he thought no more about Cindy's shoulders than he did his wardrobe; that was, there was still some discretion to his choice, as there ought to be (a very conscious guest, he didn't want to appear too at home). He chose something safe, something comfortable, something he could still hide in a little despite his size—another hoodie, this one black, and the thickest red flannel lounge pants he could get his hands on.
Sigh.
...Unfortunately for them both, some eye contact would be due to assure Cindy there was no judgment, but there was danger of making too much. The line between considerate and attentive to the point of offense was a painfully delicate path to tread. Still, he needed to address it. As a "gentleman," even a doubtful, cynical one, it fell on him to dispel her mortification instead of letting it metastasize.
Even if he had caught a glimpse of her thigh through the slit of her towel, he was bound by some scruple and solicitude to deny as much.
Now dressed, Miguel, wiping steam off the mirror, checked his appearance again to assure himself everything on his person was as it should be. Nothing was hanging out his nose, nothing was clinging to his corneas, his beard wasn't working to subvert his recent shave—not yet—and that thing was tucked in better than a child at night. The only curiosity, if it wasn't a defect, was what the heat and steam had done to his hair. No less than a dozen times, he'd been warned (and Jess had been pretty matter-of-fact on that front) that excessive gel use would in time give him alopecia, and his hair was his one vanity, but he'd grown so used to making it straight, suppressing it...
As he leaned on the counter and raked his fingers through the damp, he saw an increasing resemblance to his teenaged self—someone no one had been kind to, not even himself—only now with a harder jawline and some lines penciled in places.
...
Sigh. Where was the hair dryer—oh. Al probably didn't use one, or need it.
Across the hall Miguel went and leaned on the frame of Cindy's door. He crossed his feet and knocked one knuckle.
"Hey, Cin. Can I use your hair dryer? I left mine."
Dress and dignified, Cindy let out a soft sigh and climbed to her feet. Her fingers acquired the desired dryer, a swift twhip of her web, and she was cradling it in her palm as she opened the door. Her cheeks were still burning and hot, but the least she could do was ignore the obvious embarrassment she felt.
"Yeah, of course," she chirps, keeping her eyes on his face. Her nose wrinkles and she offers a slightly mortified smile. "Sorry about earlier. I wasn't trying to be weird or anything. I just figured you'd spend another hour or two kicking Al's ass," she teases softly.
With that remark, albeit it was made in jest, Miguel privately nursed the notion Al might think he was putting him off. It wasn't likely his gaze at Cindy's window had gone unnoticed, though Al had shown restraint (an equally unlikely mercy) in forgoing a comment.
Mierda, his toes were ready to fall off! As he stepped into the house, heat swirled around him and coaxed life back into his face and stiffened joints. His forehead was taking on that dull, deep ache signifying a cold. How his mother used to fuss at him, on the rare occasions bitter winter air pressed down on them, and when he was still small and innocent enough to deserve her affection, whenever he protested being swaddled in hats and layers.
'Ma, I look like an egg wrapped in bubble wrap!'
...His nose felt like a popsicle.
At the foot of the stairs, Miguel touched the banister before forcing his body upwards and on. The wood buried under the layers of carpet and padding answered in creaks the pressure and release.
Upstairs was noticeably warmer; only fraction but noticeable nonetheless, with the landing marking the threshold of another vale, a point of progression. — None of the smells, overpowering at first then waning slightly, were familiar to him, no more than he was familiar to the house, a tourist; but this scene felt slightly off-axis, uncharted yet throwing an echo down the tunnel of nebulous recollection. He might've dreamed about it, months ago, this moment, the colors of the walls, the plan of the hall, the shade of the carpet—
"AHH! Oh my God!"
It wasn't complaint but surprise that made him spin and clap a hand over his eyes with as much respect and shame as he felt capable of conveying. The shock activated his muscle memory and he reflexively but sloppily signed the Cross over himself.
"Ohmyfuckinggodimsosorryihadnoideayouwere—Christ, Cindy!"
Shielding his eyes still and restoring to Cindy some much needed modesty, Miguel hurried past in the direction of refuge, felt the wall for the door then shut it. Lightheaded, rooted in the middle of the room, he blessed himself again while an old Catholic prayer stirred on his tongue in Spanish, then he put a hand on his hip and scrubbed his nose. His heartbeat pumped and fluttered in his ears, smothering all other sound, dulling all other senses. Why? Why was she naked as her birthday with guests around?! Not that she'd call him one, but really, technically—and it was her house, yes, but...
Christ on a spit.
Pivoting and flopping onto the bed, springs squeaking under impact, Miguel pinched his nose bridge again as he lay sprawled in the classic pose of ignorance lost and patience tested (though not truly). Air crackled behind his nose and a wheeze pushed up from deep in his belly. He wiped his palm over his face and sighed, then he touched it again, this time moving both sets of fingertips to different points. Good. It wasn't scuttling around the floor, but it was hot enough to fry an egg.
To Cindy's credit (and, he supposed, in testament to his own chivalry), he hadn't seen much. Wet hair, undoubtedly. Flesh, irrevocably. As of late, he'd noticed with himself he wasn't much for looking people in the face unless they spoke to him or he to them, so his eyes had already been directed elsewhere, but as soon as she stepped in front of him, they went to her shoulders then zipped down to her thighs—and they'd almost collided. That was enough. That was more skin than she'd ever shown in his presence, and it was only at times of urgency, of wisdom or serendipity, that Miguel deigned any credence to God's existence, for at least Cindy had the discretion to grab a towel instead of hazarding to cross the hall completely bare (again, it was, after all, her house, her prerogative); yet at the same time, a twinge of guilt nipped at him for how he hurried away. It must've seemed to her repulsion or irritation, particularly with that final exclamation. Perhaps he owed to her vanity to be at least a little pleased, but how could he apologize without embarrassing her again?
For a few minutes, Miguel languished there on the bed then rose and pulled his hoodie over his head.
At the very least, he'd take his clothes to the bathroom with him.
Sweet merciful God.
Her cheeks felt like they were on fire, her knuckles going white with the grip she held on her towel. Color bloomed, not just in splotches across her cheeks or across her chest from the hot shower, but deep underneath her nose and across the bridge of freckles, down her neck.
A squeak buries itself in her throat as she quickly dips into her bedroom, closing the door and leaning her back against the hard, lavender colored wood.
Kill me now.
Cindy put her hand over her eyes and muffled a mortified scream into her pillow, zipping it into her hands with a quick flick of her wrist. Well. Any credibility she had was surely gone now. How much had Miguel seen? The towel had been wrapped tight beneath her arms, covering her breasts, her stomach, her...
Seriously. Kill me now.
How was she even going to make eye contact with him now? Would he think she was trying to seduce him? Did he think she had intentionally been waiting for him? Fuck. Would he want to make up an excuse and flee? Fire her from HQ?
Awash in her own baleful anxiety, Cindy dressed quickly--a pair of clingy sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt. Throwing herself onto her bed, she rolled onto her stomach and pressed her face into her pillow--seriously debating a last-minute email to Santa asking for him to yank her from existence.
"Ten?!" Miguel cut in, wrinkling his brow and dipping his head. "What's the matter with you? Why would you eat that late?"
Not waiting for an answer and blowing air through his teeth, he glanced down at the blocks of yellow digital numbers stamped across the blue interface of his gizmo. Goober.
"Nevermind. I'm goin' inside to take a bath. Cindy said I'm usin' yours." Vainly, he hoped Al might at least stay out of the way that he might have a private audience with Cindy, but chances of interference, between a younger brother and a mother who'd soon revive her original dislike, were frustratingly high—and it was cold, entirely too cold. For global warming to be so mature by now, New York winters still had some bite in this universe.
He started toward the house.
"I meant points, but sure coward!" Al teased, his teeth gleaming in the fading winter sun. He dribbles the ball a few more times and lingers, lips pursing to the side in amusement as he watches Miguel retreat into the house. He shakes his head and tosses it into the basket.
Her body is warm from the shower, skin flushed and pink from the heat. Dark hair clings to her back and shoulders in a damp, lavender scented curtain. She'd brushed it in a hurry. Cindy sighed and wrapped the towel tightly around her chest, tucking it in under her armpit. She's still comfortably hot from the respite, despite the soft pounding of her heart.
She's home.
But it's not the HOUSE that has her awash in a comfortable glow. Her family provided their own warmth...but it was something--SOMEONE--else on her mind.
Someone who she nearly barrelled into, completely naked with water still clinging to her skin, in the hallway.
"Shit! Sorry--I..." Cindy's eyes widened and she glanced away, arms folding over her chest to hide her shame. "I thought I'd have more time with you and Al playing."
Miguel lifted his cheeks in a quick smile. Only when Cindy turned away did he finally avert his gaze.
How did he go from being her boss to...
He didn't need to look at his watch to sense the call for dinner was cresting the horizon. Twisting his mouth and drumming his fingers on his hips, he half turned to Al.
"Feel like goin' another spin, or what?"
Dribbling the ball, Al glanced over at Miguel, nose wrinkling in amusement. Oh--he knows all too well. But, he simply nods and tosses the ball back to him.
"Sure. I just needed that warm-up to get my head in the game," he hummed. "Till 10. And then I'm starved."
With an incredulous smile and wrinkle of his brow, Miguel eased to a stop as he tossed the ball from hand to hand. "Ahh...I don't think you could, even if your hands were glued to it, but you can try!"
Breath streamed out his mouth. The ball arced over to Al.
"No webs," he promised stiffly. "Play."
Al gave his all to this friendly game of basketball, determined and weaving easily. He was impressed by himself, the easy way his lithe body cut through and around--and his ability to make three-pointer shots.
It still wasn't enough. But he didn't mind. Miguel was one of his good friends, close enough, he thought, to nearly be a brother. So he was content to lose, graciously and not by a landslide. He continued pacing, his cheeks pink and hair floppy on his brow. Carelessly, he dribbled and tossed the ball into the hoop, pointedly ignoring the way his friend seemed to glance up at his sister's window.
Realization crackled under his skin. And Al was once again proud of himself. He kept sly jokes (and he had SEVERAL) to himself.
Cindy hummed along, unpacking her bags and found herself pacing around her childhood bedroom. So much of it was still unchanged--even that mortifying poster of Eminem on her door. She chuckled a little to herself, tapping the buttons on her old pink CD player, letting the music slowly flicker to life.
She could hear the sounds of play and slid over to her window, glancing down at her brother and Miguel playing. She couldn't help but be struck by how...carefree Miguel seemed. How...HAPPY he seemed. Everything about him illuminated her own joy, content to simply bask in his presence. She found herself longing to be there, despite the cold, laughing with him.
He was her best friend, different than Peter and MJ. No, with them, it wasn't a gravitational need to be in their presence. There wasn't an inherent wish to make them smile and laugh. No impossible desire to take away all of their pain.
Oh HELL.
Dark brown eyes flicker down to the boys, her eyes meeting Miguel's through the soft, gossamer curtains. She smiled--a little unsure, a little confused and yet completely relieved. She smiled at him and waved her fingers before she glanced away, lips moving back to the lyrics of the song.
Oh. She's in a good mood.
Shyly but instructing himself not to seem impatient, Miguel, ball under his arm, shuffled in as he cleared this throat. "Yes, ma'am," were the only words spoken with conviction, if only out of deference. "Everything's uhh...You have a nice place here. Everything's great. Copacetic."
Okay. Can we not think of a simpler word, Miguel? 'Pleasing' sounded overly polite and 'cozy' was too elementary. 'Copacetic', though it sounded oddly Victorian yet somehow like a solution, offered a sense of intelligence that he hoped worked to counter any notion of clumsiness Nari entertained of him.
"Smells nice, and uh...thanks for having me. 'ppreciate it."
Before her disposition could take an arctic nosedive, Miguel moved with a hint more purpose to the checkpoint of the back door. Sharp, frigid air gripped his face and turned his ears to shells as the freezing concrete stung his soles. Crumbles of ice and slush formed mounds along side the steps from where they'd been shoveled earlier while sizeable crystals of salt, sprayed across every step, stabbed his feet.
Hot breath puffed then vanished out as Miguel did a lazy high-kneed jog to the hoop. His talons tapped along the pavement and left thin seams where they'd penetrated.
"Fuck, it's cold! 's like Jack Frost's nutsack out here."
A thin line of a smile and a nod was Nari's only response. She was trying, if not for anyone except for her daughter. Al slipped out the door and tossed a handful of ice in the air, watching it smash on the ground with satisfaction.
Cindy's window was open, quiet music pulsing softly as she hummed along.
Al turned at the comment and snorted, his face already turning a shade of soft pink from the cold. "How many times are you touching Jack Frost's nutsack, man?" His grin is boyish, childish, as he cups his hands to his mouth and breathes out.
"Alright, let's hurry this up so I can get inside and warm my ass after handing you yours."
It flashed in front of him, the inward shade of discomfort and the flicker of uncertainty—the first pulse of repudiation. Why did bids for connection always involve such unbearable transparency? Whether he'd done Al the disservice of being too vivid in his anecdote or presumed too much of his confidence, he wasn't sure, though it was most likely a melange. just when he'd begun to ease into a semblance of comfort did his jaw unhinge and offer something unstudied. Had this been a simulation, the red-hot dashes of deducted friendship points would've flagged over Al's head.
Too fast, Migs.
Contrite, Miguel scratched his own head and followed his companion down the steps, one at a time. The observation on injuries offered a balm to the numbing embarrassment.
"Well, when you're a kid, you can take 'em on the dome pretty easy. It's when you get older that's the problem. Definitely wouldn't do that now. Those days are over."
Nevermind slamming into flying cars on the regular.
At the landing, Miguel scooped the ball from Al, and as they approached the rear of the house, the warm, potent aromas of spices for tomorrow's dinner exploded out the kitchen and washed over Miguel's senses. For the fact it would've more than soothed his awkward nature for them to detour their exit, fate made any other path inoperable without risking a blatant effrontery, for however mutual the dislike (he trusted it was less subjective, more casual on his half), Nari had consented to let him into the sanctuary of her house; decorum was of the utmost importance. Evils aside, Conchata had instilled that much in him to such a degree it was impossible to forget.
As he and Al stopped in the doorway, a markedly rare sense of gratitude blanketed his conscience, and he was once more a boy of twelve.
Their parents had already ordered out for Christmas Eve, but stews and pastries and other succulent treats were being prepared for the main event. The kitchen is awash in the savory scents and spices, warm from the constant opening and shutting of the oven. Albert Sr. passed by the two young men, leaning heavily on his cane as he moved, seemingly oblivious as his attention remains rapt on his wife.
So many years, and he's never stopped loving her. Despite their flaws, their tragedies...he stood by his wife, though not always as helpless as everyone thought.
He pats his son on the shoulder as he passes back, offering a warm smile and nod to their houseguest.
Nari, for her part, was oblivious to her reluctant holiday guest, smiling and laughing, her lips rapidly moving in their gently-spoken language. Sugar dusted her nose and cheeks and the pink of her apron. Regardless of what she felt for Miguel, she was pleased to have her family together for the holidays. They had been so far and few between--ten years gone to the mist of mistakes. She was happy to soak it in.
She lightly whaps Al's hand as he reaches for a Christmas cookie, popping it into his mouth with a delighted and full-mouthed chuckle. Her smile is indulgent, despite her teasing scolding--and it's then that se notices Miguel.
Her lips press together, the delight still glimmering in her eyes, even as they dim slightly. The matriarch simply nods her head and gestures to the plate of cookies, popping her son's hand again as he reached for seconds.
"Don't spoil your appetite!"
"Ma, I'm not likely to not inhale dinner," Al snorted, rolling his eyes as he passes through to the yard. Nari turned and glanced at their houseguest. "Is everything comfortable for you?"
After a beat, a smile bloomed under the sunglasses. "You shouldn't've told me that."
As he glanced at the stairs, Miguel registered the comment but gave it no kindle. "It was hard not to get your ass beat in my house, if you had the parents I had. Though there was this one time me an' Gabe were riding our bikes, so my dumb ass was like, 'I'm gonna fly up this construction ramp' right? Totaled it. Brand new. Broke a couple teeth and shattered the hell outta my elbow. Only reason Ma didn't whip me was 'cause I'd cut open my heel and she nearly fainted. Still have the scar."
Al frowned a little, slowly making his way down the stairs. Dr. Nari Moon had always been strict and never afraid of a little corporal punishment--but she never beat the hell out of them. But, it wasn't his story nor his place to comment.
It didn't escape him though.
"Jesus. I don't have any war stories like that," he hummed thoughtfully, shaking his head. He doesn't think Miguel would want his sympathy, so he settles on being humorous. "Damn. Well the head trauma definitely explains all of your weirdness." He glances over at his friend and clasps his shoulder.
"...now I'm super glad I didn't buy you a bike for Christmas."
"C'mon, shortcake."
As Miguel passed to the door, he gave Al's hair an affectionate tousle then stopped at the barrier of Cindy's door. It was more veil than barricade, so tangible was her presence, stretching towards him.
He pressed on.
At the top of the stairs, he glanced down then abruptly turned back to Al; they almost collided.
"Wait—remember when we used to ride down the steps 'til our asses hurt?" Miguel pointed a thumb over his shoulder, at nothing in particular. "Was that a thing? You guys do that?"
Al halted in his tracks, stopping before he and Miguel slammed into each other. He suspected Miguel would be fine, but he would resemble a pretzel around a pole.
His eyes, so much like his sister's, flickers from his face to the stairs and back to his face.
"Have you met our mother? She was way worse when we were younger," he snorts, arching a dark brow. "Nah, Cindy used to pull me around in a laundry basket. One time, she yanked me down the stairs and I ended up with twelve stitches in my arm and she ended up with a bright red ass."
His memories of his sister in childhood were far and few between. He'd been so young when she went into the bunker.
"Did you ride down the stairs when you were a kid?" He pauses and tilts his head, glancing up at the height of his friend. "When you were like a six foot toddler?"
Miguel watched Cindy's retreat and heard nothing of what Al said until his gaze landed on his excited expression.
"...Oh. Right."
Hands to hips, Miguel glanced at his bare feet and curled his toes against the nap of the carpet, then he looked at the duffel bag nestled in the center the bed. Why had he let Cindy carry that all the way upstairs? How did he sleep in that bed without turning the sheets and pillows to ribbons with his talons? And he'd have to eat in front of Nari, so he was like to eat conservatively. Everything felt like a checkpoint.
Sleep would most likely not be had.
With a sigh, Miguel moseyed toward the bed and pulled a basketball from the duffel, tossing it for Al to catch. As Miguel's sense of presence revived, his tone took on faint touch of facetiousness. "You're not still butthurt 'bout last time, are you?"
His presence lingered with her, even as she shut her bedroom door. Cindy simply sighed, leaning back against the white painted wood, shaking her head. Anxiety was beginning to prickle in her veins, mixing with her self-doubt.
Al grinned softly and caught the ball, lightly palming it back and forth. "If I was, I wouldn't be in here talking to you." He glanced back at his sister's shut door.
Something felt amiss in the universe, but he hardly gave it any thought. Like he had missed something. But whatever it was, it must not have been as important as playing basketball or Mario Kart was.
"You wanna go play some while we wait for dinner? Mom and Dad ordered takeout tonight." All the cooking would be done on the morrow, but for tonight, it was a night of ease and family cheer. A night to spend and reflect on the year without the burden of all the cooking and messes.
"We've got a hoop outback."
"Are people born WICKED? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them?"
❀ independent, private galinda/glinda upland from wicked ❀ please read rules before interacting ❀ influenced by the musical/book/film ❀ loved by cait (she/her/29) ❀
❀ home ❀ ask ❀ carrd (coming soon) ❀
