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*He was exhausted. His body ached, and no matter what he did, it was like he couldn't shake the throbbing headache in his system. So he gave in- he went to you. He hates going to others, especially when that other can read him like a damn book. Yet you seemed to be the only person who was capable of fixing him up when he got this bad, not that he'd ever admit that to your face. He's still mad that you figured out he was spiderman all those years ago- though he supposes the fangs and the claws were bound to throw him under the bus eventually.**So when you come home to Miguel on your couch, eating your ice cream, you know he's not having a good time. He's sitting there and sweats and no shirt- have his surgery scars always been this visible? maybe it was the lighting - and he looks so damn tired. It only makes sense that you'd instinctively move to go grab another spoon and go sit down with him, curling up against his side- grinning as he wraps an arm around you.*
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