[Tigra]
A blaring, earsplitting siren ripped through the quiet, a sound so loud it vibrated through my bones. Red warning lights strobed wildly, painting the room in a dizzying kaleidoscope of danger. The hum of the vault increased in pitch, a high-frequency whine, and the cosmic device within pulsed violently, its faint glow intensifying to a blinding, angry crimson. An automated voice, cold and synthesized, boomed through the speakers: "WARNING! CONTAINMENT BREACH IMMINENT! IMMEDIATE EVACUATION RECOMMENDED! ALL PERSONNEL TO SECURE ZONE BETA-SEVEN!"
My fur bristled, every nerve ending screaming. My instincts took over. In a flash, I was off the console, a growl tearing from my throat. My claws extended fully, sharp and dangerous, as I lunged for the panel, ready to tear it apart, to force it to shut down, to claw through the very systems that were betraying us. Containment breach? Here? With this thing? The thought was terrifying. This particular artifact was a highly unstable power source, capable of… well, Fury hadn't elaborated, and I hadn't wanted to know. Just that if it went critical, the city would be a crater. Maybe the state.
I slammed my palm against the flashing red panel, my claws inches from shredding the intricate wiring. But just as I brought my hand back for a second, more destructive strike, I paused. Something felt… off. The containment field around the device, while flashing red, wasn't flickering. The hum, while higher, wasn't erratic. It was just… loud. And the warning voice was repeating the same phrase, exactly the same cadence, over and over. This wasn't a true breach. This was… a drill. A false alarm. Triggered by a moron.
I turned slowly, my eyes narrowed, my ears swiveled to pinpoint the source of this nightmare. And there he was. Spider-Man.
He was standing frozen by the panel, a mess of white web fluid plastered across it, his hand still extended as if he'd just flicked the trigger. His head was tilted, the red-and-blue suit somehow conveying a sense of abject mortification even without a visible face. He stood absolutely still, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and then, as if realizing he was still holding the evidence, he quickly retracted his hand, and with a series of frantic thwips, began to web the panel back together, trying to smooth out the mess he'd created. His mask was probably red-faced, if I had to guess. He even emitted a small, desperate whimper.
I stared. The siren blared. The lights strobed. The automated voice repeated its threat of global annihilation. And Spider-Man was trying to fix a complex piece of Stark tech with… sticky string.
Then, a sound escaped me. Not a growl. Not a snarl. A snort. Then a choked gasp. And then… I laughed.
It started as a low, rumbling chuckle, deep in my chest. But it quickly escalated. It was a raw, uninhibited burst of pure, helpless mirth, a sound I hadn't made, truly made, in weeks. Maybe months. The absurdity of it all – the cosmic threat, the elite security, the bumbling hero, the sheer, unbridled idiocy of the situation – it struck me like a physical blow. I leaned against the console, holding my sides, my whole body shaking with it. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
Spider-Man, still trying to artfully apply webbing to the panel, slowly turned his head to me. He probably looked utterly bewildered beneath that mask.
My laughter finally subsided, leaving me breathless and weak-kneed. I wiped a paw across my streaming eyes. "You… you just… you just set off a… planetary annihilation warning… trying to get a… a snack," I gasped, between residual giggles.
He lowered his head, his shoulders slumping. His voice, muffled by the mask, was tinged with embarrassment. "It… it looked like the churro button."
I broke into another round of helpless laughter.
That moment, that ridiculous, ear-splitting, utterly bizarre moment, broke something open between us. The tension that had been a constant low hum between us since he joined the team, the walls I'd carefully maintained, they just… crumbled. The pretense of bored professionalism, the guarded cynicism I always wore, they vanished into the strobing red light.
When the sirens finally died down, and the automated voice, thankfully, went silent (probably after Captain America remotely queried the system and realized it was a false alarm), an easy quiet settled in. It was a different kind of quiet than before – less oppressive, more companionable.
We started talking for real. Not about the mission, or the device, or the endless threat of supervillains. We talked about why we joined the team.
"I just… I always felt like I had to help," he admitted, now sitting cross-legged on the floor, his arms resting on his knees. "With great power, you know. But I also felt like I was always outside, looking in. Always watching the big fights from the sidelines, wondering if I was doing enough. If I was even making a difference. Joining the Avengers… it felt like maybe I could finally do enough."
I found myself speaking – truly speaking – in a way I rarely did. "I get that. The 'doing enough' part. For me… I think I just got… tired. Tired of going through things alone. You fight the good fight, you save some lives, you protect the innocent. But when it's over, you just… go home. And there's no one waiting. No one to talk it through with. No one who really gets it." I looked at the pulsing device, then at the sleeping city outside. "Being here, with a team… it's a commitment. But it also means you're not always the only one carrying the burden."
He nodded slowly, the white lenses of his mask seeming to gaze into the distance. "Yeah. Like, I've got my aunt, and my friends… but it's different. They don't know. This… this is something else."
We talked about the pressure, the constant vigilance, the moments of fear, and the surprising moments of exhilaration. We didn't overanalyze it. We didn't need to. The words just flowed, unburdened by ego or expectation. It was simply two people, alone in a vault, sharing the unspoken weight of their extraordinary lives.
As the pre-dawn light began to faintly smudge the eastern horizon outside the window, painting the cloud-streaked sky in muted purples and grays, we were still sitting across from each other. He'd stopped humming, but his stillness wasn't the agitated kind anymore. It was quiet, at ease. My tail, an extension of my mood, had flicked lazily towards him at some point, and now rested near his booted foot. I didn't move it. He didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't react. It was just… there. A silent testament to the newfound comfort.
Then, the comm crackled to life on the console I'd been lounging on hours ago. "Tigra, Spider-Man. Shift change in five. You're relieved." It was Natasha's voice, sounding just as tired as she probably was.
Spider-Man stretched, a full-body yawn audible even through his mask. He cracked his neck. "Well," he quipped, his voice lighter, but with a new undertone of genuine warmth, "we survived a night without a world-ending threat. Only minor accidental alarm incidents, which don't count for much on the cosmic scale, I think."
I pushed myself up, a smirk playing on my lips. "Give it time, Web-Head. Give it time."
He chuckled, a soft, pleasant sound. "Later, Tigra." He gave a small wave, then walked towards the door, his usual bouncy energy replaced by a kind of calm readiness.
I watched him go. His silhouette disappeared around the corner, and the quiet settled back into the vault. The cosmic device pulsed softly, a low, tranquil hum. The city outside was still sleeping, waiting for the sun.
Something warm flickered in my chest, a small ember in a place that had felt cold and hollow for a long time. It wasn't a blazing fire. But it was there. A spark.
I still didn't know what to call it. Friendship? A truce? A quiet understanding? A beginning?
But I wasn't curious anymore. Not in the idle, passing way I usually was about people.
I was interested. Very interested.