Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is a man outside your home.

Or, more accurately, there’s a blue-red blob in the shape of a man in the alleyway outside your home, with a pool of what seems to be blood growing ever larger with each passing moment. Honestly, you probably wouldn’t have even noticed him if it weren’t for his eyes, red and fierce, blazing with angry desperation. He clutches the left side of his torso, his left arm hanging limp by his side, breathing labored, his head tipping back to gaze up at the sky. If he weren’t currently in what seems to be the throes of Death itself, you’d have readily admitted that he is beautiful.

“You, uh, you okay?”

It’s so, so dark in the alleyway, but even in the velvet black of the late night you can see the way he glares at you, almost in disbelief you’d ask something so redundant. Which, okay, fair, stupid question, but you’re still not quite sure how to navigate having a man actively dying outside your house; it’s not really your fault that not many people have written guidebooks on what to do when there’s a hostile stranger bleeding out in front of you.

“Do you need me to call the ambulance? I can have them take you to a hospital–”

“No hospital!” He snaps at you, and you take a step back in surprise, noting quietly that he has, honest to God (capital G, God), fangs.

A sodium light flickers above your head, loud and insistent. Okay, so, taking stock of the situation, there is currently a very pretty stranger with what seems to be a big injury, has fangs, and refuses to go to the hospital.

Fuck.

“Okay, okay, no hospital. Honestly, you’re right, your health insurance would probably screw you over for the ambulance ride alone,” you close your eyes, praying to any god who would listen that your brain could work fast enough to think of some kind of solution, “is there any way you can move? We’re right outside my place and I think I might be able to help if we can make it to my bathroom.”

He heaves a breath, and there’s an uncomfortable twist in your chest at the look in his eyes, like a man reluctantly stumbling back from the edge, “I can’t move on my own.”

You understand his ask for help, slipping under his arm on his good side, and bracing your knees, “I, uh, I’m realizing I never got your name. What do I have the pleasure of calling you?”

“Miguel. Miguel O’Hara,” he coughs, a wet sound that makes you sure he coughed up blood. You need to move him inside and treat him. Fast.

“Great, thanks, Miguel. I’m going to count to three and we’re going to get up, can you do that for me?”

He nods, because it’s the only thing he can do.

“Ready, one, two, three!”

Holy shit this man is heavy. You thought you’d prepared yourself after sizing up his broad frame, but this is so much heavier than you’d anticipated.

The noise he makes is inhuman, violent and awful, his breathing coming in short bursts as he fights through the pain. You try to ignore the way his other arm dangles.

“Come on big guy, don’t stop moving,” your habit of chattering when you’re nervous is back in full force, “if we weren’t in this shit situation I’d ask you to call me Dory. Do you remember Finding Nemo? It used to be one of my favorite movies when I was a kid. I really liked the–”

“Please shut up,” his growl is thin, but he’s still conscious and that’s all that matters.

“No can do my friend, if I’m helping you you’re going to have to deal with it,” you have to keep him awake, even if it’s by sheer annoyance, “piss me off any more and I’ll start asking you questions about yourself.”

A muttered, “Mierda,” floats your way, but you’re still glad for the confirmation he’s listening. Evidently, your annoying persistence has done the trick, because you’re shuffling him through the foyer and into your bathroom, attempting to deposit him as gently as you can into your bathtub. He lands in it unceremoniously, grunting through gritted teeth as his back hits the porcelain. You grab a towel and press it to his side to try and staunch the bleeding, pressing his good hand down to keep the towel there.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Awful.”

Good. It’s when he stops feeling that you get concerned.

“Stay with me, Miguel. I do not want you passing out on me.”

He doesn’t answer, in too much pain to do anything else but glare at you, the world’s first trompe l’oeil that actively hates you. You fumble around under your sink where you remember haphazardly shoving your first aid kit away, foolishly thinking you’d never actually have a need for it. You try to ignore the rapidly cooling blood on your hands, sticky and selfish. You finally pull it out, holding it up in a quick imitation of Rafiki before whipping back around to the possibly dying man in your bathtub.

Now that you actually have a light on, you can see the extent of the damages. It’s nasty, to say the least, bursts of flesh torn open on his torso, the brilliant white of his ribs flashing through the massive rivulets of blood streaking down Miguel’s body and into your bathtub. God, fuck, you don’t even know where to start. So you start at the only place you know how to start, pressing the towel and a few Tylenol between his teeth.

“This is going to hurt, are you ready?”

A terse nod is all you get in response.

You can’t muster the energy to see how tightly his fists clench when you dab the wound, his neck muscles going taut. A pervasive, wounded groan reverberates in your small bathroom, the towel inevitably shredded in its place between his razor sharp fangs. When you chance a look at his face, all you can see are his brilliant red eyes. Something flashes, lightning fast, over his face. Just one, brief second of vulnerability, of something softer, a terror so uniquely childlike you wonder whether or not you made it up. Then it’s gone.

You place a hand over his fist, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Just as you’re trying to decide on your next step, something you can only describe as insane happens. His flesh begins to knit itself back together, slowly but surely the musculature produces a thin layer over the bone of his ribs and meets in a gentle kiss back together.

“What. The fuck,” your eyes fly to his, demanding some sort of explanation, only to find him with his head leaned back, eyes closed, finally passed out from pain.

Well, fine. Just another day in New York.

You look up from your phone the next morning to the sound of a loud crash, then a bang, then a loud, “Ay, coño!”

Aha. Your guest/patient/potential financial liability has awoken.

You find him slouched against the cabinets under your sink, your toothbrush and skincare tubes haloed around him. His wound looks much better, though still incredibly gnarly, than it did less than 12 hours ago. At least there’s no bone-to-air contact anymore, thank god. So that weird healing thing must not have been a fluke.

“Good morning!” you lean against the doorframe to your bathroom with a smile, steaming mug of coffee in hand.

“Where the fuck am I?” Yeah. You definitely hallucinated that look last night.

“Brooklyn, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“I’ll call you whatever I want when I’m the one who saved your ass, baby. You want breakfast?”

He gives you a harsh look through narrowed eyes, though it’s less intimidating and more cute when you factor in being a witness to his literal lowest point not, again, 12 hours prior.

“You can say no, man, I’m happy to let you starve.”

Still nothing. You push off of the door frame with a shrug, turning to head to the kitchen before his voice stops you again.

“Are you not going to ask?”

“Ask about what?”

He gestures to his whole body, his weird skin-tight bodysuit still torn and hanging off of him, “You know.”

“I won’t ask if you don’t want to talk about it.”

His face finally shifts into something more begrudging, almost grateful. “I don’t know if I can get up.”

“Oooh, breakfast in bed on your first day? Bold, Mr. O’Hara, I like your style.”

He rolls his eyes at you but doesn’t retort. When you come back, a plate of toast and scrambled eggs in your hand and coffee in the other, he’s managed to finagle his way back into the bathtub. It’s weird to admit, but you kind of enjoy having him at your mercy, it’s like fostering a prickly tomcat. Watching him eat really is akin to watching those cat TNR videos, plying him with just enough food that he lets his guard down and then you pounce. Probably not to cut his balls off, but honestly, with the way he seems almost chronically allergic to vulnerability, it might actually be close.

“So, what is your deal?” You take a seat next to him on the cold bathroom floor.

“Thought you weren’t going to ask.” This arrives around a mouthful of eggs, though swallowed, that is rapidly replaced by a massive bite of toast.

“I changed my mind.”

He eyes you suspiciously, before wolfing the rest of the plate down and chugging the coffee. “I’m,” he looks like he’s in genuine pain trying to force the words out, “Spider-Man. From Earth-928. Born and raised in Nueva York. Thank you for helping me but I need to–”

“Woah,” you hold your hands up, “so many words just came out of your mouth that could be indicative of a stroke. Run it by me one more time, Spider-Man? What the hell is that? A guy who only eats spiders?”

“Spider-Man. You know, the superhero? Shoots webs, has heightened physical abilities, fights crime.”

“Huh. Well, the heightened physical abilities would probably explain your whole. Thing.”

“You’ve never heard of Spider-Man? Who are the heroes of your universe?”

“Uh, well, I guess Malala Yousafzai is pretty heroic?”

“Malala? What kind of powers does she have? Telekinesis?”

“I don’t think she has powers, per se, although I guess you could count getting shot in the head and still surviving a type of power.”

“No, no!” Miguel’s agitation begins to leak out of him, “I mean those with specific abilities in your universe.”

“I don’t mean to sound too insensitive, are you maybe talking about people with autism? I know a lot of autistic people hyperfixate on certain topics and become super knowledgeable about–”

“No!” his fist slams down against the lip of the tub, rattling the now empty plate and mug balanced on it, “now I think you’re having a stroke. Who are the heroes and villains that reside here!? If not Spider-Man then who? Kaine? Prowler? Green Goblin!?”

You set the plate and mug down on the ground before putting a placating hand on Miguel’s arm. “Miguel, I don’t think we have any of those.”

His body language goes cold. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” you squeeze his shoulder, trying to understand where the crux of his distress was, “but I’m just not sure that we have any of the people you’re describing. Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

“NO! FUCKING! HOSPITAL!” he fangs snap millimeters away from your nose.

This is where you draw the line. You stand up off the floor, a little unsteady because of how fast you stand, and pick up the dirty dishes.

“Okay,” you try to keep your voice from betraying how shaken you are, “no hospital.”

And that’s it.

This weird cohabitation reaches a fever pitch after just two days. Largely because Miguel is a human saguaro, but also because you haven’t showered since bringing him home. As one may astutely already guess, him taking up residence in your bathtub means he hasn’t left it in two days. And it was pissing you off because you wanted to be clean, god dammit.

You clap loudly to get his attention before stepping into the bathroom. Since your argument yesterday, you haven’t really spoken to him at all, too frazzled and upset to even begin trying to repair whatever tenuous bond you’d developed with him two nights prior. But you felt disgusting and, frankly, Miguel could use a shower to clear all the crusted blood from his hair and weird suit.

“We need to wash you, dude. You are fil-thy.” You snag the shower head from off the wall.

“No, no. ‘We’ don't need to do shit, I’ll shower myself if it bothers you so much.”

“With one arm out of commission? With what balance? How are you going to peel that suit off? How are you going to reach the shower head?”

“Fuck off. I’ve figured out harder things than how to shower without an annoying hijo de puta that doesn’t know when to shut up.”

You’ve been angry before, in your life. Of course you have. And rationally, somewhere in your brain, you know he’s just attacking you from a place of extreme defensiveness and insecurity. But, like. Who the fuck talks to the person who hauled ass trying to save their life that way?

You wouldn’t consider yourself a bad person, though you’ve never claimed to be particularly good, which is why it shouldn’t shock you as much as it does when you give in to your impulses and spray him directly in the face. There’s a moment of silence that passes between the two of you, incredulous and indignant on his end, surprised and slightly nervous on yours. Really, when you look back on this moment later on, you don’t know why you did it, just that you wanted to.

“WHAT the fuck is wrong with you!?” Miguel can’t help the guttural growl that comes tearing out of his chest, the strongest Spanish curse words he knows tumbling past his lips. In all his years as Spider-Man, even in the years before, he’s dealt with betrayal and anger, but never this level of humiliation. Sopping wet and moving more clumsily than he’s ever moved, he lunges at you, claws half out, in an attempt to grab the shower head out of your hands.

You brace your arms in front of your face, icy fear lancing through you when you realize how badly you’d fucked up. This is still a very dangerous man and if he does manage to get his claws into you then you would be utterly fucked. You wait, your eyes squeezed shut, for the pain of his claws, only for it to never come and instead hear a resounding thud that echoes off the bathroom tiles and an “Oof!” as the air is knocked out of him.

For the second time in quite literally a minute, the two of you share another moment of silence, a flush of shame blooming higher and higher on his cheeks. When you look at him this way, eyes downcast and back hunched, you’re reminded of your brother’s Saint Bernard, Sunny. You’d helped him give her a bath one summer when you were visiting him, needing the both of you to hold her down in the tub to shampoo and rinse her off. She flopped and scrambled around, trying to find enough of a purchase to escape the tub. She’d looked just as pathetic, if not a little less, because at least she still got scritches and the occasional coo of a “Good girl, Sunny!” thrown her way for her cooperation.

And you can’t help it, can’t help the way you snort, only for that snort to turn into a giggle, for the giggle to turn into full blown laughter. It’s ridiculous, it’s ironic, it’s satirical, it’s all the things your high school English teachers tried to hammer into your skull about storytelling. Here sits a man, massive and terrifying in stature, probably more powerful than you could logically conceive, refusing to even look you in the eye because you sprayed him in the face while trying to help him shower. You’re bent over in laughter for what feels like hours, before finally stifling your snickers enough to crouch down on your haunches.

You lean an elbow against the tub, gently tapping Miguel’s arm to get his attention. “Miguel, hey, I’m sorry for laughing.”

There’s still a thick line of tension in his shoulders, so you do what you think is the only logical thing and press a gentle knuckle to his chin, turning his head to look at you. It’s still there, you can see it, that sharp blade of anger, the one that finds its way into every conversation you’ve ever had with him. Sure, you might’ve deserved it this time when it was turned on you, but it was still every bit as scary as he could be.

“Fuck. Off.”

“I unfortunately cannot do that, my friend. You are still in my bathtub in my home, and while I’d love to let you stay in here, I haven’t showered in two days and it’s really starting to bug me,” you blink, “heh. No pun intended.”

Miguel doesn’t laugh, he never does, but something releases and he sighs in defeat, finally turning towards you.

“Hey! Now there’s my guy!”

“Vete a la chingada, stop treating me like a goddamn kid.”

“I’ll stop treating you like one when you stop acting like one.”

“Fuck off.”

“Is fuck off the only thing you know how to say?”

“Fuck off. No. It’s not.”

You find that the smile on your face refuses to leave, a little too sweet and sticking to your lips like freshly chewed gum.

“Miguel,” you laugh at the withering glare he shoots you, “come on.”

“Come on, what?”

“Let me help you.”

And it’s there again. That… that look, the one you thought you hallucinated the night you first met, the one that sheathes the blade and quietly grasps at the edge of your shirt, sniffling like a child. The small animal of his gaze rests against yours, just for a brief second: a rabbit’s tail pointed straight up and trembling, nose twitching violently, and then he nods, almost imperceptibly. If you hadn’t been looking as closely as you were, you would’ve missed it. But, you have his permission now, and a new, warmer smile comes across your face as you beam at him.

Almost on instinct, you’re transported back to the summer of Sunny, her sweet eyes pleading with you to get her out of the tub. You can’t help yourself when your hand finds its way to his head, ruffling his hair, “There you go. Good boy, Miguel.”

The karma of spraying a vulnerable man in the face must be catching up to you, because as you bend down to pick up the shower head you’d dropped during your laughing fit, you miss the way his shoulders twitch and the flush spreads from his cheeks to his ears and down his neck.

That night, you dream of a meadow. It’s beautiful here, probably plagiarized by your exhausted and stress-addled brain directly from a Ghibli movie. There is a sweet breeze that tickles your face and lifts your hair, the sun shines just so. You gaze out at the open field in front of you, greeted with the sight of thousands of rabbits, multicolored and soft, hopping around, nuzzling together for a nap, glancing in your direction when you start to move.

There’s something instinctive that pulls you forward, something that claws its way forward from the back of your mind. You have no idea where you’re going, only that you’re climbing and climbing and climbing and–

Then you see it. Or, him, rather, sitting by himself at the top of the hill. It’s a brown rabbit, smaller than the others but somehow more noble. He turns to you and the world goes quiet.

He reminds you of a book you read when you were a kid, Bunnicula, was it? About a rabbit dracula that sucked vegetable juice from vegetables instead of humans. His eyes are wide and sad and so, so lonely, but he still scrambles away from you and bares his fangs when you take a step in his direction.

“Hey, hey,” your hands go to a woah, nelly, “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.”

The rabbit trembles, but goes still, intensely distrustful but tentative. You hold your hand out, creeping slowly towards him until your open palm is directly in front of him. Your heartbeat thrums like God tapping on a mic, his small, so fucking small, eyes trained on you, watching every move you make.

“Can I touch you?”

He pushes his velvet nose out, sniffing at your hand. Then, faster than you can react, sinks his fangs into the meat of your palm.

It doesn’t hurt, it looks like it hurts him more than it does you. His lonelylovelylambent ruby eyes are back on yours, and you hear it– hear him.

Please, please, please. I’m sorry, I have to, I’m sorry, it can only be me.

Your other hand rests on his soft head. “I see you.”

He lets go.

When he’d initially explained who, or what, he was, an expression like he was chewing glass as he revealed a sliver more of his softer underbelly to you, you found it hard to believe. But the more you thought about it, the more his claws, his fangs, his incredible healing made sense, he always did have a presence that felt more otherworldly than not. Then, he asks you for his watch, the watch you don’t have and never did, the only thing that could send him back.

You may not ever have the vocabulary to describe the way Miguel’s face crumbles when you tell him you have no idea where his “multiverse watch” is. It’s haunting, in that same way people’s faces fall when you tell them their mom died, realizing they cannot go back home.

He spends the next week oscillating between obsessively tearing apart the alleyway you found him in and slumped on your couch. This massive, hulking man with his empty gaze burning holes in your wall. It’s jarring, to say the least, watching him fight through his despair with the ferocity of a wild animal.

You tiptoe around him in his fragile state, leaving meals in the fridge for him when you go to work, shaking his shoulder when it’s time for bed and he can’t just stay on your porch, the night sky laughing in his face.

This kind of hyper-dissociation is something you’ve only ever seen once, a kind of surrender that pulls you under and makes you forget about yourself. That buzzing numbness is so cloying and addictive, static filling your ears like saltwater.

Your mother did not raise a quitter, though, so you do what you can. You go to work, you feed him, try to get him to leave the house sometimes. And this works, at least for a few weeks.

But even you have your limits, and you’ve had it up to here with Miguel’s moping.

Yes, you understand that he is devastated that he can’t go home. Yes, you understand that he’s a workaholic who is adrift without his responsibilities. But this, this is just sad. So you do the only thing you can do: you give him a job.

“C’mon, we’re going,” you drop a massive reusable tote bag onto his face.

He sputters, yanking it off, “Where the hell are we going?”

“It’s Saturday, the sun is shining, and the farmer’s market just opened. We’re going!”

“I am not going with you to the farmer’s market.”

“You are and you will. I need someone to carry my bags for me, and you’ve eaten enough of my groceries that it’s time to put those muscles to use. Let’s go!”

“I am not your bag man–”

(Spoiler alert: he is your bag man.)

You hum, content, sipping on your pistachio creme latte, wandering hands ghosting over a beautifully ripe nectarine. Miguel remains a few steps behind you, grumbling and (probably) whinging in rapid-fire Spanish. The tote bag already half full with fresh fruits, a loaf of your favorite cheese bread, and the world’s biggest stalk of rhubarb poking out of the top.

“Miguel! What do you think about peach cobbler for dessert tonight?”

“I do not care.”

“Aw, don’t be like that! It’s okay to admit you like the desserts I make. Remember when I made those scones last week? They were all gone by day three.”

Miguel doesn’t answer you, just rolls his eyes in what seems to be a shoddy impression of a moody teenager. You’re about to grab the attention of the stall owner to buy a crate of nectarines when both of you spot it at the same time.

A food truck, more specifically, a Mexican food truck that specializes in tamales.

“Want some?”

He doesn’t move, only murmurs your name, but you can see the longing in his eyes. Your hand finds his, pulling him along. His fingers grip tightly to yours, calluses pressing into your palm with a familiar, dream-like pressure.

And as you’re watching him house his ninth tamale, uncaring of the spectacle he’s making, you realize dimly this is the first time he’s ever said your name.

Miguel’s not a bad cook. A little awkward, sure, but he’s actually not half bad. The first time you see him in your kitchen, broad shoulders working diligently at chopping vegetables and tossing them into a smoking pan, you have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from gasping.

Miguel O’Hara, the same man who couldn’t get up from the couch two weeks ago, is cooking? Presumably for you? Holy shit.

Your hands dash out to try and poke his waist, “Well, I can’t say I expected this.”

He sidesteps you easily, not even bothering to turn in your direction, “Thought it was about time I start paying my dues.”

Ah, damn him and his spidey-senses.

You thought him cooking for you was a one-off, just a stroke of luck he was feeling generous, but then. Then, one day, you come home to a sound you’ve literally never come home to. The rumble of BOTH the dishwasher and the washing machine going at once. You’ve never wanted to hug a man and latch on more.

“Miguel?”

“What?”

“Did you… did you do the dishes and the laundry?”

“What does it sound like?”

“You wanna get married?”

He scowls at you, disgusted, “Ugh. Never.”

In the end, Miguel is exactly as upstanding as he seems. You start leaving your debit card and a subway pass with him, expecting him to only use them in an emergency. Miguel is still full of surprises, though, and he ends up taking over grocery shopping with the same militaristic efficiency as he does everything else. His grocery lists are always written in neat, square penmanship, scribbled on post-it notes you forgot you even had. You’re not sure when it started, but he also starts packing lunch for you. They’re really good and actually healthy, much better than the shitty cafeteria food you’d been relying on for years.

You introduce him to your brother’s old gym-bro ratpack, a group of guys that your brother used to lift with before he moved to Seattle. And, predictably, they love him.

The cabinets of your home, once empty, are now stocked with snacks and protein powder, fridge bursting with color, surfaces dusted to a glimmer.

The numbness, that persistent hunger for nothing slows to a halt. In the silence, the world giggles, mouth stained lollipop red, and presses a kiss to the roof of your home.

It becomes something of a routine:

1. Wake up to the smell of a fresh cup of coffee
2. Rush out for work as Miguel tosses you a bag with your lunch for the day
3. Come home exhausted, barely able to drag your feet through the foyer, only to feel significantly rejuvenated when you see your favorite 5’10” roommate standing in the kitchen
4. Complain about a coworker to Miguel, who acts more as a brick wall you can yell at
5. End the night together on the couch, usually with your head in his lap.

Tonight is an MSNBC night, Rachel Maddow’s righteous tenor occasionally punching through the blanket of night that’s settled around the two of you, even with the TV’s volume turned low. You’re half asleep, your phone drooping as the hand holding it slowly goes limp. Miguel draws random patterns in your hair, nails dancing along your scalp, when he suddenly asks, “Is this… what the people of your world worry about?”

“Huh?” you blink the sleep out of your eyes blearily.

Miguel glances down at you, apologetic for jerking you out of sleep, “Sorry. I, uh, it just seems so similar compared to the worlds that we come from.”

“Do your guys’ worlds also have political disagreements that people feel strongly about?”

“We do, it’s just the things we disagree about are so different, but still somehow so similar to what your politicians disagree about.”

You frown, “I’m not sure I follow. Got an example?”

“Like, uh,” one of Miguel’s fangs pops out from behind his lips, you smile fondly and thumb his lethal snaggletooth, “for example, the politicians in my world tried to make being a superhero illegal.”

“Right, like how politicians of this world try to make being gay illegal,” you point a finger at the TV, right as a graphic of LGBT supporters appears next to Rachel’s face, “it’s just corrupt people trying to maintain their power through fear-mongering and corruption.”

“Yes, but being a superhero isn’t something that you can just write a law about and make disappear.”

You laugh, “Neither is being gay, Miguel.”

“No! No, I know, of course not,” he at least has the sense to look somewhat sheepish, “but the world doesn’t end when a law gets passed. It’s just words and a piece of legislation, not an anomaly that has the ability to topple the multiverse, it’s different in that way.”

“‘Words and a piece of legislation?’ We both know laws are more than that, laws can ruin someone’s life without a big-ass laser beam that can vaporize New York, or whatever it is that goes on in your worlds.”

“It’s an awful realization, I guess. The way that people can still find a way to destroy each other. I thought it would be different.”

“Technically, it is,” you push yourself off of his thigh, yawning and stretching languidly, “but when people don’t constantly have to worry about the threat of some nuclear-level supervillain, they create their own.”

“Right,” Miguel doesn’t speak after that, eyes drifting back towards the TV. You both watch Rachel gesture with her pen, eyes narrowing in that sanctimonious way that only white women seem to be able to pull off, scoffing at Uganda’s anti-gay law. Miguel seems older in the harsh LED display of the TV, the wrinkles and scars on his face amplified by the only light in the room. Weighed down by it all. The urge to hug him resurfaces, and for once, you decide to let it win out. You wrap one arm tentatively around his shoulders, and when he has no discernible negative reaction, you go whole hog and pull him against you.

He is warm and solid, but somehow you can’t believe how delicate he feels in your arms. A slight tremor goes through him. Bunnicula, staring at you in the meadow, eyes wide and uneasy, a begging for tenderness.

You’re so, so afraid he’ll break right then and there if you squeeze too hard, but he tucks into you. His arms wrap around your waist and his head buried in the crook of your neck. Your lips rest against his crown, his hair smelling like your shampoo. The realization of that single intimacy slams into you like a semi-truck, leaving you breathless and wide-eyed, staring at your reflection in the mirror on your wall. The sin of feeling places its hands on your neck, pressing its putrid thumbs into your jugular, bares its rotten teeth in a horrible, loving smile.

“Miguel,” his name tastes like chocolate and blood, “Miguel. Miguel, I got you.”

It’s so immensely quiet that even you don’t quite hear your own words, but you know with all his spidey-senses he hears it. He hears it, curling further into you.

You pretend you don’t feel the wetness on your neck.

“Hello! There anyone in my house?”

“There is not, you’re in the wrong place.”

You skip into the dining room, nose in the air. The smell of spices and roasting chicken grabbing your hand and twirling you in a waltz. The familiar sight of Miguel in his navy blue apron never fails to make you smile, blue really is his color. You wrap your arms around him in a quick hug before heading to your room to shuck off the grossness of the day.

“Dinner’ll be ready in twenty.”

“Oki-doki! Thank you!”

You’re in the middle of pulling your shirt off and shimmying out of your work pants, bumping violently into the sweaters hanging in your closet when something thuds into your carpet. You stare, mystified. It’s a wristband? Of some kind? Looking more like a Rolex with an orange screen, you reach out and grab it, turning it over in your hands. The display screen is cracked and occasionally glitching, but is still clear enough that you can see figures and polygons scrolling through the screen.

Where the hell did this come from? You lock eyes with the sweater you were wearing the day you found Miguel, buried deep in your closet. You were too anxious at the time to clean that sweater, so you took the next logical step and just never cleaned it, shoving it as far away from you as possible. There’s a hole in that sweater, the exact size of the watch, and it hits you.

You’re left crumpled on the ground, staring at the watch in your hands. For a brief moment, the devil on your shoulder snickers and says, “Why don’t we pretend we never saw it? Plausible deniability, right?”

There’s a part of you, a stupid, selfish part of you that wants to hide it again. Wants to keep Miguel here, cheeks soft and healthy, body relaxed, wants to hold him so close he ends up on the other side of you.

But you can’t do that.

Not to him. Never to him.

You don’t know him anymore, or maybe you never did.

This version of Miguel, this prickly, reactive, angry, so angry, version of him is reminiscent of when you first found him.

You find him buried deep in concentration at the kitchen table, for the fourth late night in a row. He’s bent over the watch, nimble fingers moving rapidly with the small screwdrivers he’d rushed to buy at the hardware store.

“Miguel,” you touch his shoulder as lightly as you can, “go to sleep. The watch will still be here in the morning.”

He doesn’t even pretend like he didn’t hear you.

“Miguel,” you try one more time, shaking him a little harder.

The screwdriver twists. A screw clinks against the tabletop.

“Miguel!”

His arm whips around to push you away, his eyes flaring, “What.”

“Go to sleep. This isn’t good for you.”

“Good for me? I don’t give a shit what’s good for me when the fate of the multiverse is at stake.”

“Sure, but you can’t protect the multiverse without sleeping, even if it’s not much.”

“I have been sleeping regularly for months, my body can handle a few days.”

“Miguel, you being here for months without the world crumbling around us is more than enough proof that the multiverse is okay!”

“But it won’t be! If I’m not there to hold it together, it will fall apart! I need to protect–”

“You’re holding it together? What, you, a burnt-out, barely functioning, emotionally unavailable husk of a man? You wouldn’t trust a superglue with that description, much less someone who’s supposed to be the leader of an elite society!”

“What did you just call me?”

“Do you not remember what you were like when you first got here? You want me to show you pictures? You’re not going to like what you see.”

“I don’t care what I looked like, people need me!”

“Yeah, they need the you that’s a competent and empathetic leader! Not this,” you gesticulate wildly, “frantic mess!”

“Fuck you, I’m going back. I’m fixing my fucking watch and I’m going back. Don’t try to stop me.”

“Oh, what, are you threatening me now? Real mature, O’Hara. We both know how much better you’ve gotten, that’s worth something.”

He slams an angry fist onto the table, making the hardware clatter violently, standing up and stalking away. You slump against the counter and heave a sigh, but not before he tosses one more jab your way, “There is nothing worth staying here for.”

Because that’s the crux of it all, isn’t it? Someone always leaves first, someone always stays. There is no other version of this story, soap covered hands and stinging eyes.

And he goes first.

You’re not used to the house being so quiet. You’re not used to feeling so alone when you come home. Miguel’s holed himself up in his room, only coming out to use the restroom or grab a quick bite to eat.

The hurt in your chest is so heavy. It latches onto your sternum, pulling you down down down until you’re flat on your back in the living room, eyes closed listening to reruns of Whose Line is it Anyway. Drew Carey’s booming laugh fills the living room, helping you breathe a little easier when you hear the heavy thump of Miguel’s footsteps stop right near your head.

You keep your eyes closed. He doesn’t move. It’s a fun game of emotional Russian Roulette, his clawed hands resting on your temple. Who will you get this time? The rabbit, the blade, or the dog?

“I’m done.”

Oh. So that’s it. He’s done, done with the watch, done with this universe, done with you. You hate that it still hurts.

Colin Mochrie laughs, “Ohhhh, tapioca!”

The uproarious laughter upends you. It’s Schrodinger’s Spider-Man. He’s here but he’s not, if you just keep your eyes closed maybe he’ll always be here, standing right beside you, waiting for a response.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He walks away.

When you come home from work the next day, you’re expecting to come home to an empty house. Miguel had made it quite clear that he was ready to leave at the earliest possible convenience, and you certainly weren’t expecting him to say goodbye to you.

So it does something to your chest when you come home to a dinner table full of food, Miguel sitting in his usual spot, waiting for you. Your heart flip-flops at the sight of him after so many days of skirting around him. He looks awful, bags under his eyes, foot tapping in that nervous way it does when he’s exhausted.

“What’s all this?”

“Dinner.”

“I can see that. Is there any particular occasion I should know about?”

“No, I just felt like it.”

You snort, breaking the tension just a little bit, “You never ‘just feel like it’ O’Hara.”

He finally cracks a small smile, shrugging, “I’m a man that contains multiverses, what can I say?”

You set your bag down by the door and sit across from him. Neither of you touch the food, with the tacit understanding that this is the last time you’ll eat together. Miguel reaches a hand out to you, palm up, shaking slightly. You hear that thrum again, God banging his mic against the stage.

This is his apology, a stage play for an audience of three. It goes something like this:

O’HARA:

[Says something cruel. Does not mean to be. Does not recall how to be kind.]

(LAST NAME):

[Enduring, placating hands. Fingers weaving something softer.]

O’HARA:

[Grabs it with his claws. It falls apart. Cue dogshit behavior.]

(LAST NAME):

[Eyes slip closed. Backs away, arms clutching their middle. Does it hurt?]

O’HARA:

[Delirious, overjoyed, pushed back. It’s an acrid pyrrhic victory.]

[O’HARA rushes towards the ledge on all fours, panting, eyes wide and delighted. He’s back where he belongs. He looks up to see (LAST NAME) already on the ledge. He can’t stop himself, crashes into them and pushes them both over.]

[Thunderous applause! A happy ending!]

CURTAINS FALL. GOD GLIDES ON STAGE, TAKES A SINGULAR BOW.

Your fingers slot through his and you can’t, can’t, think about how much it feels like a homecoming. His hand is veined and frail in yours, but he never pulls away. The two of you finish dinner and wash the dishes together, quiet and peaceful. Miguel settles on the couch, waits for you to turn on the TV, but you slip into your room. You fold the tattered remains of his suit as neatly as you can and put it into a paper bag, an old Whole Foods bag from one of your first shopping trips with him.

When he leaves the next morning, he does actually have the decency to say goodbye to you. The whooshing of the hexagonal portal amazes you, the bright yellows and oranges stun you into silence.

“This is, uh, this is my ride,” Miguel places his hands on your shoulders and leans his forehead against yours, paper bag crinkling. Your arms slip around his waist like the tide, unwilling to release him.

You pull back just slightly and kiss his forehead, feather light and insistent. When you let go, he can’t stop himself from chasing you.

“Te quiero, Miguel,” you brush his bangs away from his face.

He doesn’t say it back, you don’t need him to.

He never stops looking at you, even as he backs into the portal, the last vestiges of his softness prostrating at your feet. It’s human on human connection. You’ll wait as long as you need to.

Chapter Text

You like to think you’re doing pretty well in Miguel’s absence. Sure, you haven’t opened the door to his room in months because the entire room smells like him and you don’t know if you can handle that. Sure, you don’t really even sit at the couch anymore because that was your spot, together. Sure, your physician scolded you for your rising cholesterol. And yeah, everywhere you turn you feel his absence blow through you with a cold wind.

So what?

You’re doing okay despite it all. At least you don’t have to pay double the water bill every month, right? And your grocery list has shrunk significantly. And you don’t have someone passive-aggressively glaring at you when you throw your coat off at the door. So yeah. You’re fine. Just peachy.

You’re doing fine, really, you are. Or at least you would be, had a familiar portal not burst open in front of you while you were in the middle of your rounds, dumping an unceremonious heap of limbs and blood on the linoleum floor.

You squint, scrambling back when the pile moves. Your squawk echoes in the hallway, “Miguel!?”

Miguel’s face is gaunt, cheekbones jutting out against the warm brown of his skin. He’s holding something in his arms, and if you’re not mistaken, that something is actively bleeding onto the floor.

“Please!” his words come in wild bursts, “Just stay next to him! Don’t move! I’ll be right back!”

And just as quickly as he came, he’s gone, back through the portal, leaving you once again trying to figure out how to clean up his mess. You can’t even ask him who “he” is, it’s a maddening state of confusion you’re forced into. So you turn your eyes elsewhere.

Your breath catches in your throat when you finally get a closer look at the figure Miguel thrust into your arms. This is no man, this is a teenager, this is a fucking baby. His boyish features are pinched in pain, teeth clamped down on his lip to try and keep his whimpers at bay. His gold bracelet glints with a sick sheen in the cold light of the hospital.

“Oh sweetheart,” you can’t stop yourself from stroking his hair, from trying to pry his bottom lip from between his teeth, “sweetheart look at me.”

His eyes finally open, a beautiful, honeyed brown, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“Sweetheart, I need you to stay awake,” you grip his hand, his small hand, already so scarred.

“It-it hurts,” he’s whining, small and scared.

You rub his knuckles with your thumb, heart breaking for the child in your arms, “I know baby. I know, but I can’t have you hurting yourself more. Here, do you have a girlfriend? Why don’t you tell me about her?”

The boy finally manages a smile, though it looks more like a grimace, at the mention of his girlfriend, “Oh, I do! Her name is Gayatri. She’s the most beautiful girl in the world! She’s so smart, so kind, did you know that she saves street dogs from getting run over by cars all the time? How is she so brave as well!?”

He babbles on about Gayatri, his mind managing to pull away from the pain radiating like the sun and onto his paramor. You try not to let him notice your anxious searching for Miguel, who still isn’t back yet, much to your chagrin. As much as you don’t want to go against Miguel’s frantic orders, you also don’t want this sweet boy to fucking bleed out.

Fuck this.

“Baby, I’m going to move you and apply some first aid, can you hang on to me?”

“I can! But um,” he winces, “can you not call me baby?”

You’re already moving by the time he asks, legs pumping as fast you can through the halls. You chuckle, a teenager is still going to be a teenager, huh?

“Oh yeah? What should I call you, then?”

“Just Pav! It’s easy, right? Pav, like lav, but with a P.”

“Sure thing, Pav.”

You finally find an empty hospital bed to lay him down on. It’s not the cleanest by any means, but it’ll fucking do for the moment. You kick the door open and set him down, mind whirring.

“Can I ask you a question?” Pav’s voice is already a bit stronger than it was while you were holding him on the ground.

“Already asking one.” Your hands are busy digging through the medicine cabinet in the room, trying to find some disinfectant and painkillers. Would be great if you could find some penicillin too.

“Oh!” he blinks, “You’re right! Well then, is Miguel in love with you?”

It takes everything in you to not throw your head back and start laughing. Being a kid, so difficult, but so uncomplicated.

“He is definitely not in love with me,” your smile is unbidden.

“So why does he look at your pictures so often?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions for someone who’s supposed to be on death’s door.”

“On death’s door?” Pav glances around, confused, “Is this not a bed?”

“It’s an expression, it means you’re about to die.” Aha! A bottle of penicillin joins the growing pile on the desk beside you.

“Ohhh! Well, I feel much better al–”

The door to the room slams open with a fierce clap, hinges moaning pitifully. You whirl around, scalpel in hand.

“What part of stay still do you not fucking understand!?”

Your tense shoulders sag at the sight of Miguel’s heaving chest. Oh thank god. Outraged hospital staff that might report you to the attending? No go. But a furious Miguel O’Hara? You can deal. Miguel grabs you, fingers trembling. His red eyes are just as pretty as you remember them. They glow, berserk with fear, with anger, with an unspoken longing.

“What was I supposed to do? Just let him bleed out on the fucking floor? We’re in a hospital, for god’s sake you can’t expect me to–”

“I can! When I tell you I need you to stay somewhere, you stay there! All you needed to do was wait for me!”

“You don’t tell me what to do, Miguel. I am not going to let a baby die just because you fucked up!”

“You don’t understand! Both of you could’ve been killed! You’re lucky he didn’t–”

“‘You don’t understand!’ ‘you’re lucky!’ ‘listen to what I say!’ I am not,” you jab a finger at his chest, “going to sit there while a child is dying. This is the second Spider-Man that’s bled all over me. I think I’m entitled to some fucking autonomy and respect.”

You can see a good portion of the fight evaporate from him when you mention your shared history. He sighs, covering his face with his hand. “I know, I know. I’m not trying to disrespect you. Please, querida, escúchame.”

“We’ll talk about it later. I need to patch Pav up,” you gather some of the bottles into your arms and deposit them next to Pav on the hospital bed.

You do your best to pointedly ignore Pav’s starry-eyed gawking. Instead, you focus on his wound, popping open the bottles of painkillers and antibiotics to hand Pav a few pills.

Jeez. This might be the second time you’ve seen the Spider-Men’s insane healing abilities, but it still surprises you how quickly their bodies stick themselves back together. By the time you’re finished wrapping Pav’s midsection with plaster, the poor boy’s long since obediently choked down the pills and is fast asleep. From exhaustion or pain you don’t know, probably both.

“Okay, that should hold,” you crack your back with a groan. God, you have to start doing more stretches if Miguel’s going to use your world as a spidey pit stop.

You can feel Miguel’s brooding gaze digging into your back, heavy and metallic. He says nothing, even though you know he wants to, just picks Pav up in his arms like a ragdoll and nods.

“Talk later?” There’s something hidden there, something pleading. You almost want to be cruel, reject him and make him feel the sting of your loneliness. But you don’t. Honestly, you can’t.

“Okay.”

The world around you flashes a warm, cinnamon red, caressing your cheek. Then they’re gone.

It takes Miguel two weeks to work up the nerve to see you again. No, of course it’s not that he’s scared to face the disappointment in your eyes again. Of course not.

He’s not a–

A– a fucking–

A fucking coward.

No, it’s just that he’s a busy man with the fate of the multiverse resting on his shoulders, so he doesn’t have the time. That’s all. And it would have continued to be all, except he made the mistake of letting Pav know about your existence.

And when Pav knows about something, the rest of the kids do too.

“Wai-wai-wait so,” Miles’s eyes are blown wide, the beef patty in his hand largely forgotten, “you met Whole Foods!?”

Pav’s hair flops against his forehead in tandem with his vigorous nods, “I did! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

“How can you be sure? Did they tell you they were Whole Foods?” Gwen’s skeptical eyebrow is almost touching her hairline.

“I’m so sure!” Pav bounces on the balls of his feet, “They’re the person in the pictures that Miguel’s always staring at! You should’ve seen it! They were–”

Miguel clears his throat, a harsh, grating sound that bounces off the walls of his lab. “Pav.”

Pav shrinks back sheepishly, “Oh! Miguel, I didn’t realize–”

“You didn’t realize I was here in my own lab?” Miguel rolls his eyes, “Lyla, the kids–”

“Not kids.” Miles grumbles

“ –seem to be under the impression that this is some sort of free-access lounge. Find them something to do.”

Lyla’s mischievous giggle tinkles around the room as she blinks down to the gossiping teenagers, “Oooh, dad’s mad! C’mon guys, go on, git! I think Jess mentioned she wanted some volunteers to help set some precautions for her maternity leave. Why don’t you guys go see her? She’s in Sector 3.”

“But–”

“She’s in.” Miguel glares at Pav, “Sector.” Glares at Gwen, “3.” Glares at Miles.

The kids all grouse under their breaths, but file out all the same. Fuck. Finally some quiet in here.

“Sooo,” Lyla’s drawl immediately breaks whatever concentration he’d managed to cobble together, “what’s this I hear about Whole Foods?”

“Nothing. You heard nothing.”

“I’m preeeetty sure I heard something, Miguel. I’m also pretty sure I heard you tell them you were going to talk later. How much later are we thinkin’?”

“Dios mío Lyla, please shut up.”

“No can do!”

Miguel slams a finger on his watch, a portal blooming in the darkness of the lab. “Not a word of this to the others, do you understand? If they ask, I’m just out getting some new materials.”

Lyla’s wolfish smile unnerves him more than he’d like to admit. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, good ol’ Miguel is totally just doing his job and not going to see Whole Foods. That would be soo crazy!”

“Would it kill you to cover for me?”

“You know what I’m waiting for.”

“Oh my god.”

“C’mon, c’mon!”

“Cover for me, please.”

“You got it!”

God he hates how smart he made her, sometimes.

“Thank you for being considerate and popping in on a Saturday instead of during the work week,” you look up from your drip coffee to see Miguel stepping into your living room, the low hum of the portal fading as it shrinks.

“You should’ve listened to me.”

“That’s how you want to greet me?”

A beat. You shake your head, fondness and irritation for the man in front of warming your chest in equal measure. You cross the chasm first, step towards him and open your arms. Miguel’s traversed through a lot of worlds. He’s met so many different versions of Spider-Man, lived so many lives, but there isn’t a single one where he wouldn’t fall into your arms.

He clings to you like summer sweat, balmy and insistent. It’s all he can do not to just collapse all of his weight onto you, beg you for something, anything. Your hands run up and down his back, nails occasionally scratching lightly. He’s forgone his suit for the first time in months, dressing down in a simple black shirt and joggers. You’d never know this and he would never tell you, but you’re the only one he’d ever let see him like this. It’s terrifying. It’s wonderful.

It’s you.

When you finally part (or, more, he finally loosens his grip enough to let you slip out), you take a long look at him.

“You look tired,” your hand finds his cheek, thumb sweeping over the cheekbone you’d thought was too sharp in the hospital.

He leans, heavy, against your hand, eyes half closed, “I am tired.”

Your rabbit is home, finally, his heart doing binkies in his chest. He’s so, so tired.

“I was just making some coffee, care to join?”

“Sure. Do you still prefer oat milk or–”

“Oh! Miguel don’t open the–”

Miguel opens the fridge door, expecting to see it the way he left it, or at least something analogous. Instead, he’s greeted with a true post-baccalaureate horror show of a fridge. Multiple half-empty pickle jars, a precariously balanced bottle of Barefoot moscato, stacked boxes of greasy takeout, some almost-rotting vegetables, and a single block of cheese.

He can’t even muster the energy to close the fridge door when he turns back to you in full disbelief. Your hands are covering your face, the only indication you’re still alive being the burning red of your ears.

“I don’t,” your words are muffled, “I don’t think I have oat milk.”

“Clearly.”

“Shut up.”

Miguel never would’ve guessed that the first thing he’d do when he came back to you was grocery shopping. So, technically, Lyla isn’t lying to the others when she tells them he’s out getting new materials. They’d just never know the new materials are for an idiot he’s grown far too attached to who can’t even feed themselves.

“Miguel, I don’t need any more vegetables. Don’t know if you noticed.”

The way he groans your name sounds like an accusation, “Pickles aren’t vegetables.”

“Uh, no, obviously not the pickles, I meant the cucumbers? The celery? And the head of lettuce?”

“Are you referring to the ones that have mold growing on them or the ones next to the mold?”

“I hate you.”

“That’s not a vegetable either.”

You wind your way through the store together, and it almost feels like he never left. The fishmonger at the seafood counter still recognizes him, tossing a free pound of shrimp into your cart with a conspiratorial wink. The butcher at the deli beams wide when she sees him, launching into a five minute conversation in Spanish that you can’t quite keep up with. But, you do catch snippets of hijo and haciendo bien! and amante throughout. Your rabbit is home, your rabbit is home.

Fuck. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t–

“You okay? The mold spores slowing you down?”

“Oh yuck it up, O’Hara, enjoy it while it lasts.”

He finally smiles, bigger than you’ve seen in so long, and wraps a sturdy arm around your shoulders to guide you away from the throng of people passing you on the street.

You’ve missed Miguel, yes, but you’ve also missed his cooking. Maybe even marginally a little more. You sigh, blissful, around a forkful of rice and tender beef, “Fuck! Miguel, you sure you don’t want to get married? I’ll sweep you off your feet, you just have to be my blushing bride.”

Miguel once again shoots down your offer with a look of revulsion, refusing to even think about the thrill of want that runs through him, “I’d rather bleed out in that alleyway again.”

“One of these days you’ll say yes, I just know it.”

“The day I come back to you with a clean, organized fridge is the day I say yes.”

“If you even come back.”

It slips out before you can stop it. The quiet clinks of metal against ceramic cease immediately, tension flooding back in the room.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“It’s okay. You did.”

You did. Flimsy. Tinged yellow.

“It’s just, the first time I see you again in months and it’s so you can drop off a kid who’s dying. And then you just,” your chin goes tight, “you just left.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I don’t– I’m not looking for an apology. I just want to know why.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Miguel–”

“I am, and it’s not that I didn't want to come see you.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“It’s not safe,” your name is like holy water on his tongue.

“Not safe? I thought we already established we literally don’t have superheroes or supervillains here.”

“It’s not–” he heaves a frustrated sigh, “it’s not just about superheroes and supervillains. It’s about the multiverse.”

“Is that just your catch-all whenever you don’t want to explain something? Can you be a little more vague?”

“Can you be a little more patient?” he doesn’t want to snap at you, really, he doesn’t, but he can’t help it. You’re getting close now, closer than ever before to knowing, to seeing. He hates it. He wants it. He hates that he wants it. “It’s much more complicated than just superpowers, one wrong move and you could’ve died that day.”

“How? A nurse launching a chair at my head? A surgeon pulling a bazooka out of their asshole?”

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

There’s something maddening about talking to Miguel when he’s like this. The clamshell of his heart draws closed, cutting your fingers to the bone when you try to pry it open. He is unyielding, stalwart to a fault. The air is still, you have no more chisels at your disposal.

You lean back, eyes narrowed at him. “Fine. If you don’t want to talk about it, let’s pivot. Want to explain to me who Pav is?”

“Pavitr Prabhakar, he’s the Spider-Man from Earth-50101,” relief, release. This, he can do, this is safe, “he’s a good kid. A little chatty, but he’s smart and he’s fast.”

“But he is a kid.”

Something in Miguel’s mind screams at him to backpedal, to fight his way out of this gin trap.

“That is not a fair parameter to judge him by. You don’t understand the severity of his, our, situation.”

“Miguel,” cashmere soft, spider-silk thin, “is he a kid?”

One Spider-Man. Two Spider-Man.

“Yes.”

Silence. The crushing, overbearing, noisome stench of your disappointment and horror seeps into him. It hooks into his mouth, threatens to pull his lungs out from his throat. A rabbit corpse, fetid in its entirety, maggots wriggling in his cavities. He knows. You know. There is nothing he can say that will make it better.

“I think you should go,” your voice is still so faint.

He leaves the way he’s always left.

First.

Miguel’s been acting weird.

The more accurate phrase would be more along the lines of completely unreasonable, maniacal asshole, but that’s just semantics. Everyone can feel it. The pulse of tension that runs through HQ is harsher than ever, but what’s worse is no one knows why.

“Someone’s gotta talk to him,” Jess rubs a hand over her swollen stomach, “this can’t keep up, it’s getting to people.”

“If you want to get your head ripped off, be my guest, but I’m kind of enjoying him not scream–”

“PETER!” Miguel’s roar rips out through his communicator, “LAB. NOW.”

Jess stifles a laugh with the back of her palm, patting Peter’s back, “Hate to say it, but I think you jinxed it.”

Peter shoves his feet back into his slippers, hating the begrudging groan and creak of his knees, “Mayday! We’re going to see uncle Miguel! Come here, sweetie!”

Mayday giggles, her chubby leg waving around as she swings down into her father’s arms.

“You’re bringing Mayday?” Jess pinches her soft cheek playfully, “Is that a good idea?”

“It’s a great idea, Miguel can’t kill me if she’s there.”

“Your funeral.”

His funeral indeed. Miguel’s lab is a true pigsty. Or, since they’re all spiders, a spidersty? English was never really Peter’s strongest subject in school. He steps over mounds of wadded up paper, stuck to the ground with webs to prevent them from flying everywhere. Miguel looks worse than Peter’s ever seen him, hair unkempt, claws fully unsheathed, red eyes intense in their movement.

“Hey Miguel! To what do I owe the pleasure? Ooh, do you finally want to see some more pictures of Mayday?”

Peter arcs up in an easy movement, holding a gentle hand on Mayday’s head just in case she slips out of the babybjorn. While normally he’d throw an arm around Miguel’s shoulders, something tells him touching Miguel would be extremely ill-advised. Toe to livewire, flint to kindling. He keeps his distance.

“What the fuck is this last report you submitted?”

“Language,” it’s instinct, at this point. Peter blinks, fast and confused, “Report?”

A sheaf of papers slaps down in front of him. “It’s sloppy and reads like shit. Fix it and resubmit it.”

“You,” Peter’s jaw works overtime trying to find the words, “you called me over here like that because you wanted me to revise a report?”

“Problem?” Miguel’s growl sounds like it’s coming from the belly of a not-so-distant beast.

“No, not necessarily,” Peter treads as carefully as he can. Damn, Jess is right. Someone has to talk to him. He just didn’t want it to be him. “So you just needed me to resubmit this report?”

“Fix it and resubmit. Don’t tell me your hearing’s fucked too.”

“Woah, woah, okay,” Peter grabs Miguel’s wrist, turning him to look closer at his face, “Okay, relax.”

“Fuck you–”

“Language! My daughter is here!”

“She shouldn’t be.”

“Yeah, but she is, so watch it, mister! And what’s going on with you, anyway?”

“Nothing. Is going on.”

“Mmm, hate to disappoint but if both me and Jess agree you’re being weird, then you’re being weird. What is it?”

“Nothing–”

Lyla’s voice, serious for once, pops in and out like a flickering light, “Whole Foods.”

Miguel punches his console, frenzied, “LYLA!”

It clicks.

The pictures of a stranger, the bag Miguel won’t let anyone touch, the sudden anger issues after a “material run.”

“Did something happen when you went to see Whole Foods?”

“I did not see–”

“Miguel,” Peter stands taller, “did something happen?”

The rubber band between them is pulled taught, but Peter doesn’t want to look away. They’re inching closer and closer to the denouement now, so he gives it one final push. “It’s okay. It’s okay that they make you feel something.”

Miguel slumps against the console, marionette strings slashed to pieces. Mayday babbles at her place on Peter’s chest, fingers reaching out to try and comfort Miguel.

“Fuck you.”

Peter smiles, pulls his friend into a tight hug. “Language.”

You don’t expect Miguel to come back, at least not for a long while. You’re not sure you’re ready to see him, given how the past few weeks had gone. It’s a lot for one person: seeing someone you missed so much only for him to disappear an hour after, just to reappear after two weeks, shame you for your fridge, and then argue with you about employing a child soldier.

You love him, really, you do, but he exhausts you. You just wish he could be honest with you.

You trudge home after a long shift, your feet screaming in protest as you climb the stairs of your porch. The subway had been extra cruel today, jam-packed with people, a gaggle of French tourists blocking the doors almost making you miss you stop, and on top of all of that, you stepped in a fucking puddle. A New York subway puddle. You need a fucking shower and a nap.

That’s not what you get, though. Instead, you’re greeted with the sight of Miguel O’Hara, baby in one hand, vacuum in another, vacuuming your living room, another man lounging at your dinner table, plucking grapes off the stem.

“What the fuck.”

The man at the dinner table turns his head, affable brown eyes lighting up when he spots you. “Whole Foods! Miguel, turn that thing off, Whole Foods is home!”

Miguel clicks the vacuum off, posture awkward and stiff. “This is uh–”

The other man rolls his eyes, “I’m Miguel’s friend Peter, and that,” he points to the baby climbing Miguel’s shoulders like a jungle gym, “is my daughter Mayday! And you must be the elusive Whole Foods!”

You laugh when you give him your name, “I don’t know how you extrapolated my name to be Whole Foods, but it’s a grocery store chain in this universe.”

“In this uni– oh no, has Miguel’s boring multiverse blah blah blah infected you already?”

“No, no, just that historically whenever Miguel comes to visit, he brings me a fun present of an interdimensional person that I have to take care of for a little, so. I like to cover my bases.”

Miguel shifts uncomfortably in your periphery. Peter, however, seems delighted at your dismissal of him. “Miguel, Miguel, I love this one.”

“While I appreciate it,” your foot feels like it’s going to slough off soon from the germs, “I really need to change and take a shower. Make yourselves at home. If you need anything, Miguel probably knows where it is.”

Peter salutes you with a grin, eyeing Miguel, their voices fading after you close the bathroom door.

Feeling refreshed from your shower and new set of clothes, the familiar scent of food being prepared draws you closer to the kitchen. Upset as you are at Miguel, you still don’t want to ice him out. You know he’s trying his best, it’s just hard to face him right now, moral quandary and all. Before you can make your way down the hall to the dining area, a babble catches your attention.

Mayday stares up at you, her round, curious eyes gazing at your face. Her little arms reach up, tottering, asking to be picked up.

Dammit, Miguel knows exactly how to find the chinks in your armor. A fun friend, a cute baby, and a nice meal are exactly what you need right now. You pick her up, fingers tickling her tummy, smiling at her rambunctious giggles.

“Hi sweet girl, are you having fun?” you kiss her forehead, baby powder and innocence filling your nose, “Here, I know something you can play with.”

You grab the bunny doll your niece left behind when your brother came to visit you some time ago, its floppy ears brushing your arm. Mayday squeals, excited, grabbing it from your hand and immediately gnawing on it.

“And I’m telling you,” Peter’s voice comes from the kitchen, “baby powder really works! People never believe me but oh man the chafing–”

“You are so obnoxious.”

“Say what you will, man! Ask Miles, he’ll tell you–”

“Who’s Miles?”

Peter breaks away from his spot on the counter, sweeping both you and Mayday towards the dinner table. “He’s a kid I mentored some time ago. I think you’d like him, he’s one of the reasons I had this little one!”

Mayday’s giggles are muffled by the rabbit, but the joy is still there.

“A kid?” The kitchen grows a few degrees colder, “Another one?”

It’s there again, that choking disappointment. Miguel doesn’t look at you. Pulls a pan from the stove.

“Let’s eat.”

Dinner is about as tense and quiet as you’d expect, but having Peter as a buffer is surprisingly effective. You have to hand it to Miguel, the guy is a lot of fun. By dessert, you’re comparing notes with Peter about the subtle differences between pop stars in his universe and yours. You can almost forget why you’re upset, can push it down far enough that it’s just a whisper of a thought. But Miguel takes quick glances at you when he thinks you can’t see, fingers tapping against the table, and you know you can’t put it off any longer.

“Okay then, let’s get to it. I’m sure you guys didn’t come to just have dinner and chat with a stranger.”

Peter, in his ever-adaptable social skills, cradles a snoring Mayday, “Don’t get me wrong, I definitely wanted to meet you. But, uh, yes. You’re right, that’s not the main reason we’re here.”

All bets are off. “Child soldiers? I can stomach a lot, but child soldiers?”

“They’re not child soldiers,” Miguel speaks to you for the first time since turning off the vacuum.

“Are they children?”

“Yes, but–”

“Are they soldiers?”

“Okay, not technically,” Peter looks somewhat embarrassed.

“Not technically is still part technically. They’re child soldiers.”

Miguel looks away, running a frustrated hand over his face. “Yes, they’re young, but they’re not just weapons we build. They have their own lives they live, we only call on them when we need them to defend their universes.”

“But in the end they still need to participate in defending their universe.”

“They want to defend their universes,” Miguel finally looks into your eyes, “they know they have a responsibility.”

“So a child consenting to being used by a larger institution makes it okay? You can see why I find this all a bit. I don’t know. Unpleasant, can’t you?”

“WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY!” Peter’s sudden shout breaks the intense staring contest you’re engaging in. He looks like he’d rather throw up than say the words, you have no idea why, but they’re quite effective.

“How astute.”

“Shut up, Miguel,” Peter groans into Mayday’s stomach, who somehow still hasn’t woken up with all the noise.

“I told you you’d have to use it.”

“Wait repeat that? With great power?”

“With great power,” Peter looks nauseous, “comes great responsibility.”

“Quite the poet you are, Peter,” your words are sarcastic, but he’s actually broken through to you.

“It was my uncle Ben, actually.”

“Well then give him a pat on the back for me.”

“Can’t. He’s dead,” Peter’s eyes drift to the window, “Died because I couldn’t save him. I was 17.”

“I’m– I’m so sorry.”

Peter puts his hand on yours, rough and warm. “It’s what happens to us, to Spider-Man. We don’t have a choice. I get that it’s awful to think about those kids out there, fighting crime and monsters,” he gestures to Mayday, “I have a panic attack every time someone even looks at her the wrong way. But we have these abilities, and they can’t be for nothing.”

You look back and forth between Peter and Miguel, see, truly see, Miguel’s fear in a new light. They’re so used to losing people, aren’t they? You give Peter’s hand a final squeeze, Miguel a reassuring smile.

“I still don’t like it,” you hold up a hand before Peter can say anything, “but I’m starting to understand. I’m sorry I made such a snap judgment, it was presumptuous of me.”

Peter grins at you, all stubble and fatherly pride, “Still, it’s nice to know there’s someone looking out for us.” He stands with a grunt, clapping Miguel on the shoulder. “Are you kids okay if I skedaddle? This one’s bedtime was an hour ago, if I’m any more late I think my wife might actually kill me.”

Miguel looks at you, unsure, searching for your permission. You reach out and hold his hand, his fingers latching onto yours immediately.

“We’re good. Thank you, Peter, it was really wonderful to meet you.”

Peter winks, slipping through the portal his watch creates. And just like that, he’s gone.

“Thank you for–”

“I hope that–”

You both stop talking, trying not to cut the other off. You can only laugh, giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. You were so mad at him, and the only thing he could think to do, instead of talking to you, was tag in a wingman and a baby?

You bring your interlocked hands to your lips, kissing his knuckles. Your silly, clumsy, lovely rabbit.

“Are we,” he stumbles, “are we okay?”

“You know that I’m not going to leave you, right?”

He chokes. Too much too much toomuchtoomuch–

You can’t have this conversation at the dinner table. You pull him to your couch, the couch that bore witness to so much of your relationship. You fall together, tangled, his head on your chest, your leg between his, hand still in hand. Heartbeat on heartbeat, multiverse settling in for the night.

“I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Guess you’ll just have to rescue me, right, Spider-Man?”

A puff of warm air hits your clavicle. “Right.”

Breakfast the next morning is an interesting affair. Miguel’s face is carved into a permanent scowl, Peter and Jess with the biggest shit-eating grins their lips can feasibly stretch into standing next to him. They’d found the two of you, nuzzled together, on the couch, and proceeded to take a barrage of photos and selfies.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Jess’s laugh is kind and infectious, “look at this one!”

She shows Peter another photo of the two of you, zoomed into Miguel’s face, a line of drool slipping out of his mouth.

Peter cackles, high and glittering, “You have to send that one to me! Oh my god, Miles is going to die!”

“Wait, let me see!” You put a hand on Jess’s forearm, peering at the picture.

“Enough!” Miguel muscles all three of you out of his space, “Delete the fucking photos! Get the fuck out!”

“Aww, someone’s cranky they didn’t get to sleep more with their–”

“I will kill both of you if you don’t leave right now.”

Jess chuckles one final time before straightening her jacket out. “I’d love to, but Lyla actually asked us to come get you, she said there’s a new anomaly that popped up on 556. We need you back at HQ.”

“What? Why didn’t she just tell me herself?”

“She said, and I quote, ‘Nah, don’t feel like it.’ Which,” Peter nods, “fair point.”

Miguel growls, muttering something quickly under his breath. “Fine, fine, open a portal. I’m coming.”

You stand back, sipping on the remainder of your latte. Your exclusion from their conversation doesn’t feel cold, in fact quite the opposite. You like that they trust you enough to even be privy to their discussions. The other two step aside, evidently done talking, and shoot you smug, knowing looks as Miguel returns to you.

“I do actually need to go now, but I wanted to leave something here with you,” he rummages around in his pocket, “I know it’s not as flashy as an engagement ring, I still think you should accept it.”

He pulls out a watch that looks very similar to the ones that all three of the Spider-People are wearing, if a little smaller and simpler.

“Miguel O’Hara, are you proposing to me?” You stage gasp, throwing a dramatic hand to your chest, “I never thought the day would come!”

He chuckles with a shake of his head, shaggy hair covering his eyes. “May I do the honors?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

He attaches the watch to your wrist, clicking into place with a gentle hiss. With a press of the red button next to the display screen, a list of contacts pops up.

“This one is mine, this one is Peter’s, and this one is Jess’s,” he holds your gaze, unwavering, “If anything happens to you, do not hesitate to contact us.”

“And you’ll come rescue me?”

“I’ll come rescue you.”

You lean on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your eyelids.

“Be safe, Miguel.”

“Haría cualquier cosa por ti.”

In a brilliant flash of orange and red, they're gone.

Chapter Text

“And you’re one hundred percent positive you have the right person? Because if we get caught–”

You’re not sure how you thought you would wake up this Sunday, but it wasn’t like this. The sound of hushed whispers rouses you, a girl’s husky voice finally pushing past the curtain of sleep.

“I’m sure! Miguel told me to come check up on them and gave me the coordinates, so I’m sure!” You recognize that voice. Indian accent curling softly around the consonants, optimistic and charmingly boyish. It’s Pav.

“Now that I’m lookin’ at them, they do look exactly like the pictures.” You don’t know this one, but he has a smooth tenor.

“Can’t trust cameras,” woah, you haven’t heard a Cockney accent that thick since you finished The Crown, “they show you what’s captured in the moment. Adam and Eve only what the photographer wants you to.”

“I think Miguel wanted to photograph them, Hobie,” the girl’s voice is back, “so I’d say the pictures are pretty accurate.”

“Ehh, I still think they look better in person,” the boy who’s not Pav speaks up again.

Okay, this is getting weird. You crack your left eye open as slowly as you can so you don’t scare the kids, finally getting a view of the ragtag bunch that’s, for lack of better term, broken into your home. They’re standing a few feet away from your bed, huddled in a tight group, talking to each other in quiet murmurs.

“We should leave before they wake up. Miguel only told Pav to come, if he catches the rest of us here, he’ll be so pissed,” the only girl in the group pleads with the others, the pink-blonde of her hair catching the sunlight filtering in through your blinds.

“Come on Gwen, he’s not gonna catch us,” the not-Pav boy waves an unconcerned hand.

“Okay, but you don’t know that.”

“I do, just trust me! I already escaped from him once, I can do it again.”

“Miles!”

The tallest of the group, massive wicks decorating his scalp, grins, piercings winking like lights, “Attaboy Miles.”

At least you’ve confirmed they all know Miguel. But what’s next? Teenagers are nothing out of the ordinary, but a veritable armada of them? And all of them probably being Spider-People? You’re starting to understand why Miguel was so reluctant to let you know more about Spider Society.

“Are you guys going to keep chatting or can I get up now?”

The entire group (minus who you assume is Hobie) jolts, Miles letting out a girlish shriek.

“Ohmygod you’re awake–”

“I’m so sorry for disturbing you we–”

“Hi! It’s great to see you again–”

“Gettin’ a head start on us, I see you–”

All four kids start talking over each other, making your just-woke-up haze even murkier. You groan, holding up a hand. To their credit, they all know when to shut up.

“I don’t even want to hear it. Fuck, I need coffee.”

“Woah, they even talk like Miguel,” Miles whispers to Gwen, who smacks him on the arm.

“I can’t,” you’re so overwhelmed, “just, get out, all four of you. Go raid the pantry for cereal or something, I don’t know.”

“Yep, uh huh! Yeah, you got it!” Gwen gives you a stiff salute and practically body checks the three boys out of your bedroom. Pav manages a wave and a bright smile before he’s forced out by Gwen.

“And close the door!” A string of web flies out to slam your door shut.

You land back against your mattress with a fwump.

Good fucking morning.

The first thing you do is give Miguel a call. While you’re normally not a fan of snitching, you’re also not sure what your exact responsibilities are when four interdimensional, superpowered children suddenly show up in your home on a random Sunday. Granted, you’re familiar with one of them, but then that still leaves three you’re not.

“Hello! Lyla on Miguel’s line! He’s a bit busy so he can’t pick up right now!” Lyla’s bright smile flickers into view after a few seconds of ringing.

“Oh! Hey, Lyla, how are you this morning?”

“I’m hunky-dory, thanks for asking! What can I do for you? Need me to pass something along to Miggy?”

You really like Lyla. While she might be AI, she’s still someone you have fun talking to, especially because she’ll sometimes send you photos of Miguel in the middle of fighting, eyes half-closed and mouth twisted into a shape you hadn’t previously thought possible. They’re usually accompanied with the caption “Heh, doesn’t he look stupid?”

“Yeah, can you let him know that some stray kittens wandered into my house this morning? As cute and sweet as they are, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do in this situation.”

Lyla kicks her feet in a giggle, heart-shaped sunglasses glinting in that same playful manner it always does. “Roger that! Anything else you want to tell him?”

“Nope, that’s about it. Love your shades, by the way.”

Lyla beams at you, eyes squinting like a pleased cat, “Thank you! You know, Miguel never notices when I change something, only when I change something bigger. Did you know in one of my original designs he was going to give me a Marilyn Monroe dress? Guess that lets us know more about his tastes, huh?”

You let Lyla continue rambling, with the occasional noncommittal noise of surprise when she says something more out there. She chatters over the hum of your electric toothbrush, squeaking and dodging out of range of the splashes of water. Your skincare routine goes by quickly, though it’s mostly because you’re trying to hurry and fix whatever chaos you assume is going on outside the confines of your small bathroom.

“Oh!” Lyla’s eyes flick over to an invisible notification to her left, “That’s Miguel calling. I think he needs me to dispatch backup or something, I don’t know. I should get going, but it was great to catch up!”

You wave her off with a tired smile, and with a final swipe of moisturizer you turn to your bathroom door.

When you finally manage to drag yourself out of the bathroom to take a closer look at the intruders Pav brought with him, it’s 45 minutes later and you’re fully expecting them to have gotten impatient and left. To your surprise, they’re actually still there, showing no signs of wanting to leave anytime soon.

Pav and Hobie have made themselves comfortable, Pav sitting cross legged on your dining table while Hobie flicks idly through the channels on your TV. Gwen and Miles are a little more reserved, Miles sipping on a glass of water glancing around your home and Gwen anxiously fiddling with her watch.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of not one but four Spider-People waking me up?”

Pav is the first to speak, the only one of the four that’s actually met you before. His sweet face is still as bright as the sun as he jumps down from the table, “Hello! It’s good to see you again!”

You chuckle and pull him into a tight hug, “It’s good to see you too, sweetheart, you’re looking much better than the last time I saw you. Who’ve you brought me?”

“These are my friends,” He makes a sweeping gesture to the other three kids, “Hobie, Miles, and Gwen! I told them all about you, but they were so curious that I brought them to meet you.”

Gwen doesn’t like the unimpressed look that hasn’t left your face, but Hobie’s calm dismissal of the literal crime they’re committing manages to settle her nerves when she pipes up, “I’m really sorry if we disturbed you this morning, we’ve just heard so much about you and we wanted to see who you were, but Miguel doesn’t let anyone talk about you, so. We thought our best shot would be Pav.”

“Is my existence some closely guarded secret?”

“Nah, not necessarily,” Miles plays with the rim of his cup, “A lotta people know who you are, but only a couple people have actually met you.”

“Wanted to see what the fuss was about,” Hobie’s voice flows like winter rain, heavy and cool.

“So? What’s the verdict?” you mock-curtsy, “Like what you kids see?”

“You look wonderful!” Oh, Pav, always the charmer.

“Out of Miguel’s league.”

“Dazzling.”

It’s a sweet chorus of encouragement, if anything.

“So is there anything I can do for you guys? Or did you just want to take a gander at my beautiful face?”

Miles’ nose crinkles, doe-like, “Who uses the word gander anymore?”

Gwen snorts, but quickly covers her mouth, a sheepish glance directed your way. You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop the wry smile that plays on your lips.

“I’m going to get my coffee started, but if you kids want to–”

“You got any food?” Hobie’s already halfway through raiding your pantry, “We didn’t eat before getting here, would appreciate a bite or two.”

“Oooh,” Pav hops up, joining him, “I know where they keep all their cereal!”

Given a couple minutes, all the kids manage to find something to do or look for. You settle yourself at your kitchen table, scrolling through the news on your phone. It’s nice, all things considered, to have this bustle of movement around you. You’ve forgotten what it feels like to be surrounded by life, not just getting lost in the mundanity of existing. And, by the looks of it, the kids are enjoying themselves in the same way.

“I thought I made myself very shocking clear when I said not to visit them.”

Three of the kids freeze in motion, minus Hobie who tosses an apathetic look at the hologram that has rudely interrupted what you would consider a nice morning. It’s incredible, really, when you look back on it: Miles and his half mixed pancakes, Gwen in the midst of setting the table, clutching the fork in her hand like a string of pearls, and Pav desperately glancing back and forth between the bubbling milk on the stove and his very angry boss.

Miguel’s hologram pulses an angry orange as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “What was it that I said the first, second, and millionth time you asked me if you could see them?”

“Well you never said I couldn’t go see them–” Pav pipes up

“You can’t go see them,” Miguel’s eyebrows are pulled so taut you’re worried they might permanently get locked like that, “does that settle it? I want all four of you back here in the next twenty minutes or I’m suspending all of you.”

“Can we at least finish breakfast? I’m so hungry!” Miles’ voice is almost a whine, balancing the bowl of pancake mix against his stomach.

“No! If you want food, there’s food at HQ!”

“But the pancakes aren’t–” Gwen and Miles protest at the same time.

“Now! Do I make myself clear!?”

There is another flurry, albeit reluctant, of movement. Bowls are returned gingerly to the counter, pots pulled off the stove, silverware dropped back into their container. You can’t help the guilt that stabs through you when you see the drooping posture of the kids as they prepare to head back to HQ, Miguel’s watchful eyes and crossed arms standing at attention.

It doesn’t help that Hobie’s lips pull down at the corners, his eyes narrowing at you, disappointed, “Did you grass on us?”

You sigh, “I did, I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t take you for one to do that. Judgment’s been off these days.” Ah, shit, he is disappointed in you. Why does a teenager’s disappointment sting so much!?

All the kids have taken on the look of wet puppies, shuffling their way into your living room for more space to go back to HQ. You groan, internally. The guilt is just too much to bear. First you’re snitching on kids and then what? Work for the fucking cops? Fuck it, you have to make things right.

“Okay! Guys, stop. I’m sorry I tattled, all right?” You turn to Miguel. If you could take his hands right now, you would, but your options are severely limited when he’s in his spectral form, “Miguel, breakfast won’t take long. If they’re going to eat anyway, why can’t they just finish up here and then go back? As it happens, I have way too much bacon in the fridge for just myself.”

That’s a lie, kind of. One look at Miguel’s incredulous face tells you all you need to know about how he feels about the kids ripping through the bacon he bought just a few days ago.

Now you’ve got their attention, though. Gwen perks up, “There’s bacon?”

You wink at her, “Thick cut, applewood smoked. The good stuff.”

Suddenly, there are five sets of puppy-dog eyes trained on Miguel at once, all of them so woundingly sad he almost agrees.

Almost.

“The answer is still a no, it doesn’t matter how long you look at me for.”

“Pleeeaaasee Miguel!”

Okay, you ratted them out, but you’ll be damned if you don’t make up for it by letting them stay and eat breakfast.

“Miguel,” you take a tentative step closer to him, “would it make you feel better if you came and ate with us? Lyla told me you’ve been out on a mission all day, maybe you could join us. You know, reup on some calories or something.”

His face softens, just a little bit, but it’s enough to where you can finally work your oyster knife into the chink of his armor. “I–”

“Seriously, I promise it won’t take long. Pav said he’ll make his aunt’s chai recipe, and I can get started on some eggs?” You aim an award-winning smile at him, one you know he’s going to have a hard time resisting, “You’ve been working so hard lately, come eat with us! It’ll be fun, won’t it, kids?”

Three heads bob furiously at you, a blinding hope beginning to creep back into their faces.

It really should be humiliating how easily you’re able to wear him down. Just a few nice words and a smile should not be enough to convince an interdimensional superhero to, essentially, come home to eat dinner, but somehow it is. Still, he has to save face, even if a little.

“No, this is not up for discussion,” a little resistance here, a little pull there.

You know this game well enough by now, one where he refuses to admit defeat until the bitter end. Fine, you know how to push. “Listen, it’s fine if you don’t want to, I’m just saying I think it would be nice if you came to eat with us.”

From behind your back, you motion to the kids to continue doing what they were doing. A small grin finds its way to your face when you hear the quiet clanks of tableware starting once again.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s not appropriate.”

“Yeah, like you’d know anything about appropriate,” Hobie pipes up from behind you, rolling his eyes.

“What–”

“Because!” you interrupt before all of your hard work can be undone by Hobie’s irritation, “It’s not inappropriate at all! We don’t work together, so there’s no HR violation or anything. Do you guys have an HR department? No one’s ever mentioned anything like that.”

Miguel heaves a beleaguered sigh, scratching his temple. Oh, good, you know this move, this comes directly from the “Miguel is too tired to argue but still wants it to seem like he’s a responsible adult” playbook, and next he’s going to say–

“All right, but just this once. I do not want this to become a habit.”

Bingo.

(it will absolutely become a habit.)