Chapter Text
Gabriella loved that toy more than anything.
It's a wholly inappropriate, truly not-fit-for-the-situation type of thought to have in the middle of an active bank robbery, but it's the only thought that permeates through his entire being and infects his mind like ink spreading through water. More like poison spreading through his veins, actually, with how it makes his heart race to keep his knees from wobbling and his parched throat go tight.
You see- Gabriella absolutely adored this one TV show. Like, abnormally so.
Miguel'll pretend to fumble with the names, but he knows every single detail by heart because he'd sit down with her on his lap like a bear cub on the couch, every single Saturday morning, to watch that show.
She always thought it was because he finally had time off work- being a smart scientist all the time must be so exhausting, dad!- but he hasn't stepped foot into alchemax for longer than he can care to remember. Miguel made time for her, whenever he wanted to, whenever she wanted him to. Crime before noon be damned.
The thing about that show in particular- is that when Gabriella loved something very much, she was going to let anyone who can listen know just how much. Anyone usually just being Miguel himself.
(Miguel still remembers the main characters' blood types. From their Wikipedia page. The one Gabriella had read to him out loud one fateful Tuesday, then quizzed him on right after.
He might just shoot himself in the chest again if he ever forgets.)
The show was called Cosmoball Champions- in which an average 4-man team of highschool soccer players end up accidentally agreeing to compete in multi-dimensional contests, with multi-dimensional beings that for whatever reason still look humanoid hell-bent on destroying them and their earth in particular.
And of course the solution to multi-dimensional disputes is wagers over football matches! Of course! God, if only it could ever be that easy.
Gabriella's favorite (and Miguel's, though he'd never admit to someone else he was invested enough to have a favorite) was a girl named, coincidentally enough, Gabby. Long dark hair tied up in a ponytail, endless overflowing optimism, and a dad that loves her very much and cheers her on every match.
"She's just like me", Gabriella would say, smiling wide, and Miguel would smile right back and ignore the harrowing guilt that comes with wearing clothes that aren't your own, and watching morning television with a daughter you had no part in raising.
Now, fast-forward to the situation at hand: bank robbery. Because anomalies don't care that they don't have a house or hideout or any form of tethering to this universe, apparently. If they were fortunate enough to be flung through a multi-dimensional gate with a weapon, most likely chance is they're gonna use it.
So, bank robbery, and one of the kids is clutching at a Gabby figurine with all his might- it's a rare collectible, Miguel knows this because he had to join an overpriced auction for Gabriella's own toy- and trying really hard to be brave and not cry. Seeing as he's about 6 he ultimately fails, but no one could really blame him for that. The kid locks eyes with Miguel, and memories flash in Miguel's mind and distort his vision till his brain is warping and throbbing with his daughter's reflection.
By the time the useful part of Miguel's brain- the part that doesn't stay hung up on things he can't change- catches up to the alarming circumstances, there being a giant gauntlet heading directly his way and all, a resounding crunch of skin-meets-metal echoes through the walls and his face rears very sharply to the right. His jaw aches. He's pretty sure his nose is busted. The kid cries even harder, and Miguel very pointedly doesn't steal one last glance at the tag to see what store the toy's from even though it should be the last thing on his mind, because that would just be dreadfully, embarrassingly selfish of him, something he's vowed to himself never to be again. Never. Again.
……
It's definitely not Toy Nook over on 5th avenue.
—--------------------------
Miguel is currently standing on 5th avenue with a freshly bandaged nose and a deep sense of humiliation that roots him to stand creepily at the door instead of walking in like a normal person.
He's sure he looks frightening, all hulking, towering mass of 6 '9 animosity, but he hasn't had the capacity to care for a long time. His eye twitches at every stare he can practically feel boring into him, but that's as much movement as he can muster right now.
He quickly scans the shop through the glass- gaze roaming across the visible aisles, trying to look for a hint of that Gabby toy from earlier, or any CC toy at all. He still somewhat believes he imagined the whole encounter.
He'd thought- he's actually not quite sure what he thought. That, what, Gabriella's favorite things just don't exist in other dimensions? That he'd never again be subjected to the empty space next to him as he looks at a brand new Gabby toy without the scratch marks, the faded paint, the G on the back of the plastic shirt? Miguel knows better than anyone that there are endless universes, constantly expanding and collapsing like neutron stars, and that there's logically no possible way there's not a single other universe where the Cosmoball Champions airs on channel 6.
Contrary to popular belief, Miguel knowing things doesn't actually change much in terms of his worldview.
Miguel knows a lot of things- like he knows that overworking yourself isn't healthy, that not giving your muscles rest is bad for your body, and that none of what happened was particularly his fault. Miguel knowing any of these things doesn't make him believe in them, and it certainly doesn't make him feel any better.
Miguel stands in front of the plastic figurine aisle with no memory of moving to get there in the first place, and stares at the shiny translucent box. It's…different. The production quality is, frankly, bad The toy's eyes are a slightly different hue, the hair-tie is purple instead of blue, and the logo's font isn't the same. A quick glance around affirms that this is, in fact, the last Gabby toy, the others either sold out or never re-stocked. He purses his lips but remains otherwise blank-faced, and he can quite literally hear Gabriella firing off all the things the manufacturers got wrong about the toy's appearance right next to his ear-
Except that's not her voice- it's deeper, significantly less child-like and significantly more irritating. Miguel lifts his head up in a way that makes it seem it physically pains him to do so, and is met with you in all your just-got-out-of-a-12-hour-shift glory.
You're loud- that's his first observation as he winces and shoves his right ear into his shoulder.
His second? You look a fucking mess.
Your unkempt hair, your stained clothes, whatever scrunched as all hell aggravated expression your face is making- Miguel isn't being mean. He's being purely factual. The fact here being you look like you crawled your way out of (corporate) hell just 20 minutes ago, and you're moving with the ease of someone who does so every afternoon and wishes it'd someday get easier.
There's a very fleeting thought that you'd be attractive to the average bystander, but he is no average bystander. He's a fool with a bruised jaw and a heavy distracted mind, and the bright ass fluorescent lights combined with your screeching are overwhelming his senses. Nothing could be attractive to him right now.
You're still talking, he notes with a tick in his jaw, your lips moving as you rattle off in your annoying loud fucking voice, but every word registers as gibberish to his ringing ears.
He naturally assumes you're speaking to him, seeing as you're the only two in the aisle, and just as he's about to ask you to quiet the fuck down he notices the phone pressed against your ear and the fact that you're not looking anywhere near his vicinity. You don't really seem to notice him at all, actually.
Odd, considering his shadow looms over your entire form and probably makes it hard for you to see the package you're holding. The toy package.
The Gabby toy package.
The last Gabby toy package.
—--------------------------
You're having a really bad, no good, awful fucking day.
First, one of your coworkers called to say they couldn't come into work last minute- absolutely nothing wrong with that, mind you, you're not usually a hater, but considering you were the only one still stationed you had to stay over-time for 6 more fucking hours to cover Katie's ass.
You think you have the right to be petty here- so fuck you, Katie, and whatever family emergency you couldn't put off till the weekend. Fuck your vague relative who I assume is either dead or in the hospital, too. Fuck both of you.
All that, of course, required someone to babysit Gabriel. Seeing as you're too broke for a sitter and none of your friends can be trusted with a 6 year old, you'd had to call your mother, someone you previously weren't on speaking terms with, to pick him up from school and keep him at hers.
The following conversation lasted well into 2 hours and 36 minutes, and only ended because you hung up in a fit of genuine bedufflement when she asked for the millionth time why you and Gabriel don't visit anymore. You pondered the possibility of her having a never-before heard of case of selective hearing.
Work was, to put it nicely: complete and utter shit. Boss was awful, people were awful, coffee was disgustingly bitter and you only realised it had expired after you'd drunk half the cup already. You downed the other half in one big gulp anyways.
You'd been careless, more-so that usual- the knowledge that nothing can truly harm you makes it pretty hard to give a fuck about self preservation, but just because you won't be damaged doesn't mean your pain receptors don't fucking work. Burns from direct contact to fire and stapling your hand too many times hurt like a motherfucker, even if it never left a mark behind.
When your shift is over you feel none of your usual body-slumping relief, but instead a dread that only makes your dreary eyes go hot with unshed tears.
You're tired. So tired, and you think that if you had to speak to your mother right now you'd fall apart at the seams.
You desperately search within your mind for any excuse to delay your visit, clawing at old to-do lists in your notes app, trying to find anything that'd take longer than a 10-minute ride
And you do find it! Huzzah!
■ new desk-lamp (warm light bulbs ! Gabriel doesnt like the blue ones !!)
■ slime borax
■ double sided tape
□ gabby toy <- SUPER IMP. !!!!
You'd promised Gabriel you'd take him to Toy Nook over on 5th avenue to find a replacement for the toy that he lost at a bus last week, his favorite toy, but you're a fucking coward and if you can put off seeing your mother again for even a few minutes you will. So you go on your own.
You pretend it's for more noble reasons: to surprise Gabriel! The fact that Gabriel's excitement will make it significantly easier to both bear your mother and scutter away swiftly is just an added bonus. You hope he's not too overwhelmed at your mom's right now, god knows you'd have lost your shit even 4 minutes in.
So! Here you are: walking into Toy Nook with aching legs and a completely foul mood- you head straight for the superhero figurine section, already having walked the same path about a million times before. The store-owner even waves at you as you pass and you distractedly wave back.
You walk through the aisle with a growing mix of trepidation and frustration as you see every character but Gabby- even the Cosmoball Champion toys you do see are scarce considering the show stopped airing years ago, and you really don't want to join some expensive auction just for this figurine.
You will if you have to, of course, because you love your little rascal Gabriel, but your bank account will suffer. You'd probably have to cut back on take-out every saturday for at least a month, and SCCT was never complete without greasy pepperoni pizza.
(SCCT=Saturday Cosmoball Champions Time. As dubbed by yours truly, Gabriel, who's not really very creative with names. Yes, his stuffed toys were always named "bear".)
You're nearly at the end of the aisle and you've practically lost hope- you're just about to go on ebay to look for one online, actually, when you spot it. You wonder if you're hallucinating the glowing halo and angel choir. Your day is finally looking up!
It looks exactly like the one Gabriel had owned for years, and you nearly jump up and down and holler in pure ecstasy. Considering you're an adult and in a public space, you settle for a quiet "yes!" whispered under your breath and a little fist bump towards god.
You stand in the empty plastic figurine aisle with the toy package held firmly in your hand and your phone pressed against your ear- what, did you think you could just guess which toy was right and hope for the best? Chances are you'd pick the wrong character somehow despite knowing every single detail about that stupid show, including character blood types, and you'd make Gabriel feel as though you don't listen to him and his non-stop overly-complicated rants.
He wouldn't tell you he's upset, of course, but you'd still know. He'd thank you with that meek sort of smile and none of his usual funny-sounding giggles.
You fire off question after question to Gabriel over your busted-ass speakers while inspecting the toy through its plastic packaging:
"Is it alright if the eyes are a bit more warm-toned? No, not the temperature-They're, like, a reddish brown instead of an ugly brown."
"The hair tie's the wrong color, but your old toy was the same, right?"
"We can repaint her nails so they're show-accurate, yeah? What type of paint do I need to buy? Lavender, code E6E6FA like last time, yeah?"
You're about to ask something else- about the laces of the shoes, or something just as boring- before a frighteningly large hand covers your view of the box and rips it out of your hold.
…….
…..huh. Of fucking course your joy just can't last.
"Hey, bubbas?" Your neck un-cranes itself so you can glance upwards, and you just keep looking up, because this guy is a fucking giant, "I'll call you back in a minute."
The sight that greets you is, uh. Um.
You're not quite sure how to describe this guy.
Scary and fucking asshole and hot and that's the ugliest fucking outfit I've ever seen go at war in your mind, not particularly in that order, but then your gaze zeroes in on his red contact lenses and that's when understanding of his weird choice of fashion dawns upon you- a cosplayer, for sure! You know they host cons somewhere 'round here
Doesn't really explain what he thinks he's doing snatching shit out of your hand, though.
You wonder if he's a hard-core Cosmoball Champions fan, but considering he looks well into middle-age and has a sharp-edged face that just reeks of misery you think he's never watched something fun in his entire life. You imagine he'd been born like this. Angry frown and permanent wrinkles and all.
You'd love to spend longer wondering just what went wrong with this guy's life, really, you would, but your phone vibrates against your pocket in the CC theme song and you remember just what brought you here and what awaits you once you go to your mom's. This weird guy was a nice distraction, you'll admit.
You try to grab the box back, muttering a palacting "excuse me" because you have manners, unlike this guy, but he won't budge. His hands only tighten their hold around the box, and you don't think you can manage against his raw physical strength.
Okay then. You were right about the asshole part.
You glare at him with all your might for a few seconds in hopes he'll, like, explain himself or something, but all he really does is stare back. Or stare through you, more like. He's squinting his eyes in a way that's hurting your self confidence.
"Hello? Can I have that back?"
His eyes quickly snap to yours, and your entire body jumps in it's place. His eyes are a frightening shade of red, and his pupils are practically slits. His neck tilts down in a hawkish way, and you feel like his morning meal with the way you're being stared down.
He raises one brow inquisitively, and it makes you feel like a cowering child getting scolded by their teacher. You know he can't hurt you, not physically at least- but the humiliation might just be enough to deem you dead.
"The box. Can I…." You clear your throat as your voice breaks, and you pray he doesn't notice how you sweat profusely under his gaze, "...have it back? The toy?"
He remains as silent as ever, and a more sensible person would probably turn tail and run at his sight. But not you- no, you're as stubborn as a mule, and you're not leaving this fucking store without that toy. Even if it costs you your dignity and peace of mind.
"Hey, listen, a child deserves this toy more than a 40 year old man-" You're overestimating his age a lot here, he looks to be about as old as you, but you hope it makes him flounder enough to let go of the box. He looks like somebody who invests in skin-care and fitness mumbo jumbo, considering his ripped build and stupidly clear skin-
"Soooo, I'm gonna take that box to my son. Y'know, the intended demographic of the show? Thank you for understanding."
His stupid fucking grip still won't budge, and you have to dig your heels into the floor so you don't slide straight into him. You probably look fucking ridiculous. You hope the store-owner isn't laughing at you through the security cameras.
"I'm not 40."
….okay then? Was that the only thing he heard? You did hope it upset him, so you suppose you can't be too mad. You watch as he blinks for a second, seemingly at himself, before words just spew out of his mouth like he's pressed for time.
"I'm leaving town- the country. I'm leaving the country." Your grip loosens on the box, your eyes squinting up at him in confusion, "they don't have this toy there. I need this one. You can buy another when they restock."
"I understand completely," you really don't care, and you scratch hard-core fan off the list considering he doesn't know the toy line's discontinued, "but my son probably wants that toy more than you do. I'm sure you can afford one off Amazon." You eye the expensive watch on his wrist- the material doesn't even look like it's from this planet or realm of being.
The guy's eyes widen for a moment before he fumbles a little with his words,
"Can't. They don't do shipping where I'm going."
Okay, you call bullshit. He's making up excuses on the spot, you can tell, but unlucky for him, you're stubborn and stupid and a big fan of arguing with assholes.
"They taking you to the lost Atlantic for a business trip? Amazon does international shipping, bud."
"Doesn't matter. I need this one. Today. Birthday present." He pulls the box closer towards him, and this time you do slide straight into his broad chest, and you grit your teeth to stop yourself from doing something stupid and landing yourself a felony charge.
"It's your fault you're doing last minute shopping for presents like some shoddy dead-beat dad." You hiss out, and he glares right back at you with even more heat than before, seemingly giving up on his shitty conversational skills and taking one step back to shake you off, but you proceed to take one step forward.
"Mierda, just give me the damn box."
"No!" You're being childish, you know, but you dig your nails hard into his hand, desperate, and he doesn't even flinch, "My son'll throw a fit. It'll be blood on your hands, you dickhead! He's the biggest Gabby fan to ever exist!"
"Well my daughter is the actual biggest Gabby fan to exist. Now give it."
That gives you pause.
Youre not sure why it didn't occur to you that he was buying something for his own child, but- this guy has a daughter? Jesus christ, you feel bad for her- you imagine she'd either inherited his temper or vowed to never end up like him in her life. Or maybe she's a daddy's girl, and that's why he's so insistent on getting her the toy.
Your hands falter on the box for a wisp of a second- but it's enough for him to snatch the box right out of your hand and high above your head like some fucking fifth grader who got their growth spurt way before their peers- you won't humiliate yourself trying to stand on your tippy toes and reach it because you already know you can't.
Okay then, last resort, time to fight dirty.
You hope Gabriel'll appreciate the fuck out of this.
—--------------------------
Miguel hadn't meant to let that slip.
It'd been pure instinct- the words rolled off his tongue in a jumble of dead cells and harrowing memories, and now he couldn't take them back. Gabriella is- was the biggest fan. This is ridiculous. This should be the last thing on his mind. He can't believe he's standing here arguing with you instead of finishing up the last mission report. He can't believe he still wants that stupid fucking toy, as if it means anything to a dead kid and her not-so father.
Miguel tries not to think about it, tries to think about you and your son and the way you're both acting in a way completely unbefitting for your age, but the thoughts still slither past his barriers. He's too unfocused. He's too emotional.
He refuses to confront why this moment seems to matter so much to him. He refuses to confront that he's not moving on as well as he's been telling himself.
Miguel refuses to confront a lot of things.
Grief isn't tangible. Grief has no resolute answer, no straight path to take. Grief consumes him, sends him hurtling to the depths of his mind, trying to make sense of an incoherent, incognible, incorporeal mass of utter nonsense with no way back.
You're right. Your son deserves this toy more than he does, and Miguel wants to hand it over, really, he does, but his chest gnaws and aches for any physical reminiscence of her. He has the recordings, the photos- but they slip past his fingers and into the ground below, they make him feel worse, like an outsider who never should've intruded on the story.
Perhaps this'll help. Something to hold, something to ground him.
(Miguel knows it won't help. He knows. That never changes anything, though.)
Crunch
Again.
It happened again. Miguel got stuck in his head, and the present only ever seems to catch up to him in the form of punches straight to his aching jaw, because god hates him, or something. He's flung straight back into reality.
You punched him.
You punched him and it- and it hurt? It hurt like a bitch. He drops the box in pure astonishment. You cradle your hand close to your chest, your face stuck in a half-wince half-scowl. Hurt you too, it seems. He's not at all somewhat pleased by that, because he's a hero and not an immature child. He doesn't have to hold back a snicker. No, not at all.
You're- how did you manage to make it hurt that much? He eyes your body with growing disdain and disbelief- you don't look like you've worked out a day in your miserable life, and he knows whatever's under your fuck-ugly oversized shirt isn't some secret six-pack. He cycles through the possibilities in his head- either his nerves are over-sensitive from today's earlier fight, or your hand's not made of normal human tissue.
Thud.
Miguel pauses. Sound. Thud thud thud. He doesn't have a spider-sense, but his other senses are still enhanced. He can still hear every tap coming closer, every scrape of something heavy and foreboding inching towards them.
He's not sure what the universe has against him today- he's trying to save it every fucking day for shock's sake, but he doesn't have any more time to ponder your supposed super-strength when the store erupts into light and pure unbridled energy, the boom always following a second too late.
He jumps straight into action- muscles twisting and bending, fast and fierce, but fuck, fuck, he's too late, always just a second too late- he sees the blast hit you before he can process the image- watches as your form dissipates out of his wide gaze and into bright light, hears your cry just a second after.
Miguel's heart clenches. He wills it to still. Not the time. Not the time. Focus focus focus-
His arms wind around you, wondering if there's anything left to salvage- you got blasted by a nuclear-powered firearm, and he thinks, disturbingly, that he'll have to leave your body here to rot so he can capture this new vulture. He's not sure why he cares enough for his heart to thunder in his ears- maybe it's because you have a son. Maybe it's because you have a son he thinks would've been good friends with Gabriella.
He coughs at the smoke, one hand reaching up to swat it away enough so he can see what's left of you clearly. The smoke dissipates enough, and Miguel looks down at you with wide eyes and-
And you are perfectly fine.