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Sometimes, when Miguel’s voice becomes harsh, he doesn’t mean the sharp edge that comes with it. The tone just comes out, and it’s a habit that persists even through the best times.
“Gabriella, for the last time, if you don’t get moving, we won’t be going at all!”
“I’m almost, almost done! I promise this time— Triple promise, even!”
And sometimes, when Miguel’s voice becomes harsh, he does mean the sharp edge that comes with it. If it comes down to his patience wearing that thin, the tone is likely warranted. These days, it happens more often than not.
“Lyla, I swear— Get it started already, or I’ll—!!”
“Easy on the blood pressure there, Miguel! And don’t you worry, I got it going about a minute ago, actually.”
But less often, when Miguel’s voice becomes harsh with that same sharp edge as usual, he wishes he said something else entirely. A complete redo of entire exchanges would be nice, but no amount of his research has ever granted him the secrets to enacting such miracles and neither has it taught him how to get the words that are freely floating in his brain to come out in the same, arguably nicer, form that they’d been in before.
“There are no missions that concern you. Go home,” Miguel states simply, eyes glued to the screens in front of him as he taps away at another graph. His voice carries through the room easily.
He knows that the words mean, “go home and rest. Nothing is serious enough to need your attention. Rest until I call you next,” but he also knows that it doesn’t come out like that in the slightest. While facing only his golden-lit screens, he lets his frown fall a little deeper at the thought of that.
He can hear someone shifting in place behind him, but he doesn’t turn around. He knows who is standing there, hence why he didn’t need to turn when answering your question earlier. He’d never mistake your arrival for anyone else’s, especially not when he’d learned all your tells and the small details that made you you. It was something of a curse at first, that compulsion to know you and to be able to pick you easily out from the crowd of other Spiders, but he admits that a small, small part of him is very glad that he gave into it.
(It doesn’t change how much he knows it’s just a bit creepy, yes, but he couldn’t help it.)
So, when you strolled into the big room filled with technology and him, neither being easy targets for other Spiders to come near unless necessary, he knew who it was instantly. But then again, he supposes that the number of Spiders who aren’t too afraid to walk into this dimly lit room voluntarily to begin with is really only a handful of them, so guessing that it had been you behind him wouldn’t have been too hard.
“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” you ask, sounding plenty confused. “Usually, when you call me like this, I’m due to catch another anomaly with you.”
“I wanted to tell you in-person,” his brain says, “and to have you around one last time before you leave for however long next.”
Miguel can’t say that. He can’t say any of that.
But still, it felt important for him to see you before you leave. If he could have any easy way to keep you here longer, he would turn to those methods, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have a single thing that would make you linger here with him. Even if he did, how could you ever be swayed to stay? You have a home to call your own, and because you must have actual nice things abundant there, why would you ever want to stay with him for any extended amount of time instead of going home?
“There’s nothing else I need to say to you,” Miguel answers, tone unwavering despite his thoughts. “Go home.”
After the words are said, though, he winces, and his fingers stop shifting over the screens. He didn’t mean for the tone to be so flat and on the cusp of being harsh. And the words he chose… Those were just as bad as the embarrassing option, honestly.
“Alright then…?” is how you answer, seemingly unperturbed by the tone but plenty confused by everything else. “Then, I’ll head home. You know to call me if you need me, Miguel.”
The sound of his name makes Miguel’s face twitch, and it easily makes him all too tempted to change his mind and give you something to do so that you’ll stay, even for a moment longer. Anything, really, especially if it means—
Miguel turns, hope blooming in his chest in a shaky and uneven way that reminds him how terribly rare something like this feels, with lips already parting to speak out those exact thoughts racing through his mind, only to see that you’re already on your way out. Three— Two— You’re one step away from passing through the doors entirely, and the ghost of a clock in Miguel’s head goes off like it just reached midnight.
Hope dies in its ascent, just as the words do on his tongue. He drops his gaze before he sees the last of you disappear behind the already closing doors, and the supposedly “reasonable” part in his head tears apart the last of his remaining thoughts with the same kind of mercilessness as his own when out on the field.
The room suddenly feels too big and too empty by himself. The soft white noise around him roars like it's laughing at him, and he forces out a long, withering sigh before pinching the bridge of his nose and mentally kicking himself to get him out of the slump that he knew was coming but did nothing to stop. Each second that passes like that is calming in a painful way, like the faint trickle of ice-cold water over his skin, and when his hand falls from his face after however long passes, Miguel turns back to his screens and monitors, reminded once more that it’s better this way.
Why wouldn’t it be better this way? You’d never want to stay if given the choice of here or home. Why would you want to be here? And with him? He’s a walking magnet for disaster on the worst of days and terribly unlucky on the best of days, he knows that. Surely anywhere is better than here with him.
His finger swipes aside a tab, revealing behind it a tab that sits just within his line of view, and he recognizes it instantly by the colours and vague shapes that he can see as being a picture of Gabriella. One of the many that he has saved, and all the painful memories start to resurface again. His eyes linger on the little portion of the picture that he allows himself to look at, reminding himself that it’s better to have less because having less means having less to lose.
Now, after losing so much and finding that the pain of loss is just as bad as the last, no matter how much he’s lost since the beginning of everything, it’s clear to him that it’s better to just stop. There’s no getting used to it. It all just hurts as much as the last.
With the same amount of care that one would have in moving cracked porcelain, Miguel guides the picture farther to the side and underneath other tabs, because he can’t bear to delete it right now, hiding it away along with all those memories of smiles and warmth that fit so perfectly within his hands. Behind all that, he lowers the last of his lingering desires to chase after you back into the edges of his mind.
It’s just better this way. Miguel returns to the graphs, the report summaries— The everything else that needs his attention. It’s better if he doesn’t have you. If he doesn’t have you, then he can’t lose you either.
…
… …
All of those thoughts are well-practiced at this point, and he’s heard such repetitive things multiple times this week already, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s a certain kind of fierceness behind his finger when swiping another tab away from him. The ferocity also doesn’t go unnoticed, and Miguel scoffs at himself in his lonesome. Everything about it sours his mood even further, but at least the action, as rough as it was, helps shake away the aching in his hands and the eagerness to chase after you, so there’s that.
chk!, is the sound of a camera going off, and he turns slowly to see Lyla with one of those old fashioned-style cameras in her hands. She peeks over the top edge of the camera and grins before the image of her blinks out and blinks back in to reveal her empty hands.
“Nice to see that the one-man romantic tragedy act is still going strong,” Lyla comments cheerily before blinking out of sight and reappearing near his shoulder. “Trying out the lonely puppy trope this time? Can’t say it suits you all that much.”
Miguel’s face twitches, and all for the exact opposite reasons as before.
“Lyla …”
“Would you prefer if I called them back in for you? They haven’t left HQ yet, you know.”
Miguel didn’t need to know that you were still in Nueva York, and when his heart leaps in the exact way that he knew it would, a growl starts to rise from his throat.
“Lyla, don’t you dare call them bac—”
Lyla snorts, cutting him off with her face scrunched up into a devious smirk under her innocently pink, heart-shaped glasses, and says, “oh come on, I wouldn’t do that to you. When have I ever done something like that, huh?”
Miguel doesn’t answer that with anything more than a scoff, but that seems like enough for Lyla, seeing as she snickers, and he’s no sooner allowed to go back to reading through the graphs, reports, and whatever else Lyla pulls up for him to take a look at (But not the one with the dubiously named header that reads 10 Ways to Get the Courage to Confess Your Feelings! or something like that. He swipes that one away without bothering to give it a second glance.), to go back to swiping away at finished tabs, and…
… and to go back to wishing for something different to break the stillness that plagues him. But Miguel doesn’t have you, nor does he have any right to you or your time, so that last one comes and goes, just like it always does.
—
The familiar golden orange of the portal places them directly where they need to be within HQ. An incapacitated Mysterio is dragged along by Miguel’s hand, and he watches you step out of the portal after he’s passed through and stepped out into the ground again.
“Did you have to be so reckless ?” he hisses towards you just as the mask of his suit pulls away.
He knows that the tone he uses is easily enough to disperse what little was left of the groups congregating in the area, as his mere entrance was already enough to drive most away. You, on the other hand with your face freed from your mask, now that you’re safe to do so, wear an expression and general demeanor that doesn’t scream “my boss is yelling at me while dragging a villain he personally paralyzed by biting him in the neck, and I’m worried for my safety.” Your eyes just dart towards him like he’s some average anybody before you finally answer with something.
“You do have to admit, the slow and steady plan wasn’t working out.”
The few Spiders in the area, upon seeing you directly battling against Miguel’s word, scramble the rest of the way out of the area, but he could care less about that. Sometimes this happens, like when Peter B. decides to be “funny” or when Miles talks back at him with the confidence of a seasoned veteran, and since you’re also one of those people not afraid of Miguel enough to hold back your thoughts and opinions, most also know to stay far away from whatever bomb you’re two steps from tripping.
And yeah, you are steps from tripping some kind of landmine. More specifically, it’s the touchy subject that is your safety. Not that you know it’s a touchy subject for him. He’s made sure that you never come close to noticing how he pulls you out of the riskier missions or how all of the risky missions that you do get are assigned to you with him around, and this time wasn’t any different.
So, cue the alarms in his head ringing like huge metal bells upon seeing you leap right into the middle of his more carefully crafted plan. Yeah, no— Miguel wasn’t going to admit that you’re right, actually. Sure, the whole anomaly capture went smoothly, even with your hastier adjustment to the plan, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’d needlessly welcomed danger when there wasn’t any need for it. Maybe if it were someone else, he wouldn’t have minded, but not you.
“It would have been more dangerous to take any longer,” is the continuation of your argument.
He strides into the holding area, which is already filled with many anomalies caught earlier in the day, with this specific Mysterio still unconscious, and you continue following after him.
“Yes, but that is no excuse to throw yourself into danger like a complete idiot,” Miguel counters easily, unable to help the way he forces out the words past his teeth.
And if his growing annoyance wasn’t obvious in his tone of voice, then it is obvious in the way he unceremoniously drops Mysterio into an empty space within the holding section. His claws extend out to cut the red-tinted webbing of his that had been wrapped around the villain’s body just before the body hit the floor. Once he steps away from the body, golden light rises from the floor to create a box to hold the villain until someone can shove him into the Go Home Machine.
Miguel just can’t lose the little that he has of you, and he wishes that you could understand that. He wishes he could just grab you by the shoulders, shake you down, and make you promise to cherish your life as much as he does.
A particularly hasty part of his mind makes him open his mouth with the intention of telling you just that.
“You aren’t some new recruit. You’ve been at this long enough to know the difference between ‘reckless’ and ‘a good idea’, so act like it,” he tosses out towards you, lifting a finger to point in your direction like he’s accusing you of a crime.
Admittedly, the words don’t seem… too bad to him, but when he sees a nearby Prowler from some universe wince visibly, something in his chest drops.
Again— He’s done it again.
“Fine, alright. I get it. I won’t do anything like that ever again,” you say, ceding defeat with a look that obviously reveals that you’re less than happy. “I’ll just go and get my report for this mission done, since we’re done with the transporting part.”
Miguel is kicking himself mentally again, and a small voice in his head urges him to make amends with you.
“Fine,” he ends up saying instead, flickering his gaze to the still-unconscious Mysterio.
That leaves no room to say anything else, and that’s probably why you leave. With the stinging feeling of remorse, he watches you go, and any desire to fumble some kind of apology and explanation for his treatment of you and this situation is squashed under an imaginary heel. If it means you staying safer in the future, he can accept this aching in his chest.
He can and he will, he reminds himself.
“Huh? You’re not even going to say you’re sorry for saying something like that?”
The voice that speaks up isn’t a voice that Miguel knows personally, and his gaze darts towards the direction of the owner with enough speed to snap a neck.
The same Prowler from earlier raises both hands into the air while turning his head to the side as if to pretend that the voice hadn’t been from him and that he’s actually innocent. The gall to even speak on matters that didn’t concern him has Miguel flexing his fingers dangerously at his side, and there’s a telltale throb in his mouth where his fangs are, before—
“Woah, woah there, Miguel! If looks could kill, this Prowler wouldn’t be able to get home. That wouldn’t be good for the multiverse and all that, right?”
That voice is impossible not to recognize, and when Miguel hears the cooing of a young child, his guess is easily proven correct.
He lets out a harsh sigh, offering that Prowler one last venomous glare and earning the reaction of said villain shrugging, before Miguel turns around to deal with a new, different headache. However, instead of seeing Peter B.’s face, a bright smile framed with unruly orange hair is thrusted into his face. Out of surprise and vague recognition of what’s happening, his hands lift from his sides just before a familiar weight is placed into his hands.
Mayday cheers in his hands, clearly appreciating the new playmate and reaching up to poke and prod around his chin with her small hands. At the sight of this, Miguel allows his irritation to drop away for a split second, expression melting just slightly, before every inch of that same bad mood returns when he looks up at Peter B.
“What have I said about bringing a young child into the holding area, Peter,” Miguel questions, though it comes out so flat that it loses all the qualities needed for a question.
“These holding barriers were made by you, weren’t they? That means there’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” Peter B. reassures too casually for Miguel’s liking, and the addition of that flattering praise only serves to worsen his mood. “Mayday’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t get close.”
As if to prove her father’s point, Mayday giggles and tugs at Miguel’s bottom lip, honing all of her attention on him because apparently the villains surrounding her aren’t as interesting as he is. Heartwarming, Miguel will admit that much, but not aloud. If he did, Peter B. would have more than enough reason to fill the next hour or so with pictures and stories about Mayday, and he does not have the time or patience for that today.
And also because of that, he directs a harsh glare towards Peter B. above Mayday’s head.
“I see you glaring at me, so it must be time to leave the holding area,” Peter B. says rather nonchalantly, striding behind him and planting two hands behind his back that soon start to push him along. “Well, since Mayday’s happy in your hands, we’ll all just have to leave together.”
Miguel did tell Peter B. to get his child out of the holding area, and with Mayday now tugging at his ear, definitely unwilling to leave his hands, he relinquishes control to Peter B. and lets himself be guided out. Of course, he does make sure to walk a little faster than Peter B. can push him— He has enough pride to walk on his own, after all— and it doesn’t take long before all three of them are out in the hall just outside.
And once out there, Miguel gently pulls Mayday from him, managing to ignore the way she whines and makes grabbing motions at him. She has to go back to her father, and he has to get back to work, and neither of those things can happen if she’s glued to him.
For once, Peter B. takes Mayday without another aggravating comment, planting a little kiss on the young girl’s head and turning her saddened loss of her playmate into joy and willingness to return to her carrier.
Miguel shifts a foot, already planning on leaving now that he has no other reason to stay, and—
“You know, it wouldn't hurt to be a little more honest once in a while.”
Turning his attention back to Peter B., Miguel eyes the man who’d just spoken so cryptically with silent and questioning confusion. He says nothing, but Peter B. seems to take it as enough of an answer, considering how he nods slowly at him.
“I mean about them,” Peter B. clarifies. “I heard what you said in the holding room to them, Miguel, and I get that you’re worried for their safety and all— Trust me, on that— but saying it like that? Let me tell you, it was not pretty to watch.”
Miguel scoffs, turning his head away from the man. “What happened between us is none of your concern. Frankly, I don’t see why you should care what I say to them at all.”
“I can’t say I’m all that happy to see you being harsher than you should be with anyone, and we’re all a team here, aren’t we? Stuff like that doesn’t make for good teamwork, I’d think,” Peter B. explains, huffing. “And besides, I think of you as a friend, so of course I care! I really mean it when I say that being a little more honest will feel a lot better than being all, you know, mean with them.”
That comment has Miguel’s brow twitching. “If you think I’m being ‘ mean ’, then I think you’re the one who needs to reevaluate some things, Peter,” he tosses back.
“Wow, I’m really starting to think that you’re actually allergic to saying nice things, or something…” Peter B. says, not at all bothering to lower the volume of his voice for such an underhanded comment or to hide the way he cringes deeply at him. “Come on, Miguel, really. Don’t you have enough reason to be just a little nicer with them? Even just a little?”
“What reason do you think I have?” Miguel inquires, narrowing his eyes into a glare. “If you’d seen the way they handled that mission, you’d react in the same—”
“I wouldn’t have reacted like this or like how you handled it earlier, actually,” Peter B. quickly interjects, lifting both hands out at his sides and revealing his palms. Mayday, seeing her father doing something amusing, apparently, throws her own hands out too.
Miguel half expects Peter B. to direct all his attention to the young girl’s mimicking actions, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just continues staring at him while patting Mayday with a hand.
“They can handle themselves fine on the field, Miguel. You should know that better than anyone here. And I know that you know that better than anyone here,” Peter B. continues, lowering his hands and planting them securely around Mayday.
Before Miguel can get the chance to say anything, Peter B. seems to think of something, considering how his expression suddenly changes and he begins to hum pensively.
“Still, I guess if it were MJ doing something crazy, I’d definitely lose my mind a little too… maybe in the same harsh way too…?” Peter B. mumbles, scrunching up his face as he continues thinking about whatever it is that crossed his mind. “And considering that you, you know … Huh, maybe what you said to them should’ve been as expected then…?”
As highly as Miguel thinks of his intelligence, he can't wrap his head around what Peter B. is saying, and it bothers him. He has a feeling that it has to do with something going unspoken and that Peter B. knows something that Miguel also knows himself, but what that thing is isn’t all too clear. And all things considered, Miguel’s not sure if he even wants to know what Peter B. seems to know.
“You need to look into taking a few days off,” Miguel says, rolling his eyes. “You’re talking nonsense.”
“To you, maybe, but not to me,” Peter B. reassures, and when he reaches out to pat him on the arm, Miguel feels the exact opposite of reassured. “You—”
Mayday suddenly lets out a very strongly articulated “muh!” with a hand gesturing in a particular direction. Clearly, she wants something and wasn’t too bothered with cutting into the conversation to mention it.
“Huh? Oh, you’re hungry, aren’t you? I guess it’s time for lunch for you and me, huh?” Peter B. coos to his daughter, grinning the same big, dumb grin that Miguel sees on a daily basis.
Mayday grins at the sound of her father’s words, wriggling excitedly in her carrier. That, or she’s trying to launch herself out of it— Miguel doesn’t really know, but he has his suspicions on the truth being more like the latter, considering the young baby’s track record.
The desire to not have to deal with Peter B. overrides his desire to know what the man was going to say, so he turns to continue walking away.
“Hey, hold on, Miguel! Before you go, I got one last piece of advice for you!” Peter B. shouts from behind him, and Miguel has to plant himself down into place before he becomes tempted enough to just leap off the side of the path and swing away.
“You’re the last person I want advice from,” Miguel growls to the man who appears at his side.
“That’s probably a good habit to have, but if you’re ever going to listen to what I have to say for anything at all, I’d say this next bit is it,” Peter B. says, looking over at him with an expression that seems to mean that he knows far more than the average person, which can’t mean anything good. “If you ever need to apologize to them, I definitely suggest flowers and a nice suit. It worked for me— Oh, but nothing tacky, for both the flowers and suit.”
…
Miguel falls silent due to the sheer unbelievability of whatever Peter B. is saying. Exactly what is he trying to tell him?
“Your situation isn’t all that different from mine, I think, considering what I’m pretty sure is happening between you and them. ‘Course, there are some differences, but—”
“Muh?”
That cuts right into whatever Peter B. was saying, and he looks down at his daughter with realization dawning on his features as he says, “right, yup, food. Well, you heard her, Miguel, I have to get going. Good luck with that thing between you and them, and—”
“There’s nothing between us,” Miguel interjects, barely managing to rein in the volume of his voice. He understands that last comment, at least, and he does not like anything it implies about what Peter B. knows.
Peter B. smiles in an annoyingly knowing way, stepping past him and towards the edge of the pathway with a hand already lifting to direct his wrist above him, before saying, “and keep working that whole honesty thing. Both with yourself and them. I’m sure that you being honest would sweep ‘em up in an instant ! Like I said— Trust me !”
Miguel doesn’t even have the chance to grab Peter B. for answers because the man steps off the edge with practiced grace, Mayday cheering all the while as he swings off towards the cafeteria post haste, and Miguel is left fuming in his place with his thoughts bouncing all over his head.
Because what the hell did Peter B. mean by all of that?
…
… …
“Archival footage of the conversation saved and bookmarked for further thought later. Did you want me to set an alarm for that?”
Miguel turns his head to see Lyla floating over his shoulder. She’s tapping her chin while staring at her own miniature set of golden screens. There’s a smile on her lips, he can see it, and he has the urge to swipe at her image.
“No.”
“Okie dokie, then. I’ll just set it with the lowest priority on your to-do list for today.”
This time, Miguel doesn’t bother to say the “no” that’s itching to leap out of his throat, opting to turn away and stomp back to his peaceful, not headache-inducing lab. All the while, he hears one last hum from Lyla, which he’s sure is done out of curiosity, but she doesn’t say anything. In his own mind and out of his own choice, Miguel files that entire conversation into the back of his mind, along with the rest of the things Peter B. rambles about at him, and promises his already exhausted mind that he won’t bother with all that ever again.
It’s not like what Peter B. was saying really meant anything for his situation anyway.
—
Miguel watches, distracted plenty by you scrambling to catch your footing— Which is understandable, considering that you’d just barely avoided having a car slammed into you— as a tentacle from a Doc Ock that didn’t belong to this universe grabs you by the neck. The metal appendage rips you out your stance, slamming you against a wall and crashing you right through it. Rubble collapses over you, covering the little that he can see within all the cement and metal raining over you, and he shifts to move into your direction near instantly to save you, but—
“I got them!” shouts Jess’ voice, and he turns his head just enough to see her already speeding by atop her motorcycle. “Secure the anomaly— Don’t worry about us!”
Above Miguel, Ben is already swinging his way down at Doc Ock, dodging to the side mid-air just in time to avoid getting grabbed and managing to land a kick against Doc Ock’s chest. The villain grunts, recovering just in time to swipe at Ben, only to come up short when the Spider-Man leaps out of the way, saving himself from the same treatment you’d gotten.
Jess, once she nears your rubble pile, is no sooner leaping off of her motorcycle and into the rubble in search of you, just like she promised, and as Miguel’s eyes dart towards the Doc Ock, who’s too preoccupied with Ben to pay much attention to him, a growl rips through Miguel’s throat. A flex of his fingers, unsheathing his talons in an instant, is all the time it takes before he leaps towards the villain’s back that is turned to him.
The entire scene is bathed in red, but Miguel notices almost right away that it isn’t because he’s seeing true red. In reality, it’s because his anger is shooting through the roof again, making him feel like he’s seeing red. It isn’t until he feels the talons at his hands connecting with Doc Ock’s back, ripping a downwards motion through flesh that Miguel sees real red blossoming in front of him.
Nowhere in Miguel’s mind does a single voice tell him to stop, and that’s why he doesn’t stop, even as Doc Ock turns to reveal just enough of his eyes to show a sliver of growing terror. Instead, Miguel pulls back another hand, raking his talons in the direction of Doc Ocks’ face. The villain is lucky, having pulled back just in time to only earn a thin line across his cheek, but he doesn’t remain lucky because Miguel quickly switches back into springing at Doc Ock again, clearing the distance made between them with little time to waste.
Miguel blinks, and one of Doc Ock’s metal tentacles is cleaved in half by one of his hands.
Blinking again, suddenly Doc Ock is pinned to the ground, staring up at Miguel with eyes blown wide as red begins to trail from his throat and upper chest where his talons are digging into him.
Blinking once more, Miguel knows his hand is lifted and ready to rush downwards into Doc Ock’s chest, but—
Movement at his side catches him off guard, and his hands shift to protect against what Miguel thinks are one of Doc Ock’s tentacles, but when he registers a blur of familiar colours, he freezes in his tracks instead.
Their your colours.
Another blur rushes by where Doc Ock is, this time coloured in reds and blues, and Miguel swears he hears Ben’s voice saying something along the lines of, “…ithout missing my chance, the villain is secured by m…” as he soars by. The current lack of Doc Ock on the ground near Miguel’s feet tells him that Ben had swooped in to drag Doc Ock away from him, and the sight of you with hands grabbing at the arm that had been raised tells him that you’d stopped him.
Why?
Why did you stop him?
“What do you think you’re doing ?” Miguel questions, lowering his arm so that you can let him go.
The moment that you do, you stumble, and Miguel notices how one of your hands goes to support your side. It’s covering an injury, likely, and half of Miguel’s anger drains directly into his worry.
“You can’t rip this Doc Ock apart when we’re going through all this trouble to capture him and send him home,” you argue back, swaying in place. At the very least, despite the fact that he’s sure you’re lecturing him, you do accept the hands of his that help stabilise you in place. “Thank you, but back to you— What were you doing?”
“He could have killed you,” his mind answers, and his throat feels like it constricts at the thought of what could have happened. “I could have lost you. He could have taken you. You could have died, and I would have lost you.”
A feeling wells up within Miguel’s chest. It’s a choking feeling, and the hands that he has holding onto your arms tighten so much that they begin to shake because he’s trying not to crush you too. It’s a feeling similar to fear, he thinks, but different.
It makes Miguel feel cold on the inside.
“Didn’t I tell you not to be so reckless?” he demands of you, voice rising in volume and sharpness. “Every. Single. Time — Without fail, you go and do something like this !! Don’t you know what you’re doing? Don’t you know the kind of trouble you’re getting yourself into all the damn time?!”
Miguel scoffs, his face twisting into a snarl as he continues saying, “I swear, you’re just—!!”
“Miguel!”
The sound of his name makes him stop dead in his tracks, and as he’s heaving in deep breaths to make up for all the shouting, he sees your expression, and…
And Miguel knows instantly that he’s made a mistake. The look on your face feels like a stab to his chest, and maybe that’s why he lets Jess pull you from his hands with hands that are gentle but firm. He can see the thunderously angry glare that she shoots at him too, and the way it softens when her gaze moves over you.
The coldness in his chest fades into shame as his mind echoes back the words, the tone, and everything else he’d just slapped across your face. Then, with his nerve-driven fangs poking at the inside of his mouth, already on their way to retraction, Miguel’s eyes are cast downwards to the ground near his feet. He can still see blood sitting within the cracks in the concrete, and when he looks at his hands he sees blood there too, especially where his talons would be.
Once again, Miguel O’Hara makes another mistake. He should be used to things like this by now, but instead it leaves behind a painfully sour taste in his mouth that makes his face scrunch up.
“…et back to HQ, alright? We’ll handle things here, so you just get yourself looked at and patched up,” he can hear Jess saying to you. “Don’t worry about the mission. Just worry about yourself.”
It takes a moment before the sound of a portal being opened reaches his ears, and glancing upwards reveals you stepping into it. As he watches you limp away, moving with such uneven steps as you shuffle forward alone, a hand at his side twitches because he could stop you from leaving. He could explain himself to you and try to fix the damage he’d caused, but he doesn’t. Instead, all that he does is let an admittedly delusional part in his mind wonder if you’d paused before opening up a portal because you stopped to look at him. Maybe you were even worried about him? You’re too kind to him, even though you don’t have to be for someone like him— someone more monster than human and someone who never seems to say the right things to you.
Miguel scoffs at his thoughts.
“It would be better if you didn’t care about me at all,” are the simple words that his brain manifests, and he has plenty of reason to believe it. But he also knows that you do care, and that’s the problem.
The bright light of the portal dissipates into nothing. Then—
“Are you out of your mind, Miguel O’Hara?”
His full name is being used— A grave reminder of his mistake.
Miguel looks up, meeting Jess’ gaze, and he’s aware of that little part in him that’s grateful for the fact that his mask is still on. The twitch of her lips, which are already set in a deep frown, tells him that she has plenty of other words to say to him, but she doesn’t say anything more. Or she’s just choosing to hold them back for now. Instead, she seems content with holding her hands on her hips, glaring at him from under the yellow lenses of her glasses.
Not saying anything yet, Miguel darts his eyes towards Ben and the body at his feet. Doc Ock is bloodied and beaten into a far worse shape than he should be after a simple anomaly retrieval mission, and he’s unconscious within a cocoon of white webbing, that likely being Ben’s handiwork. Miguel’s also pretty sure that the villain should still be alive, not that any thanks should be directed to him for that.
“The mission is over, and the anomaly has been secured,” Miguel answers flatly.
“‘The mission’—” Jess echoes before scoffing with frustration. She has to look away from him for a moment, taking a deep breath before returning her gaze back to him. “I’m not asking about the mission, Miguel, I’m asking about why you were blaming them like that!”
“They were reckless, Jess, you shou—”
“As if you aren’t every bit as reckless, Miguel!” Jess cuts in, nearly shouting at him if not for the fact that she looked to be physically holding herself back from yelling. “Seriously, I just can’t believe you right now. You know what? This whole ‘protecting them’ thing? Yeah— Not helpful.”
Jess’ hand moves to gesture to Doc Ock before she continues. “If you’d killed this Doc Ock, do you know what kind of problems you’d be creating for the universe that he comes from? Did you even think about that before you started trying to tear him apart?”
It’s almost ironic to be asking him if he thinks about consequences, the multiverse, and the stability of it. Miguel has thought about the complex relationship between all of those things for so long and so often that he thinks he also understands what Peter B. means when he says that his brain dies every time he hears anything about the multiverse.
“Of course, I know, but—”
“‘But’ nothing !” Jess finally yells out, throwing her hands in the air. She steps closer, lifting a finger to poke him in the chest before saying, “ you need to figure out this whole problem that you have going on before it puts you and the rest of us at risk, Miguel. And I mean it.”
After sighing deeply, or more like forcibly shoving the air in her lungs out, she turns on her heel and marches towards Doc Ock, grabbing him by a couple strands of webbing. A portal bursts into place just in time for Jess to storm through it, leaving Miguel to look at Ben and Ben to look at Miguel.
A couple of silent heartbeats pass, before—
“Jess has said what many of us at HQ are thinking, hence why I didn’t— No, could not — step in,” Ben begins, sizing himself up with his usual flair. “It’s harrowing to see the close and treasured bond that you have with them souring like this, and—”
“Just go through the portal, Ben.”
The extra “or I’ll throw you through it” goes unspoken, but Miguel’s sure that his tone carries the weight of that unspoken promise well enough.
The blond man huffs dramatically at the words Miguel forced past his teeth, offering one last glance contained within quite the look, despite the mask still on his face, before slipping into the portal like Miguel told him to. And then, letting out a long, long sigh in an attempt to assuage his mood and nerves (Not that it helps, honestly speaking.), Miguel walks into the portal too.
All the while, he ignores the way something in his chest feels like it’s three steps from snapping.
—
Having Spider-sense, from what Miguel has seen, is a blessing within the package deal that is accepting the Spider mantle. If he had the senses, it would make life much easier for him, since it would mean that he’d be able to more easily avoid problematic situations. Then again, he’s not sure if something as mundane as “not wanting to run into someone you don’t want to see yet” counts as dangerous enough for the sense to activate, but the reassurance that the possibility of it being able to do so would’ve been nice to have.
Even so, hearing footsteps is enough to alert him that someone is rounding the corner just ahead of him, so he shifts his footing and moves his path out of their way. If it’s to be any random Spider who crosses his path, they’ll likely attempt to give him a wide space as they maneuver themselves around him. However, if it’s to be someone who’s friendly with him, they likely won’t do that.
Miguel nears the corner enough to see past, and the person there is already in the midst of trying to avoid a collision with him, and—
He freezes in his tracks at the sight of you, because no part of his mind accounted for it to be you around the corner, and he’s left watching you move out of his way, not yet noticing that it had been him that you could have bumped into. Eventually, your eyes make their way to his face with some amount of surprise within your expression.
Silence sits reigns between him and you, until—
“You’re no longer injured,” he comments. It almost comes out somewhat dumbly, considering that it almost sounds like he blurted it out.
Amidst Miguel sighing inwardly over the clumsy, clumsy first words, you brighten in a way that makes his heart leap in his chest, apparently not really noticing that he’d just spouted the first observation that came into his head. But if he were to be honest with himself, that happy, soaring feeling that he got was really not a good thing, even though he knows that he can’t help it in the slightest.
“The medical care here in Nueva York is nothing to scoff at. I was in the best possible hands around here, especially since this is your HQ we’re talking about,” is your answer, positively glowing in his eyes now that you aren’t limping around and on the cusp of dying.
(That might be an exaggeration, but that doesn’t change how he feels about it.)
The praise for the building and its facilities that he built doesn’t go ignored either, and Miguel begins to feel a bit bashful.
“If the facilities couldn’t fulfill their basic functions, that would be a problem,” is what he ends up saying, and he figures that it’s neither too harsh nor too casual. Just… safe in the middle.
“That is true, but I heard from the others that the technology here is still pretty impressive by your universe’s standards,” you continue to praise. “Nothing is too difficult for the Miguel O’Hara, huh?”
“Wrong,” is the single word response that he manages to swallow back. He doesn’t need to be driven into a corner and forced to explain to you that just the act of talking to you is maddening. If you’re left with thinking that his skill with technology is nothing short of incredible, then that’s a perfectly fine place to be.
“It’s only expected of me,” he answers simply, since there’s little else to say about it.
Thankfully, from what he can read off of you, you don’t seem too bothered by the short and simple answers that don’t really go anywhere. Instead, something else seems to catch your attention.
“Considering the direction that you’re going, are you going to the cafeteria? It’s not often that you go there.”
And you’re right, Miguel tries not to go to the cafeteria very often. It’s loud there and he’s very certain that his presence does little to help the casual atmosphere there, but there are days when Lyla is particular about stretching his legs a little more, as if he already doesn’t get enough exercise from his training and general Spider-Man-ing, and actually getting food himself. To save himself from a roundabout argument with the AI that can be surprisingly stubborn, he just decided to play along this time.
If he’d known that you’d be nearby to run into, he’d have risked the headache that he’d get from trying to argue with her and had his meal delivered.
“Lyla was insistent about going, that’s all,” Miguel explains, and even he’s surprised with how honest his words ended up being.
Something about his words don’t seem very agreeable with you, considering how your demeanor shifts a bit. However, it’s not his words that trouble you—
“If we’d bumped into each other a little earlier, we would’ve been able to go together,” you suggest, apparently speaking to someone who didn’t have a reputation as your terrifying boss with fangs, talons, and paralyzing venom.
“I hardly think I’m enjoyable company to have during a meal,” he tells you, the words coming out too swiftly for him to think deeply upon at all.
“You don’t seem like the type to be very talkative during a meal, that’s true,” you say in agreement, though your tone lacks the blasé nature of his own tone. “But I wouldn’t say no to eating a meal with you one day. Maybe sometime in the future?”
Miguel won’t lie to himself within his own mind— The idea of sharing a meal with you sounds more than just enjoyable, especially compared to the fact that many of his meals are taken by himself and with little thought going into the act of eating. He eats because his body needs the nourishment to survive, not because he enjoys the moment of eating, and if he’s going to go back to work, he needs to survive. But eating with you… That seems too good to be true, no matter how much he wants it.
“Like I said, you’ll find better company with anyone else in HQ. Don’t bother with me,” Miguel reassures coolly, and this time when he sees your expression falter even slightly, he knows that he prepared himself for it.
There’s nothing for you to gain by getting close to him. He has nothing to offer to someone like you, who deserves so much more, so it’s best to keep you out of arm’s reach. Instead of getting angry and losing his cool, what he needs to do is use his tone and choice of words more carefully.
“The offer still stands, if you ever change your mind,” you still offer far too kindly. “I should get out of your way for now though. I can’t distract our hard-at-work Boss from his lunch.”
The only answer Miguel gives you is a noncommittal grunt, perfectly detached and distanced in the way that he needs, before he watches you leave for a lot longer than someone who’d just grunted his farewell to you should be allowed. You never notice his eyes watching you go, but then again, he makes sure you never notice. It’d be counterproductive if you ever noticed, after all.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, but that was painful to watch.”
Miguel is instantly dunked into a worse mood. Turning, he sees that a group of many colours are approaching from a different hallway, and he also sees that two members of said group have their hands over the speaker’s mouth— that one having been Pavitr Prabhakar.
Gwen is the first to speak between the two who have hands on their friend’s mouth, though she first laughs in a terribly awkward way before, saying, “uh, hi, Miguel! We were just talking about… about…”
“A show!” Miles speaks up, earning Gwen’s very obvious look of gratitude, which he barely manages to conceal his smile in response to. “Yeah, a show that we’ve all watched before! It’s got a, uh, reeeally weird plot twist. Yup.”
There’s a short pause in the theatrics happening in front of Miguel, and it’s in this silence that he raises a brow at the young Spiders trying their best to cover up for their friend. He has no idea how long they’re going to keep at it, but—
“Yeah, yeah,” Gwen says, furthering the terrible lie. “ Right, Pav?”
— Miguel’s sure that if he doesn’t put a stop to it soon, it’ll never stop.
“Ah’m soh’ee, wha’ ah we talkin’ ahbou’?” is all that manages to come out of Pavitr’s mouth when it’s beneath four hands.
“I say let him say his piece,” Hobie says, waving his hands into Gwen and Miles’ hands and brushing them away from Pavitr. “After a fumble like that, I think the big man deserves it.”
It’s unsurprising to hear that the young Spiders had heard at least a part of his conversation with you, but that doesn’t stop Miguel from being irked about it any less— especially not after what Hobie said.
“You don’t even feel a little bad about it? That’s just harsh, man,” Miles whispers, though Miguel can still very clearly hear it, while looking at Hobie with a deeply cringing expression.
And the moment Miguel sees Hobie offering him a sly grin that slowly snakes its way onto his face, Miguel decides that it’s time now to put an end to whatever is going on before something truly disastrous happens.
“That’s enough,” Miguel sighs out, pinching the bridge of his nose and dispelling as much of his urge to just storm off without putting a definitive end on whatever this is. “Just get to where you need to be and forget whatever you’re trying to cover up.”
“But—” Pavitr begins, only to earn Gwen’s hand on his mouth again.
“Alright! Sounds good to us!” Gwen chirps, already beginning to haul Pavitr away by his arm. “We’ll be on our way then.”
“Enjoy your lunch, Boss,” Miles offers good-naturedly, only to be hit by Gwen on the arm. The young teen tries not to be obvious about the desperate strength behind the strike, but it still shows on his face, considering how he quite obviously winces at the impact.
Miguel hears Gwen furiously whispering something along the lines of “don’tsaythatorhe’llknowwewerelisteningand—” at Miles, but because letting them carry on will mean that they can leave that much faster, he tries not to think too much about it and opts not to listen too closely into it either, just to save the last of his patience.
But then Hobie saunters up to him, dodging Gwen’s attempts at grabbing him by the arm with ease, and the smirk plastered on his face causes one of Miguel’s brows to twitch.
On second thought, Miguel should have stormed off immediately instead of trying to end the conversion on good terms.
“Oh, but I don’t think we can just leave, Gwendy,” Hobie begins, turning just enough to regard Gwen and the other two. His eyes glance back at Miguel before he says, “can’t leave someone in trouble like this, can we?”
“I agree,” Pavitr says, bouncing out of Gwen’s hold with the kind of energy that rivals the sun, much to the displeasure of Miguel’s growing headache. “There was so much potential in that conversation just now, and the promise of having a meal in the future? Together ? You’ve nearly got your chance!”
Miguel narrows his eyes at the young Spider who makes his way to Hobie’s side in a flash.
“And what chance are you suggesting that I have?” Miguel questions, towering over Pavitr. He asked a question, yes, but he hopes that the young teen will be scared off instead of answering it.
“‘What chance’? What do you mean by that?” Pavitr instead questions with confusion. He leans closer and lowers his voice to ask, “isn’t it obvious that I mean your chances with them ? This could be what you need for it!”
Miguel’s mood sours, diving straight down the deep end at the sound of those words.
“Whatever it is that you think I need assistance with, I can assure you that I do not need it,” he says, icy in tone and very much implying that the conversation had better end sooner rather than later.
“You can’t be serious, Mr. O’Hara,” argues Pavitr, looking rather crushed by his answer.
“I am plenty serious,” Miguel bites back without missing a beat.
“If you’re ‘plenty serious’, one of us has just the thing you need,” Hobie cuts in to say, leaning an arm on a willing Pavitr’s shoulder. He gestures back to Miles, splitting his attention between Miguel and Miles while saying, “Miles has got something up his sleeve that’d work brilliantly for you, I think.”
“Huh? I do?” Miles asks, pointing a finger at himself. The moment all eyes are on him, including Miguel’s, he looks two steps from breaking out into a run.
“Sure, you do,” Hobie reassures. “That little gesture that Gwendy told us about. That should be perfect for our boss here.”
Pavitr gasps, looking up at Hobie with raised brows. “Surely you don’t mean…”
“Wait a second. I don’t think Miles’ ‘shoulder touch’ thing is going to be very helpful for this,” Gwen quickly interjects, furrowing her brows. “Or for… anything, actually.”
“Hold on, I don’t know about ‘not being helpful for anything,’” Miles says defensively, looking at Gwen with quite the insulted expression. “Maybe it didn’t work so well on you, but it works. Trust me.”
“Didn’t you say that the last time you used it was on your universe's Kingpin? And on…?” Pavitr inquires, his eyes creeping towards Miguel himself, but before he can continue, Miles throws his hands in the air, almost as if to physically wave away the words from the air.
“Look, I know my Uncle Aaron and I know that it works,” Miles says defensively, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks between Gwen and Pavitr. “It just needs a little… you know, something.”
Barely half a second passes before he adds, “maybe.”
“I don’t think a ‘maybe’ is going to cut it here, Miles,” Gwen says, looking at Miles with quite a skeptical stare.
“He could be onto something,” Pavitr quickly cuts in to say, however, before Miles or Gwen can say anything else to each other. “Not the ‘maybe’ part, of course— But the part where it just needs a certain something. Maybe the way Miles did it didn’t have that specific flair that’s needed!”
“Ouch, okay,” Miles says, though he doesn’t sound or look too terribly bothered by it. “Didn’t need to go that far, man.”
At that, Gwen leans over to lowly say, “but you’re not going to deny it?”
As Miles rolls his eyes at Gwen’s comment, Pavitr moves closer to Miguel, lifting hands out to gesture towards him.
“But look at Mr. O’Hara!” Pavitr says. “He has plenty of some kind of flair, right?”
“And that’s why I suggested it,” Hobie says in whole-hearted agreement, smiling almost innocently at Miguel. “Just think of it as a little something from us to you, you know? We all want things to go well between you and them, of course.”
Miguel knows that Hobie is setting something up, turning some arrangement of tables around at him, and the wording about how this is being done with nothing but the goodness in their hearts, despite the fact that he knows better than to believe something like that, makes it feel all the more like Hobie is trying to corner him.
“I don’t want to know what this ‘shoulder touch’ thing is,” Miguel answers flatly.
“But you won’t know if it’s actually something you need until you see it, right?” Pavitr asks, stubbornly holding his ground. “After that conversation with them that we all saw and heard—”
“Why did he have to say that we all heard it…?” Gwen mutters with her face in her hands.
“— and all the other things that we’ve been hearing about in HQ— You, sir, need to try a different approach, I think,” Pavitr continues to say, most definitely spurred on by the way Hobie is nodding in time.
Miguel, at first, doesn’t do anything. He’s absolutely no longer at an age where he needs advice like this, and he is absolutely not looking for any from anyone. He does vaguely remember that Pavitr is one of the Spider variants currently in a relationship, but that doesn’t change anything about how Miguel does not need any advice like this in any form.
“No,” is all that comes out of Miguel’s mouth, and it remains all that comes out.
“You can’t just say ‘no’ to something so important !” blurts out Pavitr, flinging his hands up into the air. The young teen seems far too exasperated about matters that don’t directly involve him. “Just take a look at a demonstration first. Then you can say ‘no’ if it isn’t what you need, okay?”
Without waiting for the selection of words that Miguel’s head is already gathering, Pavitr turns to gesture at Miles, silently urging him to go ahead and give his demonstration.
“I’m not sure he’s that interested, actually,” Miles says as he looks up at Miguel’s face, rightfully hesitant about showing whatever this ‘shoulder touch’ gesture is.
“He only looks that way because he doesn’t know about it yet,” Pavitr reassures, waving dismissively.
"Oh, for the love of —"
“I’ll show you, actually. I can do it,” Gwen quickly says, stepping up so that she’s standing slightly more in front of Miles. “The faster we get it done, the faster this all ends and we can go get lunch.”
“Well, yeah, but—” is all Miles manages to get out before Gwen reaches out an arm onto his shoulder.
A rather casual smile rises to Gwen’s face before she says, in a way that’s likely meant to impress, “hey.”
And it’s then that, without wasting another second, Miguel finally turns and marches back to his lab. All the while, he’s formulating in his head what the delivery for his lunch to said lab will be and leaving behind in his wake what he hears to be—
“… mean I guess he did stick around to see it, so… There’s that?” says Miles’ voice.
“Which is a lot longer than I expected, actually,” agrees Gwen’s voice. “At least he got to see me do it instead of you.”
“Wha—? Hey, woah, woah. You say that, but when I tried it on you, we did get to talking, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, well, we got to as much talking as two people get when one of them has their hand stuck in the other person’s hair because of— What did you call it? Puberty ?”
“Say, you wouldn’t use the little trick on Gayatri, would you?” Hobie’s voice asks.
“Me? Oh, no. I’d never,” Pavitr’s voice answers rather bluntly.
“Seriously, thanks a lot for the confidence, gu…”
The voices finally fade out of the range for Miguel’s enhanced senses before he mutters to himself, as he runs a hand over his face and through his hair, “why did I even bother?”
He doesn’t know, but what he does know, at least, is that he’ll never, ever use something like that on you. If he ever does, then he’ll accurately know that the world is ending.
—
For all intents and purposes, the meeting should have been the same as it always is: short and simple throughout, with all the work that’s set to be finished becoming finished, and unfulfilling by the end, with Miguel having to watch you leave. But somehow, it stops being anything like that.
All things considered, when “work” includes both Peter B. and Miles in the same room, Miguel supposes that maybe he shouldn’t have expected anything to be “ordinary” or anything of the sort.
“Oh, uh, Peter, isn’t it time for that… you know,” says Miles, breaking what had been a comfortable working silence.
Already, Miguel does not have a good feeling about what’s going to be said or done. He directs a glare past the floating tabs in front of him to both Peter B. and Miles, not that they pay much mind to the action.
“Huh? The wha—? Oh. Oh, yeah, you’re right! Well, if you’ll look at the time!” Peter B. says in agreement after much confusion, nodding vigorously with so much energy that Miguel begins to suspect that it’s at least somewhat exaggerated.
Peter B., while plucking Mayday up from a nearby worktable that had been cleared for the young girl to toddle about on, continues to say, “ really sorry, but it’s time for my— I mean it’s Mayday’s, but I guess it’s ours?— scheduled playdate with Miles and the other kids.”
Miles is nodding in agreement, and it looks like he’s about to close the tabs floating in front of him, only to earn your gesture to send them your way.
“I can handle anything else you have left to do, since I’m also close to being done with my share,” you reassure before the golden tabs are swiped to the space in front of you.
“Thanks! We knew we could count on you,” Miles cheers.
“What do you mean you ‘ knew ’?” Miguel questions, finally turning from his set of golden screens to look at them directly. “Did you schedule a playdate while fully aware of there being a meeting at the same time?”
“Don’t worry, Miguel, the meeting is done, and we finished our work— We did, right, Miles?” Peter B. says, looking at Miles and earning a nod paired with a thumbs up. “We did, and we were planning to work as quickly as possible right from the start.”
“Uhuh,” says Miles, moving closer to Peter B. “We just forgot to mention that we have to leave a little earlier.”
“Are you heading back home for the playdate?” you ask, glancing over from the number of tabs that’ve technically doubled on your side of the room. However, you’re already swiping some away, likely because you see that they’re indeed finished, like Miles said.
The fact that you’re giving both Peter B. and Miles the benefit of your doubt irks Miguel. He knows that there’s something else behind all of this, but he can’t quite figure out anything that sounds like it could be the truth.
“It’s not a playdate at home, no. Pavitr actually suggested for himself and the other kids— and when I say kids, I mean him, Miles, Gwen and Hobie— to have a little playdate with Mayday here,” Peter B. explains, while Miles nods. “She doesn’t really get to play all that much with kids her age back at home, or at least she doesn’t really play her heart out, so I thought, ‘yeah, why not give it a try?’ Mayday already loves them, so I think it’d be good.”
“And I agree,” Miles chirps, playing the role of some kind of wingman well, Miguel supposes. “I mean, we also thought it would be a good idea. Stuff like an enriching play environment, right?”
Miguel feels the expression on his face darken. The two are definitely hiding something, and he has a feeling that it has something more to do with Pavitr.
“Oh, really?” Miguel asks, his voice dripping with some kind of venomous disbelief as he raises a brow at the mentor and mentee.
“Well, they are right about being done with their share of the work,” you speak up to mention, swiping away the last of the tabs that joined your area. “And to avoid having Mayday crawling around in here, maybe we should just let them go? She seems like she’s itching for a real play session.”
As if understanding exactly what you’re saying, and maybe Mayday really does understand you completely, the young girl cheers in her carrier before crawling out of said carrier and leaping into Miles’ arms. The result of Miles holding Mayday in a somewhat odd way aside, Miguel wishes that you didn’t sound so reasonable, because what is he going to say to that? The less that Mayday sticks her hands into the things spread around the room, the better, and if Miguel can’t keep Peter B. from bringing a young child into his workspace, then he’s just going to have to welcome any and every chance of keeping Mayday away.
“Fine. You can go,” Miguel says, shaking his head slowly from side to side.
It doesn’t escape his attention that Miles lets out a sigh of relief, and his suspicions over the whole situation returns, but—
“I knew you’d understand, Miguel,” Peter B. says happily, already gently guiding Miles towards the door to the room. “Thanks again— Both of you. I really appreciate it. Mayday, say thank you and bye-bye to them, okay?”
She doesn’t quite say those words, not that Miguel was expecting anything like fully formed words to come from the young girl, but she does babble out a string of sounds while waving a small hand from within Peter B.’s hands as she’s being transferred back to him. The two don’t linger long after that, opting to scamper out with the kind of energy that belongs to people hiding something.
And when the doors finally close behind the two, Miguel figures that he might as well let it go. Especially when he sees that you’re closing the last of your tabs, there are other things to think about.
“Just in time for my own share to be finished,” you say, turning your attention to him. “Unless you have something else that you need me to do?”
Miguel doesn’t, and he knows that.
“You’re always doing the majority of the work around here,” you begin carefully, “and Jess always mentions how you’re always on the verge of overworking. She even told me yesterday that you might need a bit of extra help these days…”
Miguel reminds himself to make it seem like he isn’t doing that, especially to avoid the whole “stop overworking yourself” conversation he had with Jess before and to avoid making you worry about him.
“…so, I don’t mind staying and doing more work,” you conclude, albeit with a touch of hesitation. “If it’ll help you out a bit, I’m happy to help.”
The way something in Miguel leaps at the sound of that is quickly shoved back down. There’s no sense in getting excited, seeing as you’re only offering to stay and do work for him, and seeing as there’s never any shortage of things to be done, doing “more work” does little to lessen his workload. And, if he had to nitpick even more, having you around would be nice in a distracting and bad way, even if he wants nothing more than to keep you with him for as long as he can.
“If you’re finished whatever I assigned to you, you can leave,” Miguel answers because of all that.
Perhaps you’ll want to see what Mayday’s playdate will be like. That would mean you’d still be in Nueva York, and that’s a small victory that he can allow himself to have, he supposes.
“Jess told me that you’d try and tell me something like that again too.”
Miguel hears your approaching footsteps, and when he turns, he sees that you’ve cleared the distance between himself and yourself in seconds. Just within his physical reach, he sees you standing your ground.
“Isn’t there anything I can do to help at all? Instead of just leaving the rest for you to do?”
Your words have Miguel’s voice catching in his throat. He’s turned away from his tabs to look in your direction, and the posture dawns on him some kind of discomfort, unless that’s just a side effect from staring directly into the eyes watching him so intently.
Regardless, it’s in your gaze that Miguel starts to feel an odd sensation of powerlessness. Letting you leave his side as his eyes are turned away or watching you leave as his eyes can only trail after you are easy things to do. There’s a familiarity in it all, like the feeling of watching something slip through his fingers over and over again, impossible to grab and hold onto, but being stared down like this … He doesn’t want to look away, but neither does he want to continue meeting your gaze.
“I want you to stay,” the voice in his head says to the image of himself that he can see in your eyes. Not for work, and not for anything else. Just for the one reflected within your eyes.
Just for him.
But his hands tighten at his side, and so tightly that he can feel his nails digging into his palms. His talons don’t shoot out to bury themselves into the flesh of his hands, but he almost wishes they did. Pain easily snaps someone out of their current thoughts, and the nails digging into him are almost not enough to drag him out of these unhelpful thoughts.
“You can help by going home,” he says, forcing himself to turn around and away from you. “And whatever Jess has told you is an overstatement. I’m not overworking myself. I’m fine.”
…
… …
“Then, I won’t push you.”
The words don’t sit well with Miguel, but there’s one part in his brain that does seem satisfied. And why shouldn’t he feel satisfied? Keeping you away from him is better than losing you and keeping you from getting too close to him means that you’re in the best place possible for him.
“But still, if you ever need my or anyone else’s help, we’re all here and willing.”
Miguel’s finger twitches with the temptation of holding you tight and never letting go growing stronger and stronger, before he curls his hands into fists again.
“We’re all here for a reason, and so am I.”
But Miguel O’Hara doesn’t need to pull you any closer than where you are.
And Miguel O’Hara doesn’t need you with him.
Miguel O’Hara doesn’t—
“And… I do care about you, Miguel. I really do.”
Miguel O’Hara doesn’t need any of that, plain and simple, but he can’t ignore the way something in his head seems to snap.
A tightly bound something finally giving away lets loose the act of turning around, reaching with an open hand for you. There’s a mortifying sense of relief that follows the feeling of your wrist held tightly within his hand, because maybe you were turning to walk away from him again without waiting for anything more, and when he sees that you’re staring directly at him, never having moved an inch, reality dawns on him like he’d fallen straight to the ground from more than a couple floors up.
A small voice in his head whispers to him that you weren’t in the process of leaving him at all. You were waiting for him. Even though you didn’t need to, and no one asked it of you, you stayed.
It takes less than a second for Miguel to realise just how dangerous such an epiphany is for him, but as per usual, the world waits not for him, considering how he begins to feel like he’s sweating buckets and that the room is starting to feel too small. Is that even possible? He’s sure that it shouldn’t be possible. Yet here he is, feeling that way.
“Miguel?” you ask, your eyes watching him carefully. You don’t shake his hand away, even when he knows that his fingers are flexing more tightly around your wrist.
Hearing his name makes him nervous, and seeing you just stand there, giving whatever his motives must be the benefit of your doubt— Questionable, really, because who, knowing Miguel’s reputation, wouldn’t try to rip their hand from him in a situation like this? Who would act so calmly with him? Very few people would, actually, but it seems that you’re included in the bunch, apparently— makes his nerves shoot through the roof.
“I want you to stay,” his mind poetically waxes. “Don’t go home yet. Stay here. Stay, be nearby, and be with me.”
“I…” Miguel begins, and in his delirium, if one can call it that, something comes out of his mouth.
Nothing good, though, as all initial words of his are.
“I didn’t recruit you for you to take on more than you can handle again,” Miguel blurts out, and it’s only because of his practiced speech and mannerisms that those words sound real.
Because he’d been watching you carefully, he sees how your expression falls, even just minutely, and it shatters his heart. Of course, he can see it, and of course, he hates it.
“Oh,” is all that you say at first. You likely were not expecting that— But then again, who in their right mind would’ve been expecting anything like that? No one, and Miguel knows that. “Then… if you’re so sure…”
Your arm is beginning to pull your wrist out of his hand, caution practically leaking from all over your figure, and Miguel calls himself every iteration of “a damned fool” that he knows of within the confines of his mind before tightening his grip.
No, saying that was unacceptable. When he stares into your confused eyes, he knows that he can’t just let things end there because saying anything except for the right words is unacceptable.
Miguel presses his lips together tightly, squeezing your wrist one last time like it would grant him some amount of bravery— And he swears that it does, even though his mouth runs drier than every desert put together. Why was this so hard? It’s just words that are already formed in his head. All he has to do is apologise and say what he actually wants to say.
That’s all.
So, Miguel swallows the last of his apprehension, and he sure hopes that it’d been the last of it, before he opens his mouth again.
“No, I— No,” Miguel begins again to clear the air. “I don’t mean that.”
He watches as you watch him. You’re silent, but your hand stops trying to leave his grasp, so a part of him thinks that you’re waiting for something from him. How did you know that there was more for him to say? He could honestly be imagining all of that in his head, and he’d be none the wiser, but if you’re not going to push him away yet, then he knows that he should take the chance as is.
“What I mean to say is… Well …” Miguel manages to say at first, mentally cursing the image of Lyla who pops into existence behind you to watch you with clearly bated breath.
But Lyla showing up isn’t important. You are, and he just needs to say something nice about how he wants you to stay with him. Just that.
“I… I need you to stay… stay here. To, well, to…”
He sees Lyla gesturing to go on and say his piece, and he looks back at you. He can do this. He can say that he wants you to stay and be with him.
He can say those simple words, and his lips part again to do that.
“I need you to give your opinion on some reports.”
… but none of the words that had been in his head are the ones that end up coming out. Miguel kicks himself inside his head for that while Lyla takes on a flabbergasted expression before exploding with laughter. She’s silent, fortunately, considering the mute symbol that glows next to her head, but that doesn’t change the fact that he can see her rolling around in the air.
“That’s something that I can do. It’s no problem at all,” you say anyway, cutting into his steadily growing irritation for Lyla, and he can hear relief in your voice. “I was worried that you had something way different for me. You were struggling pretty hard to get it out, after all.”
…
… …
“Miguel? Are you still there?”
“You’ll stay?” he blurts out next.
If he had the mental capacity to coherently follow along with what's happening, he’s sure that his own confusion would be more obvious, but currently his mind is working overtime. Lyla, on the other hand, has stopped laughing to regard you with interest.
“I wouldn’t mind staying for as long as you need me for,” you reassure him.
At the sound of that, Miguel finally lets the wrist in his hand go, though mostly due to the fact that his brain crashes to a standstill and is functioning under autopilot. In his head, he can only think of asking you to stay forever, seeing as you were extending an offer that could easily segway into something like that, but that’s insane. So insane, in fact, that he mentally balls up the thought and throws it far, far away from the forefront of his mind.
“It shouldn’t take long,” Miguel reassures coolly, and he thanks himself all the way to next week for not saying anything remotely similar to what his mind was thinking about. This time around, he can find it in himself to be grateful.
“Anything that involves working with you never takes long,” you comment in response.
Before his imagination starts to wander into very unproductive and unhelpful territory, he shoves it all aside and tries not to think too much about it. You follow after him as he moves closer to the golden, floating tabs containing the said reports that he really doesn’t need second opinions for because you’re supposed to be helping him now. And he knows that you’re just there to help, but he can’t help but feel happy. So happy, in fact, that a sickening and fluttery feeling explodes within him when he glances at his side to see you standing there, already scanning over the words of a report hovering there.
Because you’re here.
Because you stayed.
Miguel’s gaze lingers on you for too long, and he realises too late when you glance over to catch his eyes still watching you.
“You know, to think that the Miguel O’Hara needs my opinion on anything is pretty impressive,” you say, looking back at the report in front of you. “I must be dreaming.”
It’s ironic that you’d say that…
“… when I’m the one who must be dreaming.”
Miguel clamps his mouth shut the moment he realises that his lips are moving in time with his thoughts, and his eyes dart back to you.
You’re staring at a report, looking like you’re trying to make sense of something about the one in front of you, before you ask, “sorry, did you say something just now? I didn’t quite hear it.”
Silently, Miguel thanks every higher power for making his blunder not known while ignoring the fact that those same higher powers are probably laughing at his expense at this very moment.
“I said nothing,” he quickly answers.
It’s just his luck that the first time he manages to get his thoughts out of his head and into the world, it ends up being single-handedly the worst thing to say.
“Oh, okay,” you say, and he feels relief begin to course through him.
Because that means he’s safe from you having heard—
“Because I could have sworn that you said something about you being the one dreaming and—”
“Maybe you might as well go home after all, considering how you’re hearing things,” Miguel quickly scoffs out, tone quickly souring into his usual harsh tone— which is not good— and he’s about to apologize for it, but…
Miguel looks at you and sees that you don’t look the least bit bothered. In fact, the look in your eyes almost seems amused as you stare him down, and it drives him to break eye contact for the tabs in front of him again. When he suddenly starts to feel uncomfortable in his suit, he’s sure that it has something to do with the way the room feels like it’s growing a bit warmer around both you and him.
…
… …
Lyla pops into sight near you, saying, “do you need to review the archival footage for what Miguel said? I got it right here, hot off the—”
“Lyla, do not !” Miguel quickly says, swiping at the image of Lyla as she’s tossing what looks like a tablet around like she’s dealing with bread fresh out of the oven.
The golden-hued AI just snickers, disappearing and reappearing empty-handed closer to your head.
“So? What do you say?” Lyla inquires.
“I think I’ll have to pass this time,” is your answer, and he can see you looking at him. “Maybe next time?”
Miguel makes a promise to himself to have that section of the footage edited out and deleted before he grumbles out a short and simple, “just get back to work.”
He’s sure that you’re still staring at him, even as he darts his eyes to the tab farthest from you.
“Yes Sir,” you answer, and he ignores the tone that does not match the words you’d said.
A few seconds of silence is all Miguel needs before glancing back at you, and upon seeing you in the middle of actually working, he feels a bit better about doing the same. Honestly, he doesn’t have that much work with which he can tie you down with him, but maybe he can come up with something else in the time that it’ll take you to finish whatever you have now.
But that’s only if Miguel can get his head and mouth to cooperate properly …