TW: nonconsensual kiss, it gets a lil spicy (consensual), blood
I can't seem to look Miguel in the eyes.
It's not intentional. Not exactly. It's just that every time I see him, I'm reminded of the way I ogled him while he was working in his dark, brooding office. The way his suit sits upon him - the red contour designed to make him seem bigger than he already, more intimidating, dangerous - is engraved into the wriggles of my brain.
If he was my husband it would be a good thing. I'd admire the screenshot my mind's eye took to my heart's content and I'd enjoy it vehemently. I might even ask him to wear it just for me. Admire it in a more... hands-on approach.
But he isn't my husband, so it isn't a good thing.
Ergo, I avoid looking at him. I avoid looking at him like he's the Black Death returned and is contagious by eye contact alone. I avoid him because I genuinely don't know what else to do to circumvent these confusing emotions. Of course I'm attracted to him - he's Miguel. He's just not my Miguel, and my Miguel has only been in the grave for a little over a month.
I am desperately clinging onto my moral compass like a lifeboat, and the rest of my entire self is a raging ocean. My lifeboat is beginning to take on more and more water. Drowning is imminent.
Miguel notices my change in attitude immediately, which goes to show just how attentive he truly is. I can feel the heavy lingering of his gaze and the worry behind it when we're in the same room. I can feel it like a suffocating presence when we're alone in the car after dropping Rosalina off at school. I can feel it when we eat dinner and I can't look at him when I ask for the salt.
He keeps staring, decoding and decoding like I'm a strain of DNA he can't quite understand. I, continuously, dance my eyes away.
And every time I think of how attractive he is, or how sweet, or how everything he does is a direct resemblance to my Miguel and everything I first fell desperately, madly, helplessly in love with, my guilt grows. How can I think these things when my husband hasn't even been gone for all that long? Am I really that terrible? Am I that much of a horrible person?
I wish I could explain it to my Miguel, or get some of his classic, sarcastic O'Hara wisdom, or at least have him tell me that I'm not a bad person. I wish I could get some reassurance. I wish I could see his smile. I wish I could tell him I love him. That I miss him. That I miss him so much that it's slowly killing me.
I wish I could talk to him just one last time.
I wish I could drive up to his grave and bury myself beside him.
••🕷️••
"Do you hate dad?"
Rosalina's sudden question hits me so unaware that I splutter my sip of tea right back into my mug.
We're eating colcannon without Miguel (Rosa and his favourite dinner) and despite my repeated attempts to start a conversation with my daughter, she'd been uncommunicative. At first I thought it was because she's upset that Miguel's missing, busy trying to catch another round of detected anomalies that's been spread across the wrong universes, but clearly his absence isn't what's been weighing on her mind.
I almost want to laugh at the absurd question, but the way she looks at me with her big, sad brown eyes and her scared pout, I stifle my amusement right back.
"What?" I stupidly ask, because I'm still so caught off-guard. "What makes you ask that?"
Rosalina shrugs and pushes her colcannon around with a fork. "Dad doesn't sleep with you, anymore. And you don't kiss."
I'm not surprised that her suspicion's been raised and she's noticed the change between Miguel and I - especially with how I've been avoiding him as of late. Her observation skills are as sharp as her father's.
Honestly, we're lucky that we lasted this long.
"Is he going to leave?" she asks while I mentally fumble for a reply. Her voice turns, and she begins to blubber. "Are you?"
"Oh, baby, no." I quickly push myself out of my seat and kneel before her. She watches me, sniffling, as I wipe away her tears with my thumb and hold her little cheek. "No, sweetheart, neither of us are going to leave."
Rosalina leans into my hand and quietly weeps, and the sight breaks my heart in two.
"Then why is it so different around here?" she whimpers. "Do you not love each other anymore?"
I suddenly recall Mr. Frank's words. Disruptive family home. My stomach sinks into a gaping, endless black hole - he was right. I have made a disruptive home for my daughter. With me trying so hard to make things seem normal, I'd forgotten to check how much she actually saw.
I have never hated myself more than in this precise moment.
I inhale shakily and try to find the right words to soothe her panic. It's times like these where I feel like I'm useless at being a mother. All the handbooks and essays in the world about child-raising through the difficult parts will never prepare me for the real thing.
"Rosita, papita," I hum reassuringly. "I could never hate dad. I love him so much, and I love you so much." I poke her nose and wipe away the new tears. She smiles weakly. "People change, and sometimes how they act around other people change, too, but your dad and I- we're not going anywhere. Our love for each other and our love for you isn't going anywhere."
Rosalina doesn't look convinced. She blinks her big, glossy eyes at the ground and I melt. Anything. I'd do anything to make her happy again.
I grab her hands and gently squeeze them between mine. "What can we do to make you feel better, mija? We can get ice cream? Watch your favourite movie?"
Rosita peeks up at me from behind her wet lashes. "I want you to kiss dad again."
My brain comes to a screeching halt. "... what?"
"It's how people show they love each other." She pulls her hands from mine, crosses her arms, and kicks her legs with agitation. "It'll make me feel better."
I stare at her in shock, before my shock slowly melts into disbelief. This little shit. I'd outrightly refuse if she wasn't holding back tears with all the might her little body can muster.
"I-" I struggle to find a reasonable excuse to not do as asked. "That's not really appropriate..."
Her face crumples, and I scramble to backtrack.
"Okay! Okay." I smile nervously at her. I have zero backbone. "I'll kiss dad, okay? I'll kiss him on the cheek."
Her little face frowns. "No. On the lips!" Her brows begin to tremble with impending tears that she struggles to hold back. "You used to all the time."
God, give me mercy.
I remind myself that change is scary, and that change at Rosalina's young age feels totally life-altering. Her request may be unreasonable but she's scared. I remember being scared of my home life's uncertainty when I was eleven, how harrowing and isolated I felt. I'd rather cut off my own arm than see her afraid like how I was. I'd kiss Miguel if I had to.
Everything I do is for her.
I sigh. "Alright. I'll kiss dad on the lips." At the way she brightens, content finally, I smile in weary relief. I gently pinch her cheek. "Finish your dinner, preciosa."
Rosalina happily nods and turns back to her food with a reinvigorated appetite. I return to my seat, though now I'm the one who doesn't want to eat. I have just been mentally cheese-grated by her innocent plea.
If this was my Miguel it'd be fine. Hell - if my Miguel was still here, we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. Rosalina's right in that we used to kiss often - good night, good morning, just for kicks. Miguel was an affectionate family man, and I revelled in it.
But this isn't my Miguel. And that scares me.
We're not close enough to kiss. Honestly, I doubt we ever will be. We're still too deeply entwined with the memories of our own versions of each other to even think about moving on with a carbon copy - and how fucked up is that, anyway? I can't be reduced to a replacement, and neither can he. It's not fair on either of us.
The front door opens before I even have a chance to compose a plan of action. I had hoped I'd get enough time to at least flick Miguel a text of warning, but he's already entering the kitchen with a big, warm smile. He falters only when he notices Rosalina's tear stained cheeks, and then hesitates further at the deer-in-the-headlights expression on my face.
He glances between the two of us, absolutely puzzled, a little wary. "What telenovela did I miss?"
I quickly stand and collect the plates to busy myself. Nope. Can't do this. Can't do it. I flee to the kitchen bench and scrape the food into the bin.
"Mom!" Rosalina whines.
I sigh. "Rosa-"
"You said!" she begs. "How else can I believe you still love dad?"
I plant my hands on the edge of the sink and hang my head. There really is no winning this one. I let her watch too many bloody Disney movies.
"Does someone mind filling me in?" Miguel asks.
"Moooom!"
I'm at my limit. Either I really let this household become a disruptive home, or I toughen up and kiss Miguel. He'll understand, right? He knows how much Rosa's happiness matters to me.
Yeah, because being kissed by the alternate version of your dead girlfriend is totally okay.
And kissing the alternate version of my dead husband will absolutely not ruin my already brittle mental state.
Miguel's hand touches my shoulder. It's the only physical contact we've made since my little chat with Jess, and now I'm kicking myself for my cowardice. Maybe Rosalina wouldn't have noticed anything if I didn't let my attraction towards Miguel frighten me.
"Y/n?" His voice is heavy with concern. "What's going on?"
I sigh through my nose. There really is no getting out of this.
Just kiss him, Y/n. Quick and fast. So fast that you won't even realise you've done it.
I finally let myself look at Miguel and my heart skips. He watches me so intently that his red eyes don't even flicker, trained intimately onto my own that I'm certain he can see right through to my soul. I wonder if he can read the guilt that wraps around it.
I ball my fists and inhale deeply. It's just a kiss. A kiss only means something if you put meaning behind it.
"Rosa wants us to kiss," I quietly say.
His eyes widen. "¿Que?"
"Sorry," I quickly whisper, before grabbing his surprised face and bringing him down to me.
It's so fast that it hardly counts as a peck, but it still sends fire shooting through my body with my lips as ground zero. It's so fast that Miguel doesn't even have time to gasp. It's so fast that I barely feel it physically, but I feel it emotionally, because meaning or no, this is still Miguel, and it claws me to pieces.
I step back just as quickly and release him as if burnt. Now I definitely can't look him in the eye. Rosa's bouncing in her seat.
"Happy, monster?" I ask.
Rosalina giggles and nods. She slips from her seat and dashes over to greet Miguel with a tight hug, one which he takes a second to return, sliding a slow hand through her soft hair. His gaze still holds a look of shock. I utilise my nervous energy to start scrubbing the plates with quick, jittery strokes.
Miguel clears his throat. He's faster to recover than I.
"How was your day, mi niña?" he asks.
"Better now!" Rosalina gushes. "I wanna kiss! I want one!"
Miguel pecks her forehead softly. "Go get ready for bed."
I find myself hoping that she'll misbehave - if only to delay leaving me alone with him. But, because she's better behaved for her dad than she ever has been for me, she nods and races upstairs to do as told.
The quiet she leaves us in is palpable, a living, tormented thing.
My anxiety swells and bulges grotesquely. My breath shudders. Miguel's silence sends regret creeping up my neck like a slithering, crawling bug, and it tightens around it until I'm choking. To Rosa, we are simply and always have been mom and dad. But we are not each other's half.
I flinch when Miguel's weight on the floorboards make them creak. He slowly paces away, huge and brooding with his head bent in contemplation and his hand over his mouth. Holding his chin. Touching his lips. In disgust? In anger? I can't read him like he reads me.
The wet plates in my hands drop to the sink. The loudness of their clatter propels me towards him.
"I'm sorry," I blurt. "I'm so sorry. I didn't - I didn't know what else to do, and she was crying, she thought one of us was going to leave, and-"
Miguel cuts me off. "It's okay."
But his back is still turned to me, and it really, really doesn't feel okay. "Are you angry?"
"No- no. I'm not angry."
His back towers above me. I'm tiny. I'm an ant. He's an impenetrable fortress atop a mountain, high in the clouds. Close enough to touch, but so, so far away. I scramble for purchase against his cliffs.
"You look angry." My hand hovers between us, unsure whether to reach out or not. "It's okay to be angry - I'd be angry, I-"
"I'm not," Miguel assures. "Just-"
I touch his arm to turn him, to gauge his expression and see if he really isn't angry like he says, and it sets off a trigger that blindsides me. He moves so swiftly that I can't comprehend we've moved until a few seconds after, when my slow, sluggish brain has a moment to catch up.
My breath sucks between my teeth with a startled gasp. I freeze against him moments too late.
His hand's tangled in the hair on the back of my head. The other is planted firmly on my hip. Both burn against me, scalding me from head to toe, shooting sparks along my veins like powerlines. His breath against my cheek rivals the relentless heat of the summer, the baking of the pavement.
"Just..." Miguel whispers against the corner of my lips, so close that my skin tingles with the sensation of phantom touch, "just practising my self-restraint."
We're entangled like our bodies are familiar with each other, know each other, calling. My hands are loose fists against his chest. His thigh's between my legs, his chest flush against mine, and we move with each ragged breath. He's cornered me against the wall and the bench and he encompasses me wholly, surrounds me completely.
All I see is Miguel. All I feel is Miguel. There's nowhere for me to run.
I don't want to run.
My eyes crawl up to catch his. He's curled over me, so large and tall in comparison, blocking out the kitchen light and shrouding me in shadow. It's like he's shielding me from everything else, capturing me away from world. He's a cage of heat and glory. He looks at me like I'm something worth keeping.
"Mig..?" I breathe.
He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. His exhale is low and long. "Don't say my name like that."
I don't dare say anything more.
He slowly opens his eyes and the darkness of them, the intensity, the want, it sends my racing heart scattering even faster. It's a hummingbird within my chest and I pant like I've just ran a marathon. I hold his stare.
And then my fingers, still wet from the tap, unfurl upon him. They splay against his chest, stretching over the cotton of his shirt and soaking it, soaking the warmth that emanates from him. His grip on my waist tightens into something bruising, digging me deeper into him. My breath hitches. I'm still holding his stare.
This is a bad idea. This is every bad idea rolled into one monumental, colossal mistake.
Miguel looks down, his lashes covering his magnetic gaze, and he runs the tip of his nose along the line of my jaw. My head tilts with the long, slow caress; amiable for him, obedient. His lips brush at the edge of the bandage on my neck.
"I'm going to go on patrol," he says, more for him than for myself. His words are slow, stern, each syllable a quiet effort. I swallow tightly and my throat bobs against his teeth.
"Okay." It tumbles out in an uncontrolled breath.
"Coño, eres bellísima," he whispers against the thin flesh of my juglar. The hand tangled in my hair clenches and my scalp stings. Pleasure drags an addictive line right down my spine.
I have to close my eyes and sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep silent. The craving of him is so vivid, so carnal, so unholy - so out of the blue and unsurprising. My core churns, hot and fresh like hellfire. The devil awaits me.
"Mig," slips again from my lips. My exhale tumbles hot and loud within a sigh of yearning. The thigh between my legs is almost in the perfect position, so close to relief. It taunts me, leaves me to beg. "Please..."
Miguel yanks himself back and the relief, the heat, the desire is pulled with him. My eyes shoot open at the sudden lack of touch and our gazes meet. He's heaving, chest rising and falling with each deep, controlling breath. The way he looks at me is as though he's haunted, like he's seeing ghosts.
He stares as I lean against the wall and fight a losing battle for composure, struggling to calm my own breathing, gripping at the bench as if it can ground me. I'm empty without him, without his electric touch. Empty and yearning, touched with the slowly fouling taste of desire that sits poorly on my tongue.
"I..." Miguel can't speak. His face his thoroughly flushed, dark with heat and the same wicked, awful want that plagues me. He sharply turns his head to the side. Now he's the one who avoids my gaze.
Head bowed, he stalks from the room.
Alone, clarity is granted back to my foggy brain, and the realisation of what I've done swells within me and bursts. My knees wobble. I sink to the floor, wide-eyed and gasping at what I'd done and what had almost transpired. If he didn't pull back- if he kissed me-
The regret and guilt I felt before is nothing in comparison to now. Now it swirls around me like a nauseating storm, pelting me with winds that pierce straight through my feeble, mortal body.
What the fuck is wrong with me? How could I do that? Be so receptive? How could I let him fold me so easily? It doesn't matter if I kissed him first or if we both crossed lines. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. The way I still am.
I bury my head into my arms.
I really am a terrible person.
••🕷️••
The next time I see Miguel, he's zipping up his jacket in the entrance of my brownstone in the early hours of the morning.
I pad downstairs in my pyjamas. There was never any chance of me sleeping, and the sound of the door opening picked my dead-eyed self up from being splayed across my bed. I watch him tiredly as I descend.
Miguel pauses when I reach the landing. He doesn't look up. I cross my arms against the chill.
Neither of us speak for a few moments and the silence sits between us like a pit of poison. The tension makes me shift on my feet uneasily.
"Where are you going?" I finally ask.
He's still staring at the ground. "... work."
"You just got home."
This time he does peek up at me, and I'm ashamed by how quickly I flush under his gaze. The look he sends is of disbelief, traced with outrage.
"'Home?'" he echoes.
My brows knot over my eyes unhappily. "You don't have to be a dick."
He turns away with a sarcastic grin. "Ah."
My frown deepens. "Is this attitude about the kiss or is this about what happened after?"
"It's neither," he says shortly. He taps on his watch and Lyla pops up, watching us unsurely. He quietly tells her to input some coordinates before raising his voice again. "It's about the gall you had to pull that on me."
I bristle defensively. "Oh, says the man who cornered me like a dog in heat."
Miguel whips around to send me a burning glare. "Says the woman who kissed me in the first place!" he seethes.
My arms tighten across my chest. "I said I was sorry."
"Yeah, because that makes it better."
My chest aches with disbelief. In comparison to the stunt he pulled, my kiss was all levels of total innocence - yeah, it was bad of me to kiss him, but at least I didn't shove my leg between his. At least I didn't rile him up to high heaven. I had to take a fucking cold shower after I'd pulled myself together.
"If you're going to be like this, then just go," I grumble.
Miguel scoffs. "What do you think I was trying to do before you wanted to start this wonderful conversation?"
My arms fall to my sides in hurt. He falters, glancing at me just as I'm trying to wrangle a poker face to mask my transparent expression. Lyla flickers closer to Miguel's watch, peering between us.
"You're unbelievable," I mutter. I turn to head back up stairs. "Go back to your own dimension if you hate it here so much."
I pause at my own words, at the agony they create within myself, before pushing on and quickly ascending the steps. I don't let myself look back.
Miguel does as told. I'm not sure for how long he plans to stay away, but when Rosalina wakes and the day begins, he's a no-show. I get her ready and drop her off at school alone, and when it's just me in the car, his absence is sorely felt.
I watch Rosalina enter school from the driver's seat and close my weary eyes. I don't want to go to work. I don't want to do anything except curl into a ball and contemplate. But I start the car and drive to the Daily Bugle, anyway. There is no working-from-another-dimension for me today.
Miguel's touch has branded me. His muttered, heated words spin circles in my head. And then the way he looked at me this morning - the scorn in his gaze, the disbelief at my kiss. I can't even blame him. I'd be the same if he'd kissed me like that, without any warning, with zero consent.
My guilt has split and grown twice as large.
I park up and grab my bag. I'm heavy with multiple shades of grief and regret, and it drags my feet as I cross the parking lot.
I'm just inside the entrance when an ear-splitting explosion and an extreme force knocks me and my coworkers to the floor of the lobby. The windows shatter, spreading glass far and wide and splitting the skin of the arm I've instinctively raised to protect myself.
The world settles just as fast as it burst. I slowly open my eyes. My ears ring. My arm throbs. Larson, the receptionist whose desk took the brunt of the blast for him, helps the stunned and murmuring crowd upright.
Glass crunches beneath me as I carefully stand on wobbly feet. Sirens pierce my watery hearing. The street is a mess of rubble and injured, staggering, crying people. Realisation sets in as my brain ticks slowly. Someone's set off a bomb a few streets down, and my work was caught in the shockwave.
Blood trickles down my arm and lands amongst the shards below me, staining the floor, creating a pool of red.
This certainly isn't the worst day of my life, but it's definitely in the top five.