TW: blood, very slight gore, someone has a trauma response
My coworkers and I pick our way through the mess of the reception, silent in a state of bewilderment.
None of us are strangers to the violent happenings of Nueva York - in fact, we're experts on them, reporting their every detail into our news columns. They happen so frequently that it's strange if we go a week without an incident. But it's different when you're the ones caught in them. You never really get used to it.
We migrate to the carpark, an entire crowd of dazed and injured employees. Jameson's barking orders like usual and we dutifully do as we're told. Medics have pulled onto the scene, though most administering first-aid are employees who have a fancy certificate and the know-how. Most of the professionals will be closer to the centre of the blast, where injuries are far more severe.
Alicia wraps some gauze from the first-aid kit in her car and ties it tightly around my arm. I wince.
"Thanks," I say. The split in my lip throbs.
Alicia smiles at me and limps on to the next person needing attention.
I hold my arm to my chest and retreat to my car. There's definitely glass in my skin and absolutely no way I can drive like this. I ponder the idea of calling Miguel to pick me up, then immediately scrap it. He's probably busy doing his Spider-Man shit, and I don't really want to ask him for help when he's in this weird mood of his.
Great. Glass in my arm, Miguel angry at me and I'm stranded. What a brilliant day I'm having.
I lean against the hood of my car and stare at the building tops just in case Spider-Man swings past. When the smoggy, cloudy sky offers nothing, I turn my eyes to the ground and sigh.
I wonder if I can ask Jess or Peter to help me...
"Hey," a voice whispers into my ear.
I flinch with a yelp and spin around to find Lyla. She beams at me, resting on thin air with her chin in her hands. I close my eyes and try to calm my nerves. I really don't need a heart attack on top of everything else.
"Lyla?" I ask when I have a modicum of composure back. "What are you doing?"
"Miguel's shouting at me." She sends me a big pout behind her heart-shaped glasses. "He's in a really bad mood. Anyway, he wants me to check if you're okay, and you're obviously alive, so I guess I'll pass that on."
I roll my eyes. "Thanks."
"Oof." Lyla frowns. She crosses her legs and arms and slumps. "You're in a bad mood, too. You're really bringing down my vibe."
I ignore her comment. My coworkers mingle, each sporting a variety of cuts and scrapes. They're too far away to notice or overhear me talking to the little, floating person.
"Do you know what happened?" I ask.
Lyla nods. "This universe's Doc Ock set off some explosives near Alchemax to retrieve a set of arms he'd invented on premises before his contractual termination. The structural integrity of the eastern-bound side of the facility is under extreme stress." She pokes my cheek. "Just like you. Bleh."
I ignore her comment. "Of course it's Alchemax. Is Rosa okay?"
Lyla perches on my shoulder. "Her place of education is unharmed. Mr. Frank is teaching an impromptu lesson about shock waves."
The heaviness in my chest lightens a little. "And Miguel?"
Lyla grins and goes to answer, but when she opens her mouth her smile falls. She stares into space with a perplexed expression. "Oh. He's left Alchemax. That's not in the plan." She pinches her chin in confusion. "Interesting. Jessica Drew and Peter Parker-616 just arrived in-dimension and are doing Miguel's job, instead."
"What's going on?"
Lyla throws her hands into the air and huffs. "Why do I bother formulating perfect plans when nobody ever sticks to them?"
"Lyla-" I go to pester her to answer my question when a familiar voice stops me dead. Lyla and I poke our heads over the bonnet of my car and find Miguel talking to the impromptu leader of the first-aiders.
"Y/n O'Hara," he says sternly, desperately, to the unfortunate frazzled head of HR. His eyes scan the parking lot with a frenzy I haven't seen from him before - from either of the Miguels I know. "My wife. Where's my wife?"
"Oh, he's not doing so well," Lyla comments.
I push myself off of my car and step around the front. "Miguel?"
His head snaps to me. The look of relief that overcomes him is a far, far cry from the glare he gave me this morning, and it gives me whiplash. He rushes through the crowd, his large size shoving past people and earning disgruntled comments. He doesn't apologise. His attention is fully trained on me.
"Hello-?" My confused greeting is cut off with a gasp when he drags me into his chest for a hug. The gashes along my arm ache from the jostle. "Ow- Miguel!"
"Are you hurt?" he asks. He pulls back and his eyes can't settle, flicking all across my body like a typhoon. His hands fly over me, touching the dried blood on my hairline, the split on my lip, examining the wrapping around my arm. "Cariño, where are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," I insist annoyedly. So now he decides to be all sweet and caring. I push his hands away. "You can stop freaking out."
But his eyes are lost, darting all across my face, stricken and frazzled and afraid. They keep coming back to the spot below my collarbone. My irritation fades as I put two and two together and realise the type of panic he's having. Why he's so irrationally scared despite me standing before him, perfectly alive.
It's a trauma response. He's not seeing me. He's seeing the me that died in his arms. The thousands of mes that died before thousands of hims.
Earlier frustration completely gone, I pick up his shaking hands and bring them to my cheeks. They're cold. They're so big that they almost cover my entire face.
"Mig." I stare him right in his red eyes and wait until he sees me, too. "Mig, I'm okay. Look-" I move one of his hands and press it over my heart. "Feel that? I'm okay."
Miguel's gasping for breath. His gaze flickers between my face and where I've pressed his hand. His palm rests against my shirt, and beneath that, my heart thuds its rhythmic procession. His exhale is heavy when the feel of it beating finally works past his panic.
"You're okay," he breathes.
I smile softly. "I'm okay."
He releases a trembling, relieved breath and curls to drop his forehead into my shoulder. The hand beneath my palm folds over until his fingers link through mine.
"No otra vez, no otra vez," he mumbles to himself. He squeezes my hand until it hurts. "No puedo hacerlo otra vez."
My heart sinks at the sound of his broken voice, heavy as a rock through water. Lyla's right. He really isn't doing well.
"I'm not going anywhere, Miguito," I murmur. I press my lips to his temple and close my eyes. "I'm right here."
"You're okay," he echoes quietly. The hand over my cheek moves to clasp onto my hair, holding locks of it gently between his fingers like a lifeline. "You're okay."
"I'm okay." I guide his face back so I can send him a small smile. "Let's go home."
He nods and swallows, suddenly exhausted.
Miguel refuses to let go of my hand and I don't ask him to. Since neither of us are in a state to drive, Lyla opens a portal in the alleyway, and we sneak away to escape without raising unwanted questions. An Irish goodbye - and an O'Hara classic.
My gaze keeps snagging back on the sight of his hand in mine. It's familiar, as is everything with him. It's familiar but it feels brand new, and this time when my cheeks heat and I can't stop the little, flustered smile it brings, I don't feel so bad about it. The flutter in my chest doesn't feel so bad.
I blink hard to keep my tears at bay. They're not entirely bad tears, for once. And it's ridiculous really, because out of everything that's happened this morning - my fight with Miguel, dropping off Rosa alone, being caught in the outskirts of the bomb's blast - the only thing that brings me close to crying is the feeling of his hand in my own.
••🕷️••
"It's going to hurt," Miguel warns, his hand tight on my elbow. My grip adjusts against his waist nervously.
I nod. "I know."
"Ready?"
Again, I nod.
"Alright."
He lowers his hand and I hiss at the sting of flesh, eyes closing tight at the sensation. I rest my forehead against his chest and grit my teeth. A slow string of apologies falls from Miguel's lips, quiet with concentration. I try to focus on controlling my breathing.
Clink. A piece of glass drops into the bowl beside us.
After we'd arrived back home, Miguel quickly composed himself and set his anxious energy to giving my injuries a proper look-over. He'd grimaced with sympathy when he unwrapped the hastily-wrapped gauze and saw the state of my shredded, glass-embedded arm, before promptly sitting me down at the kitchen table with a pair of tweezers and a small hospital's worth of supplies.
"Muy bien," he murmurs. "Just a few more."
"Don't lie to me," I groan against his shirt in despair. "I know how much there is."
He chuckles quietly and swipes his thumb against the soft skin of my elbow pit in sympathy. I wince when he plucks out the next piece of glass. The bowl is dotted with red, but I try my best not to look at it. I focus on the fibres of his shirt instead.
The next shard to be dislodged gets me sitting up straight with a cringe and a barely-stifled sob. Miguel continues to mumble encouragement, but he doesn't pause. We both want this over as quickly as possible.
I watch Miguel's face as he continues to carefully rids my gashes of shards. His brow is knotted tightly over his dark, red eyes, focus intent, and his tongue sits between his teeth. I need something to distract myself and staring at his face seems like a pretty good way to keep my mind occupied.
His dark hair falls over his forehead. I resist the urge to push it back, to play with it. To use it to pull him towards me and kiss him. I stomp the feeling down.
"... can we talk about this morning?" I ask.
The tweezers pause over the next gash. "What part?"
I tilt my head so I can catch his eye. He doesn't play ball. "I think you know."
Miguel shifts his feet over the hardwood floor and leans closer to my arm. I exhale through my nose as he picks out the next piece of glass.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" I say.
"I know," he murmurs. He finally meets my gaze. "I'm sorry."
I smile softly. "You gonna tell me why you spoke to me like that? I know that it's nothing to do with my 'gall' or whatever." I send him a pointed look when he winces. "I was married to Miguel for a decade; I know when you're hiding the truth."
Miguel exhales and sits back in his chair. He drops the tweezers onto the table, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, and sighs. My hand, still holding the shirt at his waist, moves with him.
"It's hard to explain."
I raise my brows. "Try."
His gaze drops. "It'll make me sound pathetic."
"This is a judgement-free family."
Miguel huffs with sombre amusement. His eyes lift to mine, soft with a multitude of emotions.
"Imagine you meet the love of your life," he begins quietly. "You spend the best five years of your life with her. You even pick out a ring. And then she's taken from you before you get a chance to settle down."
I know this story. My smile wanes with sympathy.
Miguel looks down at his hands and my gaze follows. He begins rubbing his thumb in the middle of his palm, dragging lines of whitened flesh in its nervous wake. His hands rest above our entwined legs, our chairs so close together. I stare at the movement.
"Then, two years later, you're standing on her doorstep in the rain, looking like a total idiot, having just buried an alternate version of yourself. And you can't kiss her, because then you really would be a total huevón." He shakes his head. "And you already are one, anyway, because instead of telling her the truth, you try to blend in - as if she's not smart enough to figure you out."
My gaze lifts to his.
"Then she kisses you, and you've got to try and keep yourself together." He sends me an amused smile, dry, slightly pained, and I shrink with guilt. He picks up the tweezers and holds my elbow again. "See? Pathetic."
I grimace. "It's not pathetic. I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you." The tweezers falter. "When Lyla told me about the bomb, I couldn't stop thinking that you were hurt - more than this. Worse. And I hated the possibility that my last words to you would've been those."
I go silent. Miguel resumes picking the glass out, but now I barely feel their pinch. Clink. Clink. Clink. He grabs some honey-based healing ointment and rubs a sizeable amount down my arm.
"But they're not," I finally speak up. "So you can sleep easy tonight."
Miguel hums quietly. "I guess." He stands and washes his hands at the sink. My eyes follow his movements. I don't seem to want to look away from him, entranced, charmed like a snake.
He dries his hands and returns to the seat before me. He grabs a new roll of gauze and begins wrapping my arm, neater and firmer than Alicia's earlier attempt. I guess he would be an expert in first-aid considering his occupation.
I watch as his hands unroll the bandage. They move deftly, surely, perfectionist down the very degree despite their large size. There's a slight raise in the pads of his finger tips where his claws are pressed down, and even though I've seen the kind of damage they can cause, not an ounce of unease at his touch sends me into an orbit of turmoil. I'm safe with him. I want his touch.
"It's not a choice," he continues quietly, "falling in love with you. Even though you're not my Y/n, you're still everything I fell in love with."
I'm the same. But I can't get myself to say it. It'll break barriers I'm not sure I'm ready to see go just yet.
Miguel ties the gauze off and moves to spread some ointment over my split lip. The delicate brush of his thumb over my bottom lip, the soothing swipes - I don't allow myself to breathe. He's too close, I'm too tense. Even the sting of the split isn't enough to make this unromantic.
I'm not the only one feeling the tension. Miguel's gaze darkens, fixated on the way my plush flesh gives beneath his touch. He leans in closer, only a smidge, he probably didn't even notice it himself. But I did. I do.
"You can't imagine how much I want you," he mumbles. "How difficult this is."
That's too much. I grab his wrist and pull him away, face far beyond burning - my skin would be melting off it could. "Don't say that so close."
"Ah?" Miguel tilts his head, grins mischievously. "Can't handle a bit of teasing?"
I scoff and rise to the challenge like the dazed-brain bomb victim I am. "Please. I'm not a teenager. I can handle a bit of teasing."
Miguel's eyes narrow with promise, sly and sleek beneath his lashes. His thumb returns to my split lip, but this time the ache of it beneath his touch sparks something wildly different.
"Really?" he purrs.
Fuck. I look away and my lip slips from his fingertips. "Maybe not," I confess.
Miguel exhales a laugh through his nose and sits back. He watches as I examine my new, perfectly-wrapped bandage. "I didn't want to... do that to you. Last night."
I glance up at him. "Could've fooled me."
Miguel cocks his head with a serious expression. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he clarifies. "Or... push you too fast." His forehead wrinkles with the effort to say the right thing. "I know it's too soon. If you ever even want to... pursue something."
My eyes widen. It's a topic that's plagued my mind for the past week, sure, but I never imagined that he'd actually bring it up. I assumed we'd dance around it until one of us stumbles.
"I don't know," I answer unsurely. "I'm not opposed to it. I'm just... I feel like I'm betraying my Miguel, you know? He dies and then I move on to his replacement?" I sink in my seat, glum, at war with myself. "I'm not that kind of person. I need more time."
"I know." Miguel spares me a warm, sad smile. "Don't worry about knowing if you're ready or not. I'm not here for that. I'm just here to protect my girls."
My cheeks pinch with heat. His girls. I like that. I like that a little too much.
I clear my throat and stand, gathering some of the supplies - most of which we didn't even need - to put back in their home in the cupboard above the fridge. Miguel joins. We work in quiet tandem.
I can still feel the sensation of his thumb against my lip. It hovers, unable to be ignored, like a very loud fly. Such a pest. Such a wonderful pest.
"I guess you'll be working from home until the Bugle's fixed up," Miguel comments.
"Yeah," I hum as I tuck the last box of plasters away. I lean against the kitchen bench and cross my arms. "I might write from the Spider-HQ. That'll be a nice change of pace."
Miguel scoffs and closes the cupboard. "You won't get anything done with Peter hanging around you."
"That's the point." At the raised brow he sends me, I laugh. "You're too mean to him! Peter's lovely. He's my new best friend."
He grunts.
"You're such a codgy old man." I swipe the back of my hand at his stomach and he 'oof's. "Alright, grumpy, let's go pick up Rosita. I think the rest of today calls for a movie marathon and takeaways."
Miguel's expression softens, as it always does when Rosalina's mentioned. "I like that idea."
The traffic is worse than usual in lieu of the recent wreckage. We crawl along at a snail's pace, watching people on foot travel faster than us. I stare at them in despair.
"Maybe we should move to my dimension," Miguel monotonously jokes as I switch through the radio stations. "The traffic's better in 2099."
"Over my dead body," I mutter, before sucking my lips between my teeth in regret and closing my eyes. Miguel's silence is deafening. "Jesus- sorry, that was really bad wording."
He sends me a side-long smile from behind his sunglasses, dry and tiny. "I guess that makes us even."
I grin weakly. "I guess."
Miguel smirks and pulls into a lane that's moving along a little faster. "What's wrong with my world?"
"It's too clean," I complain. I lift my feet onto the dashboard and stretch my legs. "There's no personality."
"It's efficient," he attests. "The cars drive themselves. The technology's better. Rosita would get a superior education."
"No personality." I send him a half-hearted glare. "Rosa has friends here. The only good thing about your world is Peter."
Miguel rolls his eyes and taps at my calf. "Get your shoes off the dash."
"You're just like your world," I grumble, though do as told. I turn up the radio. "I bet you don't even have Duran Duran."
"What's a 'Duran Duran'?"
My heart truly breaks.
"Nope." I turn Save a Prayer up louder. "Never. I'll never move to your world if you don't have Duran Duran."
Miguel sends me a bewildered grin. I spend the rest of the long, slow drive to Rosalina's school educating him on my dimension's best music, according to me and my Spotify playlists.
Rosalina's school is let out early. She sprints towards us with a pleased smile, her oversized school bag jostling with each step. She's not the only child happy to be released from class prematurely.
Her joy is quickly replaced with concern when she sees the bandage on my arm.
"Mom!" she exclaims, voice pitched with worry. She looks between Miguel and I. "What happened?!"
I crouch and squeeze her hands reassuringly. "I just got caught in the blast. I'll be better in no time." Miguel opens the passenger door, an unsubtle hint for us to get a move on. "Let's talk in the car. It's gonna be a long drive home."
Rosalina frowns unhappily but clambers inside without a word. When all of our seatbelts are clicked into place, Miguel guides the car back into the slow flow of traffic.
"Were you scared?" I asked.
"Nope!" Rosalina grins from the backseat. "It was fun! Like a roller coaster!"
Miguel chuckles. "Atta girl."
Rosalina beams, before proceeding to fill the three-times-longer-than-usual car ride by telling us every second of her day, as she always does. The shockwave ended up just being a little shake of her classroom, and then they spent the rest of the day learning about them.
"Did you know that shockwaves move faster than sound?" Rosalina says excitedly. "That's why the world moved before we heard the bang!"
"Wow," Miguel says with a stunned shake of his head. "That's incredible, papita. You're so smart." He sends me a wide-eyed look. "We've got a little scientist on our hands."
I snicker and nod in agreement. Rosalina swells with pride.
When we finally pull into our carport, it's past lunchtime. Rosalina drops her bag in the entrance and rushes upstairs to grab her favourite movie-watching blanket. Miguel watches from over my shoulder as I order something from our local shops to get delivered.
It turns into a perfect middle-of-the-week movie watching day when it starts to rain. Rosalina picks out a movie while Miguel cranks up the heater and I make popcorn.
When I enter the living room Miguel and Rosalina are already sitting side-by-side on the couch. With him so large, her so teeny and tucked into his side, they scroll through the list of movies on the tv. She laughs at something he said, high-pitched and sweet. The sight brings a smile to my face.
My arm aches. My lip hurts. But none of that matters when I get to see my two favourite people like this.