Miguel's been buzzing all afternoon. He got back from his mission with Peter after I called him about Rosalina's dance, and hasn't stopped speaking about it since.
"What if she gets a little tux?" he asks elatedly as he drives the car through the streets of my Neuva York to pick her up from school. "With a little bow tie and everything?"
It's adorable, really, how excited he is. He's so good with Rosalina that sometimes I forget he's never been a dad before. All of these things are completely new to him.
I smile at the side of his face as he pulls into the school's parking lot. "We'll get her whatever outfit she wants to go in."
"Of course," Miguel says. The car rolls to a stop alongside the other vehicles waiting for their resident child. "... what about a jumpsuit?"
"Miguel." I break into an amused grin.
"Siento, siento," he murmurs distractedly and unclicks his seatbelt.
We converge at the side of the car and lean against it, peering through the crowd of dispersing children for a young face that looks like ours. Rosalina breaks from the throng and dashes towards us. She throws her arms around my waist before clinging to Miguel.
"Did you hear?" she asks, breathless with elation.
"We did!" Miguel lifts Rosalina, bag and all, and sits her on his hip. She giggles ecstatically. "Are you excited?"
She quickly nods her head. "Yeah!"
I chuckle at their shared joy. "Come on, you two. We've got a game to get to."
Rosalina's priorities shift immediately. "We need to go!" She struggles out of Miguel's hold and throws her bag into the car, scrambling up after it. "It's the last one before the finals!"
"Then let's get going!" Miguel says, before quickly shutting the door and hopping into the drivers seat.
I shake my head with a smile and walk to my side of the car. They're both such trouble.
We zip home. While Rosalina eats some afternoon tea and gets changed, Miguel and I straighten up the living room from the frantic rush to leave this morning. He keeps glancing over as I scrunch the blanket and toss it aside for the wash. His hands plump the cushions a tad too slow.
"Are you sure you're okay with me sleeping in your bed?" he asks, voice tinged with concern. "I don't mind the couch."
"I'm sure."
"I just don't want you to feel pressured."
I send him a gentle, reassuring look as I fold the second blanket that lives on the couch. "I don't feel pressured."
"But if you're uncomfortable-"
"Mig." I rise and turn to him. "I'm not uncomfortable. You don't make me uncomfortable." I step closer and hold his arms, an attempt to soothe his worries. "You know me - if I don't like something, I let you know about it."
Miguel sighs, resigned. "That you do."
I smile. "You worry too much. Have you tried meditation? Maybe some yoga?"
Miguel shoots me with a dry look. "Ha-ha. Alright, point taken."
My smile grows. I drop his arms and pick up the blanket to throw into the washing machine. Miguel watches me as I go.
When I peek back at him before I round the corner, he stares at the couch with an unreadable expression.
••🕷️••
"Come on, Rosie," I whisper into my gloved fists. Miguel's standing beside me, just as tense, just as invested. Even the frigid chill couldn't distract me.
In all terms 6th grade soccer isn't that important. But it's important to Rosalina, so it's important to me, so I stand on the sidelines with my heart in my throat as the game rolls into its last few minutes. Miguel's leaning on the fence, almost bending into the pitch, watching with the same intensity that he watches his multiverse.
I clasp Miguel's sleeve when a kid of the opposing school steals the ball from Rosalina's teammate. They're nil-all, two teams so closely matched that neither have managed to score. Even this far away I can read the frustration on my daughter's face as she chases the play with all the energy she has left.
She'll be so upset if they lose this close to the finals. I don't think even Spider-Man could cheer her up.
I gasp when Rosalina manages to snatch the ball and runs it back up the pitch. She's ferocious in the game, and the set of her jaw and the fire in her eyes are as fierce as her father's.
A handful of the opposing team's defence bunch towards Rosalina, blocking her path. I hold my breath. She looks around with wide eyes, trying to spot her teammates before the ball can get stolen again. She kicks it to the side with a second to spare, shooting it past the others and into the waiting stance of her fellow attacker.
"Yes," Miguel hisses. He moves one hand over his mouth in apprehension. "Bueno, bueno."
Her teammate runs with it towards the goal and hits the penalty area. Rosalina gives chase, yelling support. I can't speak from over my clenched hands, but the parents around me raise their voices in encouragement, Miguel included.
The goalie crouches, waiting for the kick.
"I can't watch," I whine. Miguel places a solid hand on my back in support, though his entire focus is on the game.
Rosalina hits the penalty square just as her teammate swings her foot back and sends the ball hurtling towards the goal. The goalie leaps for it and falls short. The ball hits the netting of the goal just as a loud ovation around me rises in triumph. The referee whistles - once, then three more times. Game over. The cheering grows triple the octaves.
"Yeah!" Miguel shouts. I startle at his volume and laugh with relief. He spins to me and plants his hands on my shoulders with a blinding smile. "That means they go to finals next week, right?"
I nod. Miguel pumps his fist in the air, and I have to laugh again at his joy. He looks out at the pitch with a proud grin, where Rosalina's team is celebrating within a massive group hug.
"That was the most stressful hour of my life," Miguel breathlessly admits.
"Just wait until the finals," I say. He groans.
The two teams line up to do their 'good game' claps before dragging their feet to the dugouts, where us parents wait while chatting excitedly. Rosalina beams up at us, tired but happy.
When she exits the pitch, I bend down to bring her into a tight hug.
"Great job, baby!" I exclaim. I push back her damp, loose hair and squeeze her flushed cheeks. She weakly giggles. "You did so well!"
"You did so good!" Miguel gushes, crouching before her. She slumps into his arms for a hug and he growls with the effort he puts into squeezing her to his chest. He kisses her forehead multiple times, ignoring the sweat running down her face. "¡Muy bueno, papita!"
Rosalina's still catching her breath. Her faint grin turns down with a disappointed frown. "I wanted to score the goal."
"That goal wouldn't have happened if you didn't deliver that beautiful pass," I remind. Miguel nods with agreement.
Rosalina grumbles, but reluctantly agrees.
While the kids have their end-of-game huddle, Miguel and I wait with the rest of the parents. Now that the thrill is over, the chill returns to my bones. I hunch in my coat and shiver, teeth chattering. Miguel watches me for a moment.
"Cold?" he eventually asks. At my nod, he hesitates. "I..."
I peek up at him. His brows are furrowed with some internal struggle, like he's not sure how far to go. He stares down at me with a helpless frown as he thinks.
I decide to help nudge him in the right direction. "Can you help me warm up a little?"
Miguel's face floods with relief. He nods, opening his arms with his hands still in his pockets. I slip against his chest and he wraps himself around me, jacket and all, like a massive weighted blanket. And his jacket doesn't fully cover me, doesn't even cover half of me, really, but his body is so wonderfully hot that it doesn't matter.
I can practically feel my veins thawing. I sigh contently and sink deeper into him, eyes closing, breath a heavy fog. It's been a while since I've been held like this, and my body trills pleasantly beneath his contact.
My head's against his chest. His heart is racing.
So is mine.
"Better?" Miguel's voice is loud beneath my head, vibrating with his timbre. There's a slight shake to it.
I nod tinily. "Better," I whisper.
We stay like this until Rosalina's team comes flooding out from the changing room. She approaches us, lugging her bag and weary with low energy, and smiles.
"Can we get McDonald's?" she asks.
Miguel hisses through his teeth in regret. "I dunno, kiddo. We've got a nice dinner of fish and peas lined up."
Rosalina's face falls. Those are her two least favourite foods. "Seriously?" she whines.
"No," he snorts. "We'll get McDonald's."
She brightens, and then scowls up at Miguel, which is a hilarious sight considering their comical difference in size. "Don't tease me like that!"
Miguel chuckles. It rolls through me and imbues my body with even more pleasure than before.
"This is very cute and all, but I'm cold. Can we go before my toes fall off, please?" I ask with a chatter of my teeth.
Really, I'd like to stay longer in Miguel's arms, but the wind still nips cruelly at my exposed face. Home sounds good right now.
"Can't have mama losing her toes," Miguel comments. Rosalina firmly shakes her head. "C'mon, chiquita, let's get your bag in the car."
Miguel lifts his arms for me to step away from him, and the coldness that now clings to my back makes me shudder. Suddenly and inexplicably overcome with nerves, I meet his gaze. It lingers, before Rosalina complains that we're taking too unlock the car. We look away.
We stop by McDonald's on the way home and Rosalina recounts her pass to Jamie while stuffing chips into her mouth. She's now decided that her pass is the best part of the entire season of football.
The closer we get to departing for home, the more I become intimately aware of how I won't be sleeping alone tonight. I keep glancing at Miguel over the table. He catches me a handful of times, but doesn't say anything about it.
Is he as nervous as I am? The tapping of his foot beneath the table tells me he is.
And then it's like I've blinked, and we're home. Rosalina's been kissed goodnight and tucked into bed. I've showered with water so hot that my cold fingers turn numb. I've changed into my sleep clothes, and Miguel's done the same. He sits on the edge of the bed and waits for me to leave the bathroom from where I'm brushing my teeth.
I pause in the doorway, struck. Sitting there in a stupid t-shirt with a science pun on it, he's a spitting image of thousands of nights before. My Miguel's side of the bedroom is untouched, a little dusty, and now-Miguel sits amongst it all, somehow simultaneously fitting right in and looking like he feels entirely out of place.
I should go through his belongings. I don't think I can bring myself to.
Miguel looks up when I hesitate in the entrance for too long. I force my feet to walk me forward and take a tentative seat on my side of the bed. I search painfully for an icebreaker.
"I didn't realise 2099 still made science-pun shirts," I comment.
Miguel looks down at his shirt. It's of two neutrons. 'I've lost an electron!' says one. 'Are you positive?' says the other. It's cute.
"They don't," Miguel says slowly. "Y/n made it for me."
My heart sinks. "Oh." That wasn't breaking the ice, Y/n, that was demolishing it and then refreezing it all over again.
He shifts on his side of the bed, sitting on it a little more properly. Not so timid. A little more relaxed. He glances at me with a small smile.
"You'd get Miguel science pun shirts, too," he mentions.
My smirk is sad. "Yeah." It started out as a joke, a celebratory gift for his graduation from an Alchemax intern into a junior geneticist. To my surprise he loved it so much that he wore it to work, and then it became a tradition to buy him a new one each birthday. "It's good to know my sense of humour is universal."
Was universal.
Miguel snickers quietly. "You're certainly something."
"Okay, Spider-Man," I say huffily and shuffle my way under the covers. "Sure, I'm the weird one."
"Yeah, yeah."
I pull the duvet up and over my chin and stare at Miguel. He's still sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the floor, not quite yet taking the leap. I don't know if his hesitation is for his benefit or mine.
The tension is palpable, so thick that it sits heavy on my tongue. It's not a bad tension. It's just one of uncertainty, of nervousness. Of wanting to walk but afraid to put your foot on the wrong spot. Wanting to lie down but scared of what it might mean for us, scared one of us will shy away, and we'll be set back four paces again.
This is nothing like that time all those weeks ago where I pulled him into my bed by our linked pinkies. That was messy, ordained by my broken state and granted by Miguel's want to comfort.
But this is deliberate. This means something.
He's still so far away.
"Mig?" I hum.
His gaze drifts to me. The room is dark, only illuminated in warm yellow by my bedside lamp. The shadows cloak him, cling to his build, but the red of his eyes are piercing and glows like a cat's.
It's alien. It draws me in. I pull the duvet down from over my mouth.
"Tell me about the multiverse," I whisper.
His hesitant expression fades into a small smile. He reclines back into the mattress beside me, head sinking into Miguel's pillow, and searches the ceiling for where to begin. The tension slips away. The ice melts.
I turn on my side and watch him.
And hours later when the sky begins to lighten, I wake before him and, with our bodies warm and entangled, I watch him still.
••🕷️••
I can't tell who's more excited about going shopping - Rosalina or Miguel.
Rosalina leads the way through the third store we've been into this afternoon, picking out random items of clothing that catches her eye and passing them to Miguel to hold. In his arms is a mountain of fabric. He follows Rosita, more than happy to be her servant and offering advice when asked.
I tag along after Miguel, finding the entire thing ridiculously amusing. This is the protector of the multiverse.
"What do you think?" Rosalina asks, holding up an ugly, gaudy sequin dress that I wouldn't pick out in a million years.
Miguel nods seriously. "That's a good find, Rosita."
Rosalina grins and tosses it onto the pile that's dangerously close to toppling over. We're receiving glares from the sales assistants. I'm afraid and also completely certain that we're their worst nightmares.
Miguel looks over his shoulder at me and smiles. My own comes easily, readily, happily.
Be happy. Allow yourself to be happy.
I love him.
I miss my Miguel terribly, but I love this Miguel, too. He's not a replacement for my husband. Nobody could ever replace him, but that doesn't mean I can't love again, and that doesn't mean I can't love the Miguel that's currently carrying an absurd amount of kid's clothing in his arms, who's held me while I cried, who wants to love me.
And I think I'm starting to be okay with that. Slowly. Gingerly.
We move to the changing rooms where Rosalina tries on many variations of the outfits she's chosen. They're each as absurd as the last - complete with flat caps and faux fur scarfs, ballet shoes and neon windbreakers. They're awful outfits, they really are, but she's having a fun little fashion show and we're her enraptured audience, hyping her up. We're her biggest fans.
"Y/n?" Miguel asks when Rosalina's busy getting changed. We're sitting on a plush seat and leaning against the wall, both eager and apprehensive to see her next fashion disaster.
I hum.
"Thanks."
I turn my head to him. He's staring at the changing room door with an unfocused gaze. "What for?"
His red eyes drop to his feet. He's quiet for a moment before lifting his gaze to mine. "For letting me stay. For letting me be her dad."
There's a deep sincerity to his expression that melts my heart. I glance down at his hand between us and slip my fingers through his. My palm rests against his, the softness of a journalist to the toughness of a hero's. When I turn my focus back up to him, he's watching me with lips parted in faint shock.
I smile softly and squeeze his hand. "Thank you for coming to us."
Miguel's eyes squint with awe, tinged slightly with disbelief. "You amaze me sometimes, you know that?"
I let my eyes fall away with a gentle smirk. "Ah, well, I am pretty amazing."
"You are," he chuckles.
My smile grows curtly, amused. I drop my head to his shoulder and bring his forearm into my lap to hug. I'm cuddly again. I can finally feel myself coming back to me, the me I was before grief ripped my character to pieces.
Those rips will never leave. They've etched me, heart and soul, the tattoo of memories that hurt to remember, that I never want to let go of. But maybe Miguel's what I need to glue myself back together.
No - not need. I could glue myself back together if I had to.
He's just what I want.
••🕷️••
We end up buying purple nail polish, two sets of tiaras, a selection of cheap jewellery, and a pin-stripped blazer with a long, pink pleated skirt.
I am confident that my daughter will never grow up to be a fashion designer.
But Rosalina's ecstatic with her finds, dragging the paper bags through the door and inside with a massive grin. Miguel and I follow after her amusedly.
"I wanna try it all on together!" Rosalina exclaims before taking her bags upstairs to do just that. Miguel snickers and joins me in heading to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Just minutes later, Rosalina reappears in her outfit and stands in the kitchen entrance with her hands on her hips. She's managed to fit both of the tiaras on her head.
"Oh, honey." I smile. "You look beautiful!"
"¡Mi pequeña princesa bonita!" Miguel dramatically gasps. "Spin for me, papita, I need to see the whole outfit."
Rosalina's face breaks into a massive, happy smile. She spins fast, and her skirt flutters. Her tiaras fall to the ground.
"I want to try on the nail polish!" she says. She wiggles her fingers at me. "Please, please, please!"
"We're cooking dinner right now," I gently remind. "I'll help you after."
Rosalina pouts at Miguel. "Papaaa, por favor?"
He folds so quickly. "I can help put on your nail polish."
Rosalina cheers and grabs his hand to tug him upstairs. I gape at him in astonishment.
"Miguel!" I hiss.
He looks back at me and helplessly shrugs. "Just 'cause you're immune to the puppy dog eyes doesn't mean I am."
I huff in disbelief as they disappear from the kitchen, but I can't say I'm surprised. Even my Miguel couldn't say no to her.
And then a smile makes its way onto my face as I turn back to preparing dinner. I hope he knows what he's got himself into. Chances are he has no idea.
Twenty minutes later, Miguel trudges back into the kitchen. I look up from the pasta I'm stirring and bite my lip to hold back my laughter.
Rosalina's slyly used his inability to say no to her advantage; in his hair are clips of multiple shades of pink, creating a crazy, distressed style that makes it look like he's just woken up with a massive hangover. She then raided my make-up and used all the wrong products in the wrong places. His eyelids and lips are red. His nails are purple, the polish clumsily applied.
Biting my lip isn't enough. I have to clasp a hand over my mouth to keep myself quiet.
"Not a word," Miguel mutters.
"Do you need some help?" I manage to squeak out breathlessly.
He grumbles. "... yes."
At that I do laugh, and the withering glare he sends me only heightens my amusement. I pluck out the hair clips and tuck them into my pocket. He grumbles halfheartedly as I rearrange his hair back into something a little less lightning-struck.
"You look very bonita," I say. I hold his jaw and use my thumbs to lift his cheeks into a smile. "Do you feel bonita, Miguel?"
He glares at me dryly.
"Serves you right for undermining me," I quip with a quick grin as I turn off the stovetop. "Don't you remember that I run this household?"
Miguel sighs and looks to the side. "Sorry."
"I'll accept your apology if you let me take a photo of you and share it with Peter."
His gaze snaps back to me. "No. No."
"Wow," I say disappointedly. I look away and purse my lips. "I guess you'll be sleeping on the couch, again."
The look he sends me is one of disbelief. "You're cruel."
I give him a smug smirk. "I am."
Miguel glares out the window as he assesses my threat. It's not empty, and he knows it. This is my revenge.
"You can take a picture," he finally says, and I'm already bringing out my phone. "But no-one can see it. No-one, you hear me?"
My smile grows. "Deal."
Miguel grumpily stares at the camera as I take my self-indulgent mini photoshoot. I take it from as many angles as I can. All the while, he frowns, totally unimpressed.
"You're a bully," Miguel decides when I step back and scroll through the photos I took with a snicker. I peek up at him and raise my brows.
"Lyla," I call. She zips into the space beside me. "Send these to Peter."
Lyla laughs maniacally as Miguel's face falls. "Can do, boss."
"Lyla, no!" Miguel shouts. He launches for my phone and I spin away from him with a squeal, hiding it into my side. "Do not send those photos! Y/n!"
"It's too late!" I cry, and shy away from his hands as they try to grab at my phone. I'm breathless with laughter as Miguel hooks an arm around my waist and drags me into his chest, finally snagging my phone off of me. "No!"
He holds my phone above his head and scowls down at me. "You evil, evil woman."
Tears well in my eyes as I try to catch my breath. Miguel's stony expression breaks and his red-painted lips grin, though he tries his best to keep from smiling. He fails miserably.
He plants his forehead against my shoulder with a deep-suffering groan. "How am I supposed to be mad at you when you're smiling like this?"
"You can't," I giggle, and lift my hands so I can twirl his tussled hair around my fingers. "You're a weak man, Miguel."
He groans again.
Rosalina enters the kitchen with a face full of equally terribly make-up. She gasps when she sees Miguel and I before dashing towards us.
"Doesn't he look pretty?" Rosalina gushes.
"So pretty!" I agree. "And so do you!"
Rosalina beams. "Thank you!"
Miguel steps back from me and clears his throat. "Alright," he says. "It's time to wash this off."
"What?" Rosalina whimpers. "But I want to take photos."
My cruel grin returns with vengeance. Miguel dies inside. This is a sweet, sweet day.
"Oh... okay, papita," he says weakly, "we can take photos."
He eyes me when I hold out my hand for my phone. With a reluctant exhale, he presses it into my palm. Rosalina lifts her arms to be picked up and he does, resting her weight on his waist. She leans her head against his and beams for the camera.
By the end they're both laughing, and I'm giggling, too, taking as many photos as I can while dinner cools, forgotten completely.
••🕷️••
"You wonderful, wonderful person!"
I glance up from my laptop at the voice that breaks the comfortable silence of Miguel's office. Peter marches towards me with a smile so wide and happy that it borders on delirium.
"Hey, Pete," I grin, feeling Miguel's withering glare from the platform raised above us. "I take it you enjoyed the photos?"
"'Enjoyed?'" he repeats incredulously. "Y/n, I'm printing them out and framing them in my house. They're going next to my wedding photos!"
"Don't you dare," Miguel exclaims from his station, so loud and booming that the both of us flinch. Peter and I share amused looks.
"Hey, Miguel," Peter calls up to his back. "You looked very pretty-!"
He splutters when his mouth is abruptly covered by a splatter of spiderweb and he stumbles back with a surprised expression. I burst into laughter at the sight. Peter rips it off of his face with a grumble and tosses it to the floor.
"Such a grump," he mutters, before narrowing his eyes. "Are your nails still painted?"
Miguel hesitates. "... it'd make Rosita upset if I cleaned it off."
"Oh, my god," Peter laughs.
"Alright, Pete, leave him be," I say with a smile. "Otherwise he might pop a blood vessel."
"Yeah, okay," he agrees through a chuckle and wipes away a tear. I bite down on my lips to keep myself from snorting. "Very true."
"Do you think it's a coincidence that my stress levels rise when you two are together?" Miguel snaps. "Peter, you have a mission. ¡Vete!"
"Nothing to be ashamed of, Miguel," Peter assures sincerely as he backs out of the station, though still highly amused. "Just the sign of being a good father. I'm taking notes!"
Miguel sends a sneer just as Peter disappears. His glare drops to me, where I'm broadly smiling up at him. He shakes his head and turns back to his screens.
"Nuisances," I catch him muttering.