"Vel, keep him down!"
"I am!" Velvet's claws are digging into yet another agent hunting down Miguel. She's on her knees, constraining the huge man, as Miguel punches and slams him down, questioning and cursing at him.
"He's tracking you!" Vel nods at his neck. Miguel ignores this, too caught up in the violence.
"Last chance. Who sent you?!" he growls, slamming the agent down again.
"They're onto you, Miguel. You can't run forever," he grins, blood covering his face.
"They're tracking you, Miguel. Cut it out, or I'll tear it out!" her claws are on his neck, nails beginning to pierce his skin.
The crimson in his eyes glows brighter; he knows what he has to do.
His fangs rip into his neck; he spits the tracker out onto his palm. A puddle of blood begins to surround him.
****
Once again, the noise from the other side of that wall kept you up: Slamming, yelping, and shouted conversation.
You contemplated knocking, you paced in the hall between your doors, and you thought about everything you'd witnessed up until now. But the stubborn voice in your head demanded you go to your fire escape, demanded you look through his window, and creep on your neighbor, something you were sure he'd done before.
To your luck, it was raining, but from what you could see through the glass, two figures hovered over one, slamming and fighting with the one being pinned on the floor.
Is it him? Could he be the one being beat into the ground?
You slowly, carefully slid the window up, the beating rain covering up the noise you made as you slipped inside.
You know you're in the wrong, you know you might end up pinned on the ground beside him, but it's instinctual. Your body is on autopilot, out of your control, and now,
you're here
looking onto the bloody scene. Vel looks up at you, but she's quickly absorbed into the background. All you see is Miguel, blood smeared across his face after he just ripped that man's neck out.
You try to catch your breath, your thoughts race as you try to make sense of how it all led to this. You knew he was different, but this was the cold, hard truth cruelly slapped into your face.
He looks up, blood dripping from his lips.
The bloodthirsty creature you just watched tear up a man, becomes human, his face softens, looking across the room at you.
You stumble back, losing balance, vision becoming blurry.
Then Velvet comes back into view, now right in front of you.
"Sorry, pretty girl,"
And the blur becomes black.
****
You hear them before you see them.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"We had a mission and she interrupted it! I already told you! I needed her to sleep for a bit so we could finish up. Come on Spidey, look, wow, how convenient: we've cleaned up a bit, you had some time to gather your thoughts, and now, perfect, we can properly inform her."
"What about her? Was she given that same time to gather her thoughts? That same consideration before you knocked the shit out of her? And there's no 'we,' you already fucked this up. Pinche idiota."
"Stop calling me that!"
You open your eyes. Miguel and Vel look down at you. You move your fingertips against the material you're lying on, trying to gather some sense of awareness: Miguel's couch.
Finally, you manage to get a few words out.
"Miguel, you– oh god, my head."
You feel an ache in your arm. You look down at it, your elbow is wrapped up.
"I know, Y/N. I gave you some injections to help with your head. Just a few precautionary measures in case it is a concussion. Velvet hit you hard. I'm sorry, and she's sorry, aren't you, Velvet?" he turns to her, anger in his eyes.
"Super."
"It pounds," you mutter, trying to sit up.
"Still got it. Thanks for the feedback," she grins, proudly, insensitively.
You glare up at her.
"It was a heat of the moment thing," she whines in defense, then looks at you sympathetically, "I am sorry, babe," she whispers, stroking your hair.
"'Sorry, babe' que nada. You're such an asshole," he swats her hand away.
He slowly drops to his knees, and puts his hand to your back, effortlessly helping you sit up. He grabs the glass of water on the side table.
"Drink some, please," he mutters, nodding, holding the glass to your lips, as you struggle to hold it yourself.
The memories start to come back, but they're all fuzzy.
"It feels like a dream. Please tell me that was a dream. Please–"
He brushes your hair out of your face.
"I wish it was a dream. I'm sorry, Y/N... Vel, I need you to leave for a second, dios, make that forever," he mutters before turning back to you.
Vel rolls her eyes then walks out.
"If that was real..." you exhale,
"I guess I really know now... know what you are."
He pauses, then sits up straight, "What?"
"I've been thinking... about school, back then. You've changed so much since then. And if I'm remembering it all correctly: your eyes, your fangs, the blood. I mean come on, Miguel, I know. You're a... vampire,"
"Wait... what?"
He looks confused, offended even.
"A vamp– you know what, I can see how you would think that."
Confusion is wiped off his face, replaced with amusement. You stare at him, waiting for more.
"So you can see how– are you denying it or...?"
He runs a hand through his waves.
"I can see how you would think that. I know how it looks," he laughs, looking down, then he sees you're serious, so he gets serious.
"I had an accident at Alchemax, uhh last year. Someone sabotaged my work, and it mutated my genes. I'm just... mutated," he nods as if it were as simple as that.
"And all of that?" you ask, pointing to the mopped up floor, wanting more. He ignores you, and continues,
"This is beyond confidential. This is life or death. I'm not even supposed to be– they've been after me before. They either want to kill me, or they want me as their soldier, I mean this isn't... I shouldn't even–"
"So you don't... drink blood?"
He scowls at you, then stands up, towering over you, "No, I don't drink blood. I mean sure, sometimes I have frenzies that make me think I need blood, I mean the spider part of me, but– I just, I take care of it, I manage."
"I'm still considering you a vampire–"
"No more questions; you'd just become more of a liability. I don't want them to have the option of torturing it out of you. That's it. I've said my piece."
"Torture?"
He nods. You sit in shock, trying to process all of it.
"Spider?"
"That's enough for today. You shouldn't have been there, I never wanted you to see me like that, I already knew being this close, living this close to you would be a risk... But seriously, you'll stumble upon it when it's time, trust me–"
"It? Mig, if there's more, I'm here now, just–"
"That's enough for today," he asserts, shutting you up effectively.
You lay back down, massaging circles into your temples.
"God, excuse me for asking. I'm sure if you had claw marks slashed across you, and heard someone screaming bloody murder night after night across the hall, you would be this curious too, I mean–"
"Claw marks? Where?"
"No, I was just saying–"
He's still towering over you, intimidating you, questioning you now.
"Where." he demands.
"My hips, okay. Jesus, my hips." You nervously pat your side.
He drops back to his knees. Your stomach does flips.
He looks down at your sweatpants, then back up at you, fingertips in your waistband.
"Can I?"
"Yeah, sure," you exhale nonchalantly, trying to catch your breath, and act unfazed by the way his touch makes you feel.
He slides your sweatpants down slowly to your mid-thigh, your underwear is exposed, but he pays no attention to it; he looks at the side of you, the healing claw marks, worry in his eyes.
He lightly drags his fingertips across them, then looks up at you. It's gentle, and caring, and soft, and it goes against everything you saw a few hours ago.
You exhale, and run your fingers through his hair. This is going to be complicated, but you know you care about him, and you feel he cares about you, and you can't walk away from him, not when he just found his way back into your life.
His eyebrows are still furrowed, looking down at all of the damage, thinking of all the damage.
"I was just trying to check on you. I thought you were the one being pinned down. I just... I wanted to make sure you were okay. Now I'm just... traumatized," you exhale.
"Me? Being pinned down? That's funny. I'd never be in that position," he shrugs, you smile, then slowly bring your sweatpants back up.
He hangs his head low, exhales, then nods, and looks up at you. "But I'm sorry. I get it. I would've done the same for you, in a heartbeat."
"It's okay," you whisper. He looks down at your hips, then back up at you, and stands up again.
"It's not. I know that was a lot. I'll make it up to you, this whole night, all of it, I'll make it all up to you. But for now, rest, process. I can stay here with you," he whispers, sitting beside you.
You both sit, quietly, processing, absentmindedly watching the cooking show he's put on.