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Miguel O’Hara has died.
That is to say the other variant of Miguel O’Hara has been shot and left for dead and he is scrambling to pick the pieces back up. He had seen it coming from a mile away, the database he requested from Lyla showed the predictions before it could happen.
Unlucky. A fatal mistake. An unfortunate accident for a fortunate man.
Stepping through the portal had been simple enough. Seeing his own face lifeless on the pavement was something he hadn’t steeled himself enough for. But the details don’t matter anymore.
If Miguel were a better man he’d send flowers and heartfelt condolences to the family he’s left behind, informing them of the tragedy and exchanging tales of how good of a man he was and it’s such a shame that he must pass on like this and his beautiful family would surely be devastated.
So here he is at the doorstep of his his home, not because he was a better man, but so that he can finally get back to his family safe and sound. He can feel his heart thumping from his head, a sense of elation filling him from that word alone. Home. Miguel never thought he’d have the privilege of calling something home in his life. And now he finally has it in the palm of his hand, and he’s staying right here. And that alone is enough.
His hand reaches for the door and swings it open.
This doesn't make sense.
The numbers and the letters are jumbled up together and for the first time in Miguel’s life, his brain has all but blocked out the way to figure this out.
He taps his pen impatiently against his desk. He recognized the problem, yes, he knows exactly what is needed to be done in order to solve it. But no matter what he did, his hands and his mind just refused to cooperate.
Frustrated, he dropped his pen on the desk and leaned back, his chair squeaking as he did so, staring at the old, stubborn mark on his ceiling. This shouldn't boggle him as much as it did, there were worse questions that he had solved with finesse, and yet still this simple word problem has him pulling at his hair.
Observe, identify, formulate, answer. That always worked for him.
Think. Think.
Miguel groans, running a hand through his already messed up hair from hours of fussing with it, looking more and more like a crow’s nest. His desk was a mess, that much was certain, paper strewn on whatever free space it can take up on the surface, pens scattered as if the contents would hold the final answer to his dilemma.
This isn’t right. He always had something , if it wasn’t bailing his brother out from a lecture, it was a last minute presentation he had to conjure late at night because you had insisted on going to check out the ice cream from a newly-opened diner down the street.
Thunk!
A loud muffled sound from his window sill snapped him from his thoughts. Miguel groaned, pinching his nose at the distraction.
There can only be one other person who did not care about the fact that it was a Wednesday afternoon. Muttering profanities under his breath, he clicks the lock of his window open to find a worn out rubber shoe on his balcony, and the culprit hopping sheepishly on the concrete with a single, shoe-having foot just below,
You have been his friend and neighbor for a while now. Moving across him a few years back after he found you snooping around the street looking for butterflies despite living in a technological utopia. He had pointed it out as much when you ducked to look through a bush, your voice calling out to him with too much enthusiasm at eight in the morning.
“But don’t you think it would be cool if I found a butterfly in our backyard? I’d be in all the pages of The Daily Bugle!”
Of course, that was during a time when your lives were much simpler, when cliques, overgrown limbs, and overly complicated math formulas hadn’t plagued either of your lives yet. Miguel had continued to watch you on with a mix of bewilderment and awe. And apparently that was enough grounds to establish a bond between you and him.
If it were anyone else knocking their shoe in his window, he would’ve called the cops.
He made a noise of disapproval, ducking down to reach for the shoe with a single finger before calling out for you. “Did you seriously just throw your shoe on my window?”
“You weren’t answering my texts!” You answered back in a volume that he’s pretty sure the entire building heard, like that was supposed to explain why you just threw your shoe that had no business being anywhere near his line of sight.
Well, you did almost break his window by throwing rocks to get his attention like a shitty, half-assed romance novel you liked to bring and he liked to make fun of. And he did put his phone on silent mode before starting. And he sure as hell is not about to tell his mom (much less his brother) the reason why his window broke is because a certain someone won't stop bugging him.
Miguel gestured to your ratty rubber shoe currently dangling in his hand, your expression growing more timid by the minute. Not quite sure what was your thought process in throwing your shoe.
“And you thought this was a better option?” He says, hoping that the annoyance in his voice scares you away.
“I mean it worked, didn’t it?” You beamed, looking too pleased with yourself for the idea, an all too eager smile on your face.
He makes an unamused face. That still doesn’t explain anything.
“You know I’m busy. What do you want?” That was a lie. He was seconds away from ripping his own hair out.
“I’ve got something for you!”
He can't tell if you're pulling his leg or if you're being serious. knowing your track record of sucking up to him.
You gave him your best approximation of puppy eyes, the best you could while balancing on a single foot anyway. It’s not convincing at all and it was more laughable than pitiable the longer you stood there and still he can’t help but heave out a sigh.
Miguel narrows his eyes.
“Fine.”
He shuts the window before he could hear your cheer and hear your protests after you’d realize he still hasn’t thrown your shoe back out of spite.
His brother always said that there is more to life than the grand scheme he sees himself in. So let’s start here: if there is one constant thing in his life it would be the blaring heat in the summer and unforgiving winter cold of Nueva York. And probably all of this.
This. Whatever you like to call it when you and him are taking a stroll to wherever the next most interesting thing to have a look at in the city is.
And that would be the preserved apartment building when the both of you still snuck out at midnight to talk. It stood out with its red paint and more antique design that stood the test of time against the more well-known abstract structures of Nueva York. You liked it because it felt like home, Miguel liked it because it was located in the more quiet part of the neighborhood.
“Y’know, I heard from one of the grandmas that they’re planning to pave over this building soon. Says someone is interested in making this lot into a hotel soon, and they can move into a nicer home after.” You said as if you were talking about the weather, admiring the cityscape view as he was.
“It’s a bit sad if you think about it.” You commented wistfully.
“It happens all the time. Nothing ever stays the same in this city.” And this was the hard truth.
“Still, I’m still surprised they’re still letting us in just to hang out at the rooftop.” You replied, plopping down on the edge. Miguel followed suit beside you.
“I’m definitely gonna miss them smooching your cheeks though, guapito.”
He groaned, having half a mind to turn around and leave you there while you snickered. Cheeks flushing up in embarrassment at the nickname the old ladies downstairs gave him ever since the two of you started coming up here. Earning him several coos of him being so polite, some treats, and you taking several candid pictures of him that he almost broke his neck forcing you to delete it.
The blaring of traffic that seemed to go on forever from underneath was nothing but white noise to this steady, unrelenting space with you. Sitting in silence wasn’t an unusual occurrence with you. Often, it was a silent agreement that the other’s presence was enough.
He glances at you.
"So how about you and that Zaria girl in your class?” You chirped up, effectively breaking the silence. Turning to him with a smile that says you know way more than you let on.
Miguel faces you with a weary expression. Not too keen in discussing the love letter he was insistent on hiding after he had received it on his desk two weeks prior from a girl whose name he only recalled now that you’ve mentioned it. He’s been itching to remember it for days.
"How do you even know about that?”
“Gabriel told me!” You grinned.
Of course he would. His brother would also trade him for a bag of chips from you.
He can’t help but feel defensive, “Whatever he told you, it’s not true. She told me she liked me, I barely even knew her, so I rejected her.”
“I see.” You commented. And apparently that was it, letting the hum of the city occupy you.
Surely you had a reason for bringing him up here on a Wednesday. It’s not out of the blue per say, but you usually liked to bother him sometime around the weekends so you can ‘catch entertainment’ as you liked to call it. Whatever it is you find entertaining about him, he doesn’t see it.
Unless you’ve gained enough shame to ask him about borrowing his homework in person rather than through a crudely written text then maybe this is a welcome improvement. But you did say you were going to give him something.
As if you read his thoughts you exclaim, “Oh, right!” You faced him fully, complete with a bright look in your eye that he can only describe as proud.
“Close your eyes.”
Hesitation washes over him, usually when you asked him for a favor there was something in exchange that usually translated to something that would not benefit him at all. Like when you asked him to buy ice cream one day because it was too hot, while he forgot that the ladies downstairs are going to be out and about for their walks. Or when you asked him for help with your homework which resulted in you gossiping behind his back with Gabriel the whole day while he was stuck doing all your homework for you.
He looks you dead in the eye.
“No.”
Miguel couldn't believe that you just pouted.
“Come on! Promise I’ll delete the rest of the pictures with the grannies downstairs.”
“There’s more?”
You shrugged in response. Now apparently too coy to give him information when you already dropped a piece on him.
His eyes flickered from your hands behind your back to your dumb smile. He grumbled.
"Fine."
He closed his eyes and felt you reach for one of his hands to drop something in it. At your instruction to open his eyes, the first thing he sees is an inconspicuous envelope about the size of his palm. Leaving very little possibilities on what it might contain.
Before he knows it, his curiosity is piqued by the envelope. It was neatly wrapped with a simple ribbon in an attempt to make it look unique. He can see you try to avoid his gaze in the corner of his eye.
“You can’t open it yet! It’s only after you achieve your dream!”
“Oh.” He says dumbly, keeping the envelope away. “What’s in it anyway?”
“You’ll just have to figure it out someday.”
“Well, I gotta say, that’s a bit corny.” He commented, ignoring your complaints as he pocketed the envelope in his jacket.
"Is it a letter?" That may have come out too much like a statement instead of a question.
"I– you can't fish out the answer from me, y'know?"
He shrugged noncommittally, "It was worth a try."
You regarded him with mirth after the statement, he looked away in embarrassment.
"Surely, you didn't just call me out here for some envelope. What is it really?" He pointed out.
"You’re right." You answered in a despondent tone, a far cry from the lighter one you carried earlier. He caught your gaze in the corner of his eye.
The sheepish look on your face comes back, this time you don’t seem to do it because of something you did or you’re asking him for a favor. For what? He doesn’t know.
You looked on towards the city, if he didn’t know any better he’d say that you were spacing out. But there was now a sadness in your eye that he could pinpoint. Your mouth gaping periodically like you're trying to hang onto the words you want to say.
Miguel feels the air get knocked out of his lungs when you finally get a hold of it.
“I’m leaving in two days.”
It felt like you just knocked him out of his seat and sent him falling down into misery. Miguel’s not stupid, and you knew that well. He tries to come up with a response, finding none.
Miguel is no stranger to bad news, accustomed to the disappointment that comes with being told of the worst possible outcome and that's why he wants to make it a point to have the odds largely in his favor.
He looks at you incredulously, while you seem to pay no mind to his reaction, continuing to stare into the towering and scattered buildings of Nueva York, but the stammer in your voice and the quiver on your lip betrays you.
"Are you gonna tell me why?" He asks, but he knows it's useless, there can only be one sole reason for your departure. Can see it when you stopped inviting him to your house and mentioning your mother only in passing.
“Isn’t there another way?” He asks.
Because that was what he knew. To recognize a problem and see it for what it is, since that was the only way he can figure out a solution. Observe, identify, formulate, answer. Rinse and repeat.
Your tell-tale silence gives him all the answers he needs. So he moves on to the next question.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
Sure, he was pulling on loose ends here but what was he supposed to do?
“Wanted to, but didn’t want to lose you yet.”
Lose . He can’t believe you. Years of conversation and thoughts he’d never share with anyone else yet you can’t bring yourself to let him know something crucial.
You won’t lose him, he’d still be here in his mother’s dingy apartment while you’re off to someplace else that wasn’t here, but he’s going to lose you. If you just said so, he can get you both to the other side of the world, away from his family, away from yours, and away from anyone else.
He chuckles in disbelief. So this is what it was. What it meant to know and care for another person and see to it that despite it all, whatever formation you built it on, will prevail in spite of catastrophe. He’s seen it fail time and time again with his eyes, who’s to say he was the last one.
"So this is a parting gift, huh?"
"Yeah, yeah. I guess it is.” You said with downcast eyes, voice toned down like it’d scare him away too fast if you got any louder.
But it’s fine. You were just a small fragment in his big plan for the future bigger than he was. This moment will just be a silly memory he’d look back on and have a laugh at. You had no place for him with him.
In fact, he just figured out what to do with the problem he was having earlier if you hadn’t interrupted him in his room. If anything this was an opportunity to set things back on course. So why does he taste bitterness in his tongue when he’s looking at you now?
“—I’m still gonna be back, y’know? Probably not in the next year or so, but still. Unless you’re going to end up forgetting me or something.”
That sentence burst him out of his bubble. Furrowing his eyebrows in quiet frustration. What kind of question is that? Of course he won’t, not even when the stupid doodle you left on his desk gets refurbished. Probably not when this apartment building gets turned into a glossy hotel either. He doesn’t think he could go back to the same routine he had before.
It was almost on the tip of his tongue, a few simple syllables that can possibly change the entire trajectory of this conversation into something more hopeful.
Because that was always the issue with you. You need a little push. Always so selfless and up to whatever request people have for you just for a crumb of acknowledgement. He’s seen you break under pressure over it, seen you wish that you had more heart to stop pushing yourself over the edge.
"I need to get back home.”
Despite it being only half past four and his mom won’t even start looking for him until later. He thinks he sees you slump in defeat. He pockets the envelope and turns around for the staircase before excusing himself, as if his heart doesn’t feel heavier every step away without saying anything.
Miguel hears you call out his name.
“I can walk you back home.” He hears you offer, try as you might to not sound small when you utter those words, even when you both know it’s pointless.
He pulled away before you could grab his hand. He hopes that it hurts you as much as it did him.
“It’s fine, I’ll be okay.” He answers from over his shoulder.
Miguel didn't come to look for you the next day and neither did you. The days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and the months into years.
Miguel has always thought he was destined for bigger and greater, and yet in this dimension he has found a family and is happier than he thought he could be. Here in this tiny living room, the photos are a testament to that joy.
He remembers in one of the holo-tapes he recovered, you and him were decorating the living room now that Gabriella has been born. You stubbornly insisted that any important memories be printed so that it “ can stand the test of time and not be corrupted from your mumbo jumbo ” making Gabi giggle in your arms and Miguel exasperatedly agreeing to your proposition.
He knew that your sentiment came from your work laptop failing to work a few weeks back—he watched it from the holo-tapes—and you had to beg Miguel to fix it for you because you had a deadline for a report the next day.
He thinks that you were right with that decision now standing in front of the display. Different pictures scattered the mantle, milestones and memories distributed throughout the years, your achievements and his set aside to make way for Gabriella’s appearance. In lieu of rewards and medals, the center primarily featured picture frames of Gabriella. Prizes all the same.
Even when his face is on there he can’t help but feel out of place.
About to turn in for bed, his eye caught a photo that was unfamiliar to him. A photograph of a butterfly perched on, what was undoubtedly your hand even at the vast expense of uptown Nueva York in the background.
It was a pale, small thing, way too small for your hand, yet he can imagine the stupid smile on your face when you took the picture. His mouth can’t help but quirk at the thought. He spots something written on the front, enhanced eyesight be damned, with your handwriting it’d take a lot more than seeing it to read it. His eyes squint, trying to make out what’s written.
“Hey, stranger.”
Miguel flinches in alarm, body tense to prepare for a fight, only to feel arms wrapped around his torso. His shoulders started to relax when you began humming nonsensical tunes, your cheek pressing against his broad back.
He has to remind himself that intimacy and affection with you in this dimension was usual, a privilege his counterpart isn’t aware of.
“Something on your mind?"
“It’s nothing,” He placed his hand on top of yours, thumb rubbing the back of your hand, “I’ll be right there.”
But that’s just the thing with you isn’t it? You just know him so well.
“Hm, doesn’t sound like nothing if it’s got you brooding around in the living room.” You stepped back, facing him in front of you to clasp his face in your hands. In the dimly lit state of the room, the only source of light being the light from the lamp nearby, your face was almost entirely casted in shadow, and still he caught your eyes, though tired but always bright, staring right into his. None of the same weariness he saw on that day.
If you recognized the drop of red in his eyes you don't react to it at all.
Miguel can’t help but nestle his face into your hand, missing your warmth, his hands following suit to yours. “It’s just,” He hesitates.
So this is what he has been deprived of all this time. Given his upbringing, it's hard to imagine that in literal galaxies away, he'd come to know a life of something so soft.
He strayed his gaze to the side, observing the silver ring resting on your finger, “It scares me to think that if it weren’t for all my past decisions, I wouldn’t be here with you today.”
All teasing that was in your eyes was swept aside immediately.
“Oh, Miguel,” You called his name so softly, using your other hand to urge him to look back at you.
“I’m grateful. But it chills me to the bone that somewhere, somehow,” He looks at you earnestly, “I’m not with you or with Gabi.”
You looked straight at him.
“Look, we might have made some bad choices in the past. I know I have. But that makes them more valuable today. I’m not gonna say that you shouldn’t be scared, because it is scary, I admit. But that just means you care enough.”
“Why else would we be living if we knew the answer to everything, right?”
He nodded.
"And besides, I’m here with you right now aren’t I?”
You looked at him so openly he’s afraid that he might just dive right in. He’d give you himself and more if it meant that you’d stay like this with him until his bones give in. But you weren’t his, even when he technically knew you, you didn’t know him. Don’t know the risks he had to take to be standing here with you in the living room of a house that was yours but wasn’t his. So what else is he supposed to say but,
“I guess you are.”
“And I’d still be here even when Gabi starts rebelling.”
He chuckled.
You leaned in close enough for your foreheads to meet, close enough for Miguel to feel your breath brushing on his face, close enough for Miguel to count each strand on your eyelashes, close enough for him to observe the pores and imperfections on your face, close enough for Miguel to commit this all to memory.
You’re actually here. He realizes. Warm and well and happy in front of him. No problems, no villains, no distance between you and him. He had been dreaming of this moment for a long time.
If he had anything left to say to you the time would be now.
He moves away, earning him a confused look. He looks intently in your eyes, holding your hands in a firm grip, scared that you would disappear away in front of him.
“Promise me something.” He tells you.
“What?”
“That you’ll always wait for me the way I’ve waited for you.”
“I promise.” You answered in a whisper.
He holds up his hand. You laughed in disbelief at his raised pinky.
“Really? We’re not kids anymore, Miguel.” He bit back a smile.
“You told me you promised me.”
“Fine.” Yours meet his.
You laugh again when you put your hand together with his, your hand almost comically smaller in comparison to his broader hand.
“Always us every time.”
“Why are you crying?”
It’s odd that Miguel is the one asking that question this time. And it wasn’t even the correct question to begin with. But there’s no other better question to ask when you’re currently sniffling inside his blankets.
For Miguel, the answer to problems are solutions. That’s what he was taught anyway, or what he has learned to adapt. It was a logical and sound equation. Either find a way to make it go away or suffer the consequences. Apologizing to his brother was a solution, and so was talking to his mother.
He was pleasantly surprised that his mother let you in but he had always known she had a soft spot for you.
You responded by curling into the sheets further.
He sat beside you on the bed, looking at everything in his room but your figure. Racking his brain and the corners of his room for that one question that you always asked whenever he was upset, because that was the only experience he has had, hoping that would urge you to talk.
“What’s on your mind?”
That seemed to let you out of your stupor, as you moved the blanket until your head was visible to him rather than just the top of your head, your voice muffled under the covers.
“My mom and I had an argument.”
“What’s it about?”
The silence stretches on even further.
“Sorry, I’m bad at this.” He says.
You huffed out a laugh, a speck of joy livening up the space even if it was just a little bit.
“It’s fine, Miguel, really.”
He racks his brain more for anything to say.
“Are you going to do something about it?”
“Don’t think it won’t matter anymore.” He frowned at the skepticism of your answer.
“Was it that bad?”
“She’s fine, just expects a lot from me is all.”
He nods in understanding. Trying not to dwell on it too much lest he loses track of how you’re feeling. He stared at the foot of his bed, wishing it’d give him the exact answer—or question—to make you feel better.
Miguel tries to recall what made him feel better whenever it was you in his shoes. You’d sit him down, have him try to explain the situation, and then offer advice. Sure, your words helped calm him down to think rationally but that wasn’t the part that really unknotted the mess of emotions in his chest.
Oh.
He places his hand right beside your head, enough for it to be in your line of sight. He looks away, embarrassment creeping up on him the longer he keeps his hand there.
Crap, did he have the wrong idea? You’ve always been better at these kinds of things. You were usually the one patting his back after he had an argument with his mother or after a fight with his brother over who gets to eat the leftover takeout from last night. You better do or say something because he feels like he’s going to roll over soon.
He feels warmth envelop his hand.
For Miguel, warmth was suffocating. It was an indication of a blistering, uncomfortable heat that never stops until it burns him to the touch.
But this warmth is invigorating. A profound declaration of things that don’t need to be said.
You squeeze his hand. Miguel squeezes back.
So it went like this.
It was bound to come sooner or later, but years of working his ass off Miguel finally gets what he deserves and is now the current star for his newest invention. The Daily Bugle even went as far detailing who he was and the importance of his mechanism. A whole article in honor of his name and this time he is the hero.
What he didn’t account for is the long lost face of someone that reminds him of sunsets and the future.
You’ve moved on, physically or otherwise, and he has learned that too.
He thought it was a scam at first. Some sort of scheme to throw him off guard. But it couldn't possibly have been when it's the exact contact he thought he’d lost— or moreso avoided— years ago
| Meet you at the same place?
He didn’t know you, not really. If you’d even call two people who hang out only to be left in the dust without a warning friends. Even if that same person continued to impact every wake of his life and now you’re back as a ghost from his past coming back to haunt him. No, Miguel didn’t know you like that.
So here he was in front of the same apartment building turned hotel, looking for the same person he’s waited eternity for.
The hotel was certainly…different. Shinier. Newer. More fit for the city than its drabber counterpart. An upgrade from the previous dreariness of the apartment. Shiny windows instead of the dull glass and high rise roofs instead of the cramped ceilings it used to have.
“Hey, stranger.”
That was a voice he hadn't heard in years. The same lilt, tone, cadence greeting him once again, pouring itself into every pore on his skin.
He sees you approach him, a hand raised in greeting and two take-out cups with overpriced brands he can recognize hanging from the other.
Doubt creeps up on him the closer he gets to you, multiple questions popping up in his head like have you seen what he has achieved without you? Do you think the universe is testing him to see if he’ll still crack against you?
Those questions are washed away when your eye caught his in time. Miguel is pretty sure he’s out of breath the moment he arrives in front of you despite not taking more than ten steps.
Several years definitely did you good. Your hair is not in the awkward way you style it anymore, in favor of a more fitting one that frames your face better. And clothes filling out just the right spaces that make a part of his brain get zapped.
But the most startling part for him, he thinks, is how the gleam in your eyes isn't the same as it was.
“Good job making your way over here.” You remarked with a teasing smile on your face.
“I could say the same to you.”
Your mouth quirks up in a snicker, “What? No smart remarks?”
He feels stupid. He has a good head on his shoulders, Miguel believes that. But he has been imagining this scenario the moment he received your message. More words exchanged in that version from the first meeting (again) rather than his brain going all fuzzy and barely muttering responses that required more than two brain cells when he should be mad at you for practically leaving him all those years only to suddenly materialize in front of him like a ghost when you felt like it.
He opens his mouth to retort, only to be cut off with a cup in his direction.
"Walk with me?"
He takes the cup gingerly, your finger brushing each other briefly, before taking a sip to taste. Caramel macchiato . It wasn’t his drink of choice. Too sweet for him. But it was the first branded drink you had him try, during the first year he met you, that wasn’t three or five iced coffees that tasted like lead during exam week and ran himself at risk with a caffeine-induced stroke.
Side by side, you walked mindlessly with him on the pavement of the city with matching cups in hand. Despite your shoulders brushing each other, you still stood there looking miles apart.
For all of New York’s faults, spring was pretty agreeable during its time of year. The breeze crisp, and the temperature just peachy enough to be outside for. At least today the weather was in his favor.
"So, Alchemax, huh?" He hears you say. He glances at you, your gaze still staring straight ahead at the street as if you weren’t attempting to hold a conversation with him.
"Don't act like you haven't heard before." He points out.
"'M just saying. Congrats, you deserve it."
He muttered out a thanks, looking back down at the pavement. The way his pace matches your own even if he was capable of longer strides.
An awkward silence fills the gap between you two, and it takes everything in Miguel to not start taking off the opposite direction. Conversations with you used to be lighter, less slow . And silences were never like one of you missed saying something. Like either of you were skirting around each other, trying to pinpoint what makes the other tick. It just is.
It’s a grim reminder of the fact he’s changed, and so have you.
It takes approximately one minute and thirty-two seconds after you spoke for him to realize he needs to respond back to you. Right . You congratulated him, and he can either talk about himself like an asshole or ask questions to keep the conversation running.
"So what about you? Did you go with being a lawyer?”
You laughed, relief washing over him. "God, no. Realized I couldn’t handle the stress so I just went with its lesser paid cousin. I'm a teacher now. Found a job downtown."
He hummed in response. Wondering if that’s the reason why you seem so exhausted, but pushed against it when he sees a soft smile playing at your lips.
"That's admirable. Wouldn’t have guessed it.”
That seemed to break you out of reverie, your smile was dropped in favor of mock confusion overtaking your features. And finally, finally , you looked at him. “Hm? What’s that? Are you trying to say something?”
He rolled his eyes lightheartedly, taking a sip from the too-sweet concoction swirling in his overpriced coffee rather than responding to you.
“Have you opened the envelope yet?” You asked him.
Strangely, enough, no. Miguel hasn’t opened the envelope yet. He was thinking of it. On the day of his promotion inside the brand new office Alchemax gave him. Hope stirred in his chest when he caught sight of it again in the darkness of his desk, where he hid it for safekeeping. Your words still ringing through his head when he thumbs at the unbroken seal closing it shut. He contemplated it but dropped it in favor of some expensive old wine that some hotshot corporate gifted him, and a nice, long nap.
He shook his head, “What’s in it anyway?”
That unpredictably earned him a look of surprise, before you schooled it back into cool nonchalance, “That’s something you’ll just have to figure out sometime.”
“Hopefully not some kind of code I have to crack for eight more years.”
“You wish.” You stifled a laugh.
His lips quirked up into a small smile.
You stopped walking abruptly, and he followed suit, confused as to why you stood still.
“You know what I’m thinking?” You gave him a look that he’s only recognized by you whenever you think you have a brilliant plan. You pointed at something behind him.
Turning around, he’s greeted by a hole-in-the-wall that’s seen better days. Delicious aromas wafting out out the door beckoning anyone who was near enough to enter. Miguel almost regrets saying yes to this entire thing when he listens to the next words that come out of your mouth.
“Heard good things from this joint. Wanna go check out what the fuss is all about?”
And that’s how Miguel found himself sitting across from you indulging in one too many chicken satays despite having ordered noodles for sharing minutes ago.
It's far from what he originally planned to happen. He had hoped you would talk at a fine dining restaurant, the kind he would forget after a month or two from the monotony and the emptiness in his stomach—his treat of course, and he can finally have closure and move on from all of this and from you.
“You sure you didn’t just call me up just to schmooze me?”
“I’d never!” You quipped, your energy seemingly back in your veins now that you have food in you.
He watches you swallow the last of the skewers with gusto. Having refused your offer earlier to some of your chicken satay , he’s content with seeing you satisfied from enjoying food. Reminiscent of the time when you and him indulged in mediocre one-dollar hotdogs after school all because it cost one dollar. Relief fills him.
“Are you seeing someone?” It was your turn to burst him out of his bubble, the smile he didn’t even realize he was sporting pulled back into a frown. At least you had the decency to sound sincere about it.
“Are you?” He bit back.
“That’s not the question, Miguel.”
“Two months.” He answers.
“Is it serious?”
Miguel raises an eyebrow quizzically at the question. “Well, as serious as a two month old relationship could get.”
He’s not sure where you’re trying to go with this line of questioning. So he asks back, “Why?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just thinking about what she’d think if she saw her boyfriend dining with some girl in some restaurant.”
“Probably not much. Considering I’ve never brought her to some restaurants.”
“Careful. The lady at the counter might hear you and think you’re a lying cheat.” You joked, emphasizing your point with a twirl of your barbecue stick.
Of course you’d point out the sweet grandma by the counter, when you and he entered the establishment she practically cooed and seated you both to an intimate looking corner by the window as it would up the ante of whatever she was thinking of.
He contemplated his next words. He can’t have you thinking that there was more to this than he was letting on. If anything he was just an onlooker since you were the one who invited him in the first place.
“How about you?”
You took a moment to answer, putting down the skewer on the plate. “Not really. Can’t find time for it either. Children are unsurprisingly, very tiring. But,” And for the first time this entire day, your smile reached your eyes. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything else.”
And you just had to do him in like that. Giving him hope for another beginning with you in his newfound life.
He didn’t spend half his life with his head buried in a desk only for you to come and sweep it away with your presence.
But the envelope kept away in the darkness of his desk tells him otherwise.
He perks up when he hears you call his name, attention fully addressed to you.
“Yes?”
“Do you think things could’ve gone differently if I’d stayed?”
If there is one thing Miguel has learned about himself throughout his entire life, it’s that he is selfish. Selfish to the point that he takes and takes until there is nothing left but the husk of what once was.
Miguel wants it all.
If you were still going to have him that is.
But he can’t tell you he spent most of his nights, staring at the ceiling mulling over the possibilities of what would be of the two of you if he had just been more insistent. Maybe you and he would be away from Nueva York, in some place far away from the hustle and bustle for something slower because that’s what you deserved. Maybe you’d be married with a white picket fence and a dog or two. Or maybe you would be married off to some nameless spouse while he went on to do greater things, away from the mundanity of a domestic life.
Or this time, maybe you and him would be apart and ultimately it would be for good. Miguel dreads what would become of him if the last one were reality.
“No point in thinking about the possibilities when you’re here now.” Something akin to disappointment passed through your eyes when he said that.
“That’s a good point.”
He anticipates what you were about to say next as you were about to speak up until a ping distracted you from saying another word. You excused yourself ruefully, digging out your phone from your bag, squinting at the display of your phone before shooting him an apologetic look.
“Crap, I gotta go.”
“Already?”
“Yeah, the faculty apparently needs me for something at school.”
You stood up, wincing at the loud screech your chair made as you shoved your phone in your bag.
“Thanks for, y’know,” You gestured lamely to the warm lights of the restaurant and to the dirty plates on the table, “All of this. It was nice.”
“It was nothing.”
He watches helplessly as you sort out your stuff, ready to take off once again and hope for a chance— or whatever it is controlling your meetings with him— to see you again. That same word from the rooftop was on the tip of his tongue again.
You stand up and make a move as if you were about to turn away, a million thoughts flitting through your eyes as you struggle to make a decision. It makes him nervous. Which is a lot to say for someone like him, someone who has always had a quiet confidence and for good reason too.
You broke his heart once, he hopes you'd break it again if it meant living with the memory of you.
You suddenly turned to face him, eyes meeting him with determination.
“Before I leave, I want to tell you something.” You said with newfound resolution, even if it did mean you were clutching your bag for some semblance of courage. He wishes he had something to hold onto for comfort as well, anticipation rising in him as he waits for your words.
“It’s worth a long shot but, I don't feel good about, y’know, your involvement with Alchemax.”
Of all the things that you could have brought up, that was what you wanted to talk about. After all this time, nothing could have prepared him for this. Miguel has to resist a laugh from escaping him. What the hell was he so worried about? That you’d suddenly turn around and tell him let’s get away and he’d say yes and book a one-way ticket just like that?
He might as well entertain your sentiments.
Miguel narrowed his eyes at you, crossing his arms as if to try and put distance between you and him. Though it was useless when you stepped closer to him.
“Explain to me why that is.”
He sees you grimace at his steely tone.
“Take this as advice from me, the whole thing just feels iffy to me. I’ve read the news, Miguel. Stone is not a good person. You could be making a difference instead of tossing yourself away there like a slave.” You explain, with a controlled volume as if you were afraid he’d start running if you were any louder. This whole scenario is playing in front of him again like clockwork.
“You can stay with—”
“I am making a difference, one day this city will be changed in the way I’ve always wanted it to be.” He bit back, challenging the quietness of your volume in the space.
This wasn’t in the cards when you initiated the discussion, and Miguel doesn’t know what came over him when he says what he’s always wanted.
“And I hope you’ll be there to see it with me.”
“I will.” You answered him back. The exhaustion in your eyes making way for something that cuts him to the core.
He doesn’t know whatever was in that booze you ordered from earlier but the small restaurant starts to become a little brighter when he looks at you now.
Miguel realizes a bit too late that he was in a public space when he sees other patrons in the restaurant and the old lady from earlier starts looking in your general direction.
“Look,” He starts in a calmer voice than before, “this is a hard thing you’re asking of me. What makes you think that I should just throw this all in the air and hope for the best?”
“You told me you still haven’t opened the envelope, right?” You said it so confidently it’s making him sick.
“Please, just, consider it.”
Bitterness clouds him. Here he was, halfway through rebuilding his life away from his past and here you are giving him a suggestion to tear it all down again. Miguel already knows all of this, knew all about what the company came with when he applied for the job.
He knows he should say no. His pride demands it, some leftover sadness from that day as an act of contempt to show off he’s lasted this long without you and look what he’s done.
But you spoke to him in a way that screams at him to see this not as strangers who’ve drifted apart from the years, but as the kids in his old childhood bedroom who had nothing to hold onto but each other. Your trust in him was so blindingly open, and something tells him it’s now his turn to give you his.
You were nothing if not the ghost in his memories that live in the recesses of his mind. And you've come back again to haunt him with your promises of the future and warmth.
“I’ll think about it. But don’t count on it.” The relief was instantaneous, you visibly relaxed.
“As long as it means you’ll still be with me.”
And that’s all he needs to know.
You have died.
Or rather this was in an earlier time, an earlier date, and an earlier universe. Far from a comfortable life with a cushy job and house with a kid or two and a silver band that never made its way in the picture.
He clutches your pale, cold body to his chest. Tightly holding onto you as if that would grant him a miracle of your lifeless eyes springing back to life. And you would give him some snarky comment about how shitty he looks and he’d shut you up with a kiss because you almost scared him half to death.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, he wasn't supposed to let you out of his life ever again. But he got careless, never should've stormed off when you were finally back to stay like you said you did. Even if that meant swallowing his pride and facing the fact that he was blinded by prestige.
And you were right, always have been. Should’ve listened to you and said yes the moment you opened your mouth to convince him to stay with you.
Weeks later a flurry of events passed him by and now he's stuck again. Donning a suit that felt too heavy on him even though it practically stuck to his skin; and a mask that felt suffocating everytime he put it on.
It made his skin itch knowing that you were out there somewhere in the city, just not here with him.
It's all a blur to him now.
There was a villain attack downtown. A variation of the Sandman he’s never seen before. And a nearby public school was nearby that unfortunately received the brunt of its damage. When he sees you attempt to save as many kids as you can to safety he immediately rushes towards the scene. Attempting to coerce you into evacuating away from the area, only for you to stubbornly turn back into the fractured building, insisting that there were still stuck students inside.
He tried to run after you, but you were faster. Not to mention the villain was still hot on his trail. He can’t possibly lead the villain back to the school. But before either of you know it, the building has broken into dust in front of his very eyes.
After subduing the villain, and this time, he was the hero. He runs himself ragged trying to look for any sign of you in the ruins of dust and stone. Making use of his newly-acquired powers and the many abilities he earned from the past few weeks.
When he sees a familiar figure crushed underneath a pile of rubble, his heart falls out of his chest.
As he cradles your cold, broken body, Miguel finally knows what it means to love and to lose. And your first exit out of his life was just a prelude to the real tragedy.
So he tried to learn to be selfless, learned what it meant to give himself up to keep the boat from rocking and to maintain the universe. And maybe this time, just this once, happiness would be by his side.
There was a shift in the air Miguel couldn't understand.
Miguel wakes up to the blaring of your alarm ringing unpleasantly through his ears. He grumbles, silently cursing his enhanced hearing to reach over to your phone that was on his bedside table to shut it up. Eyes squinting as the bright light harassed his eyes.
You reason that he was responsible enough to have him wake you up instead of you pressing snooze on it the entire morning until you run late. Which was plausible, to say the least, nothing else seems to wake you up but his voice urging you to wake up, rewarding him with your pretty eyes blinking open sleepily to greet him.
He pats for your side, finding nothing but cold, twisted sheets and an unmade bed. He sits up in a panic. No signs of breaking in, no signs of struggle. Still, anything can happen. What about Gabriella? Miguel stands up, moving quickly to open the door. Only to be met by the sound of his baby’s quiet giggles and your shushing to keep quiet resonating down the hall of your home, any tension that was previously in his body deflating to make him sigh a breath of relief.
Miguel steps out and is greeted by an almost comical scene if it weren’t for the way it warms him inside out. If the barely concealed giggles and messy countertop were any indication.
You were helping Gabi decorate the pancakes, whose hair was pulled up into uneven braids, attempting to help her shape them with smiley faces or a poor attempt at cartoon animals with fruits and some store-bought syrups. You try to guide her into handling the syrups to draw a tiger but end up looking like a caterpillar more than anything.
Gabriella catches sight of him before you do, her face lighting up in a way that reminds him of you.
“Good morning, papa!” She cried out, running over laughing to barrel toward him.
It was a normal morning. Or at least that was what Miguel convinces himself when he sees that the wall clock on the living room is turning the other way around or when he swears that the birds from outside the window sounded different than they did yesterday.
“...Recent sightings of a masked vigilante saving people has been reported around the city, civilians are advised to keep a look out for this individual’s intentions are currently unknown—”
For all Miguel knows, there wasn’t a Spider that was set to exist in this dimension.
“We’re heading out.” He called out from the front door, holding Gabriella in tow for soccer practice.
“Miguel.” He looks to you standing in front of him, relaxed if it weren’t for the slight tremor in your voice.
“I have something to tell you after work."
Despite having the same face and demeanor as the you he knows, he can't quite make heads or tails of you.
Your ominous request officially set Miguel on edge. Leaving him distracted at work up to the drive home. There wasn’t much space to guess what you wanted to tell him. He made sure to cover all his tracks prior to entering this dimension, ensuring that every document matched his very being as Miguel O’Hara. And he was anything but careless.
He looks up from his dinner, watching you urge Gabi to eat her vegetables and failing miserably when she pouts and whines. Miguel steps in, encouraging her to eat her carrots by eating the ones on his plate and she follows suit hesitantly. (And whenever you looked away he would help Gabi eat her portion as long as she won’t tell you.)
Nothing can go wrong now.
After the dishes were scrubbed clean and Gabriella was dressed in pajamas and put to bed. He meets you in your shared bedroom.
You sat on the edge of your bed, reading a book even though your eyes weren’t following any of the text written and glaring only at one specific part to distract yourself. You close and put the book away when he enters the room, patting the space beside you.
“What is it?”
“You trust me, don't you?”
His answer was immediate. Taking hold of one of your hands, you gripped onto him like a lifeline when he reached out. “Of course.”
“Promise you won’t look at me weird when I tell you?”
He tilts his head at you, finding your behavior more and more odd and he feels even more and more apprehensive as this conversation goes on.
Miguel grazes the band sitting on your finger, making you glance down at your intertwined hands, hoping you’d recognize the same thing he was thinking.
“If this wasn’t anymore proof, then yes, I promise.”
Whatever it is you plan to tell him, there is not a single thing that would keep him from you. If you were to tell him that he was making you unhappy he’d cut himself out of your life entirely if that would keep you happy.
You fidget with his hands like you did whenever you were nervous. Tracing lines at the back of his hand and thumbing his knuckles as if you were committing them to memory. But there’s no doubt about it, you look up to meet his eyes, your heart is opened to him.
For what felt like eternity, you finally spoke up.
“I’m—”
Shapes started forming when it wasn’t there, and the space thrummed with unfamiliar energy that wasn’t of this world.
He has overstayed his welcome and the end has come to collect its debts.
You stand up before he does. Confusion and alarm contorting your face as the walls practically break off into fragments of what it once was.
Every detail was etched into his memory, the worried furrow in your eyebrow as you hauled Gabi into your arms, Gabriella’s cries when you distort before you could even take a step outside your shared home, how you begged him to just take Gabriella and go in a broken voice.
It all happened so quickly.
It’s foolish for him to think that now was any different. This wasn’t some fantasy Miguel created in his head. The fabric of reality ripping apart at the seams is happening right before him. And now here he was tearing whatever is left of this dimension all because he couldn’t face the horrible truth: you were long gone from him.
Miguel is back home, and still home is elsewhere. Out of this world, out of this universe to rot somewhere.
The world felt a bit heavier than usual on his shoulders, and so is the weight in his heart.
He turned away Peter’s presence and sent Lyla away for a moment alone with the same accursed envelope he’s kept all these years, digging it out of the corner of his office desk.
His thumb passes over the seal keeping it shut tight, almost running a hole through how many times he’s felt for it.
Here’s the thing about ghosts: they haunt you until they deem it’s time to leave, or when you start to notice their presence.
Such a cruel fate it must be for him to have you once or twice in his lifetime and then never again. He thinks about his variant, how his luck ran out the moment his life was taken from him too fast when it was just the beginning for him. How he’s forced to repeat the same routine of meeting and losing you again and again like hauling sand in his arms.
You told him quite insistently that he could only open it when he achieved his dream. And he’s finally realized it. And so he’s keeping that one condition with him, if only to honor your words.
But that wasn’t the case was it? The only reason he had kept it unopened and untouched all this time is so that he would have something to link back to you. Wherever you were, if by some miracle, he had found you, he’d have an excuse to meet you again.
His own words, the promise, echo in his mind.
And he hopes that one day, it will lead him back to you.