Chapter Text
The end of summer came around as it always did: miserably. Humidity thick enough to choke on, college kids leaving their part-time jobs to return to campus, stores marking down their prices in preparation for new stock, new seasons of television shows beginning to air weekly.
None of that meant much to the salaried man beyond the reminder his lease was due to renew - the first of August, as Miguel has had it for years now. His needs were met with little complaints and only interacting with his landlord when necessary suit him just fine. Miguel had nothing against the man, he was nothing of note and, as far as landlords went, he was tolerable. One of the better ones, really, if not for the sympathetic pat on the shoulder and the well-meaning words.
"You should really think about settling down soon, son. If you don't now, you never will, and while you're still young—"
In one ear, out the other, like it has for years now. At this point, he'd become used to tuning it out, nodding and muttering half-assurances until whoever felt so inclined to stick their nose into his personal life is satisfied. From family gatherings, water cooler gossip, outings with friends and, apparently, a face-to-face conversation with his landlord that could've been a text. People didn't seem to accept the answer that he just wasn't interested, didn't have the time for a relationship, was content with his life and didn't need to add anyone else into his schedule. Work came before himself, with a significant other even lower on his list of priorities. It wasn't from a lack of trying - there was no shortage of women who were interested in him, despite his intimidating demeanor or off-putting attitude. People either went out of their way to avoid him or made an effort to approach him. Regardless, he was always bound to draw attention; it's hard to blend into the crowd when he's already a head and a half over everyone else.
Upon confirming another year of companionable cohabitation, a firm handshake signals the end of the interaction and Miguel changes out of his work clothes and into something more comfortable for running errands. Ideally, he would've already had them done and been home for the night, but his landlord wanted to make sure he hadn't been up to trouble and inspect the apartment - more unnecessary time spent just to keep up appearances.
Up the block, a moving van with the name of a local family business plastered on its side is double-parked on the street, flashing its hazards. Inside the cab, two men argue, exaggerated hand gestures emphasizing their frustration to an argument Miguel can't hear. On the return trip, the van was now parked in front of his building — still double-parked — with the hatch up and a ramp down.
Stopping, he watches for a moment. The same two men, stripped down to pitted-out undershirts, prop a bedside dresser onto a dolly and slowly walk it down to the curb. The likelihood they'd ask Miguel for help was high, given his build, and he didn't have any more polite conversation in him today.
"You live here?" A voice hollers, the man looking directly at Miguel. No way to act as if he wasn't being spoken to. Nodding, he steps forward, knowing he's already being sucked towards them like a reluctant magnet but preparing a way to decline without coming across hostile. "Sorry, we must be in your way," the mover then apologizes, setting the dolly down flat and instead holds the door open for Miguel. "We shouldn't be too much longer."
No attitude, no underlying faster if someone helped comment, no dirty glare but a yellowed-tooth grin that doesn't reach his eyes but doesn't hold any ill intent. He wants to be finished just as much as anyone stuck in this weather.
Offering only another nod in response, Miguel steps through the offered threshold and straight to the elevators, the doors opening before he can call for it. The timing gets him to pause and he's thankful for it, as the person stepping off was not paying attention and almost walks back into him. A quick step to the side narrowly puts him out of the way of a blonde girl, toting her own dolly to be loaded.
"Gwen! Grab that door!" With a clang, she wheels the dolly around and juts one foot out to catch the door's censor. Miguel uses his hand like a sane person and steps inside the cab, now further delayed in getting back to his routine. The girl - Gwen, supposedly - stands, half-in and half-out of the elevator and Miguel grinds his teeth together as they watch the second of the two movers make his way towards them, carefully balancing duct-taped boxes in his tanned arms.
"Here, Pops, put those down," Gwen rattles the dolly to indicate its availability, clanging noisily.
"It's fine, I got it," the man grunts and Miguel side-eyes the pulsing vein of his neck. Huffing, Gwen presses the button to the sixth floor before glancing over her shoulder at Miguel, wordlessly asking.
"Seven."
No one speaks the six levels up and Miguel, again, doesn't offer any help, just watches as the two step out and towards the open apartment, its door propped to accommodate the high foot traffic. As the doors slide shut, Miguel ignores Gwen's eyes looking him over, taking him in in full for the first time with the same fascination he always receives - like spotting something in the peripheral, taking a second glance. Thankfully she didn't take a photo — that really gets on his nerves.
Unlocking the door to his own apartment, it only occurs to Miguel then that they were moving into the apartment directly below him, because of course they were. Boisterous conversation and music wafts from the floorboards, thuds and bangs and slams reverberating like comic book sounds effects.
"No no no, not there! There!"
Any plan Miguel had of a peaceful afternoon goes right out the window.
The man Gwen had called Pops was not, in fact, her father - Miguel isn't quite sure who he was but he certainly wasn't George Stacy, who almost matches Miguel in height and build. Perhaps it was just a friendly moniker for the mover, a friend of the family, a general nickname for a man older than her.
It was a week after that day when Miguel learns this, also unprompted. Turning the key of his mailbox, he notes one of the names sticks out. Crudely written in pen, G. STACY is affixed to a label, curling away at the corner. Without thinking about it, Miguel presses it down with his thumb. It sticks for a couple seconds before peeling away again, lifeless.
"Still not stickin'?" A voice behind him asks and Miguel turns to see a man in a police uniform, removing his cap to fan at himself. "Still waiting on that placard."
"Mhm." Flipping through his mail - adverts, bills, the usual - Miguel can still feel eyes on him and instinctively stiffens. He's not so large that someone couldn't get around him, nor does he think a man like the officer would feel intimidated by him to not want to approach. When he locks his mailbox and turns fully to leave, the man is still standing, waiting, a patient smile that puts Miguel on edge. "I live here," he begins and it earns him a laugh.
"I know." Running a hand through his cropped hair, he puts his cap back on and gives Miguel a quick once-over. "I've seen you around - you keep some strange hours."
"Work," he answers, curtly, stuffing his mail into his satchel and steps aside to leave when a hand enters his field of vision.
"George Stacy. My daughter and I just moved in."
"Miguel O'Hara."
"Pleasure to meet you, Miguel," the corner of his mouth twitches in an attempt at a polite smile, not fond of the assume familiarity. George opens his mouth to speak again when the cackle of his radio interrupts. It's not something Miguel can make out - not that it's his business - but it gets the man's full attention, barely remembering to acknowledge Miguel as he grabs the radio from his shoulder and stalks out of the building.
Waiting for the elevator, Miguel pats the head of the old Dalmatian that has made a second home of the lobby and files the conversation away with every other insignificant interaction he's had, soon to be forgotten.
When his alarm goes off in the morning, he looks at the time and laughs sardonically to himself. 'You keep some strange hours' is what George had said to him, repeating the words in his head as he showers in the dark. The sun hasn't even thought about rising yet and he's already halfway dressed, packing something easy for breakfast before tossing it in his bag. Though he may not be friendly, he's not intentionally an asshole so he tries to go about his morning routine quietly for those who are still sleeping - which is most of New York.
It's a strange time to be out, an overlap of those getting home from a late night and those crazy enough to begin their days. Once upon a time Miguel was the former, back when he was younger and could regularly pull all-nighters. During crunch time he can - and will - but he doesn't enjoy it as much as he did when it was binge drinking and parties. His diploma came with an internship that rolled right into a career, the abrupt realization that he wasn't in his twenties and learned the hard way just how important posture was.
Rolling his shoulders, Miguel pops his neck and yawns. Though there's no heat, his suit jacket is suffocating and he can't wait to strip out of it again in favor of a lab coat. He'd been playing fast and loose with the dress code for some time now and when management changed hands it was no longer tolerated, even if it still met the safety procedures. What did him in and tightened the policy was, of all things, a cropped corduroy jacket. A coworker had joked it was too gaudy that corporate had to put a stop to his fashion crimes and it's been in his closet since.
Damn. He liked that jacket.
Cursing out those who mocked his taste in clothes, Miguel strides out the elevator and misses the only other soul in the lobby, who about scares him out of his when greeted.
"Morning," George Stacy calls over his shoulder, fiddling with the sticker again. Miguel's very sharp shout of alarm makes him stop and raise his hands in surprise. "Sorry, bud, didn't mean to sc—"
"What are you doing?" In his attempt to collect himself, Miguel instinctively takes the offensive.
"The damn sticker k—"
"No, I mean here. Now. It's barely 4. Why—"
"I told you, I've seen you around. I also keep weird hours."
Once the metaphorical alarm bells have stopped ringing, Miguel evaluates the scene. With the top few buttons undone, a modest patch of greying chest hair peeks over the collar of his undershirt, skin spattered with freckles. His cap is on but almost lazily sitting atop his head, five o'clock shadow emphasizing how gaunt his face seems, though the wrinkles around his eyes tell Miguel he's a man who loves his job, despite it all.
"Right. Well." Clearing his throat, Miguel adjusts the strap of his bag and gives George a cordial nod, the passes him on his way out of the building and on the sidewalk, towards the train station.
Heading a department came with its quirks as much as it had its disadvantages. Making his own schedule, for example - coming in while the floors were still drying, freshly mopped from the overnight custodians taking their smoke breaks in the parking garage. Enough time to get himself settled without disruption, ready to assign cases when his employees came in, cycling paperwork off his desk in a fashion he had overheard called outright insane.
Plenty of times he's heard comments about him sleeping in the office, jokes that he's a vampire, rumors about his personal life - or lack thereof - but it was always swiftly silenced by a quick glance in their direction. Everyone is entitled to their opinions and the gossip is nonsensical blabber that builds rapport amongst colleagues. For the most part, Miguel finds no real harm in it, nothing worthy of shutting down directly and others at least have the decency to stop their whispers when he's within earshot. Or maybe they're worried he'll suck their blood or dissect them.
After the lunch rush simmers down is when Miguel clocks out, the sun at its peak in the sky as he emerges from his dimly lit office. The rest of the afternoon is his to decompress, to run errands, to return to the comfort of his hermit shell of a home. The extra hours in the afternoon is nicer to have when not needed then to need and not have. Dropping off his bag at home, he changes and goes for a run, circling back around when the pollen begins to win and his sneezing is garnering more stares than he's comfortable with.
Over time, he's learned the sounds of the building; what was expected and what wasn't. Pipes rattling, horns blaring, children playing, dogs barking, televisions blasting. A catalog of noises that he considered homey, even with the more unpleasant sounding ones because they were so normal it barely registered. Anything outside of that index put him on high alert. He wouldn't consider himself a paranoid man but he wouldn't argue against the claim.
Stepping out of the bathroom after a shower, a banging sound grabs his attention, turning off the fan to listen closer. Not fast enough to be any piece of construction equipment, too irregular to be anything mechanic, loud enough to be nearby. With a scowl, he considers the sound of a headboard hitting the wall but it's not coming from where he knows his neighbor's bedroom is.
Drying himself off, Miguel pulls on a pair of briefs and sets out to find the noise. Knocking, then, at his door? A look through the peephole shows nothing, and even when he tries to listen to see if someone is trying to get a neighbor's attention he realizes the sound isn't from that direction. A chill goes up his spine when the knocking gets more frantic, equal parts annoyed and concerned.
Turning on his heel, he freezes when he sees what he hoped he wouldn't - a shadow outside the window. Grabbing the cord, he yanks the blinds up with more force than necessary, scaring the figure just as much as it scared him.
"What are you doing?!"
An attempt at a response is unheard through the glass, only muffled sounds of a sentence before quickly realizing it was futile. Gesturing instead to open the window, they quickly put their hands together in a praying motion and plead after seeing Miguel's dubious expression. Cautiously, he lifts the window a few inches and the voice becomes instantly clear.
"Oh thank God," comes a relieved exhale, "I was starting to think you weren't home. I got locked out of my apartment and I was hoping you could let me in?"
Miguel furrows his eyebrows. "What?"
"I live in the apartment below you," speaking slower and using hand gestures, they continue. "I was on the fire escape when the window closed behind me and I couldn't get back in."
"Why didn't you climb down and go through the lobby?"
"I'm not wearing shoes and I don't have my keys so I'd hafta be buzzed in and that's a whole mess and— sorry to intrude but I'm really in a jam and would appreciate it."
"Why come pounding on my window?"
Albeit frustrated, they continue their plea. "We've met before. Gwen Stacy? My dad's the police captain? You're, like, the only person I sorta know and you were right up the stairs. Mr., uh, O'Hara... right?" Miguel blinks in recognition and his shoulders relax slightly. "This isn't ideal but—"
Grabbing the ledge of the window, Miguel pushes it up and the girl climbs through, rambling apologies as she awkwardly navigates the reading chair he's placed there.
"Not so fast."
Pausing mid-step, Gwen turns on her heel and gives him a confused expression, already halfway through his living room. "Yeah?"
"Why'd you get locked out on the fire escape?"
"The window closed behind me and I couldn't get past the safety locks from the outside. Which is good, I guess, it means they do their job," she laughs nervously.
"Why were you out there in the first place?"
Pursing her lips, Gwen looks at he feet and mutters, "are you gonna tell on me?"
"That depends."
Exhaling a hefty sigh of defeat, Gwen reaches into the pocket of her shorts and holds out her palm, presenting to him... something. A pink-colored rectangle with faded stickers and an interface on the side. Nothing else is said, as if that answered his question.
"I don't know what that is."
"It's a vape."
"I don't know what that is," he repeats, tersely, and Gwen drops her timid pretense.
"Seriously? How old are you?" His scowl makes her quickly backtrack. "Sorry, that was rude. It's, uh... weed."
"How is that weed?"
"There are these flavored cartridges with THC that heat up. I'd show you but it isn't mine and I don't want to take it apart."
"So you were smoking someone else's weed and got locked out."
"Basically, yeah." Slipping it back into her pocket, Gwen glances back to the front door and then back to Miguel, her face awkwardly pinched up with uncomfortable guilt. "Please don't tell my dad?"
Groaning, Miguel runs a hand down his face and feels a damp curl pinned against his forehead, remembering belatedly he was just in his underwear. Palm outstretched, he motions for Gwen to hand it over.
"The vape?" He nods. "What? Why?"
"It's the cause of this mess. You can have it back tomorrow."
"You can't do that!" She sputters, cheeks turning red.
"Then I'll be speaking with your father later."
Muttering under her breath, Gwen reluctantly digs it back out and puts it in his hand before turning and leaving, tail between her legs. Miguel waits by the door for a couple minutes in case she couldn't get back in, then closes the widow and gets dressed, the building returning to its usual afternoon soundtrack.
Gwen Stacy burns a trail in the carpet from pacing. She had been lucky that Mr. O'Hara was home yesterday when she knocked, but she didn't know his schedule, when he would be available, when she should come back. At school, the friend who leaned her the vape was understandably annoyed to hear it was confiscated - at least it was a weird neighbor and not her cop dad. It goes without saying Gwen is no longer allowed to borrow it.
Waiting until the same time she had appeared at his window the day prior, Gwen spends some extra time settling her nerves and takes the stairs up one floor, raising her fist before just as quickly dropping it and running her hands through her hair and groaning. While her dad didn't say anything, she couldn't be positive Mr. O'Hara wouldn't snitch and get her in trouble. The longer he had the evidence, the more likely he was to do so.
Much faster than he had the day before, he answers her knocking almost as if he had been waiting. He's dressed, thankfully, and greets her in a neutral tone.
"Ms. Stacy. Come in."
Panic grips her throat. This was the end of Gwendolyne Maxine Stacy. Her dad was going to be sitting inside and they were going to ground her for life—
Opening the door wider, she takes the hint and steps beyond the doorway, finding herself sitting at his breakfast bar, as motioned to do so.
"How was school?" He asks over his shoulder, fiddling with the electric kettle on the counter. The words imply interest but the tone tells Gwen he couldn't care less and is just killing time until delivering the final blow.
"Uh, fine."
"Do you have any homework?"
"Yeah, a study guide but—"
"Work on that."
Opening and closing her mouth, the only thing Gwen comes up with is, "sorry?"
"Work on your study guide."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. Tea?"
"I don't have my bag," she points out, ignoring his question.
"By the time you go downstairs and get it, your tea will be done."
Translation: get a move on, now.
On her way out, Gwen spots the vape sitting on an end table, blue light winking at her. It'd be so easy to just grab it and leave and never speak to him again. Even if he did tell her dad about her misadventures, she could—
The sound of a spoon clicking against a mug shakes her from her thoughts and Gwen lets herself out, down the stairs and back into her own apartment. She had just thrown her bag on her bed and had a mini stress attack about facing Mr. O'Hara that she hadn't even unpacked and touched her work. Slipping it over her shoulder again, she locks up and knocks, rocking on her heels. Less nervous than the first time but still feeling like she shouldn't be here.
"What subject is it in?" Mr. O'Hara asks, blowing on a mug while another one seeps.
"World history. We're starting on WWI."
"The Great War," he nods, as if remembering it fondly. "How do you take your tea?"
"Do you have any honey?" The sound of cabinet doors opening, closing; more clinking of a spoon; quiet footsteps until a mug is set in front of her.
"How well do you know the unit?" He asks with an incline of his head towards her notebook.
"I'll pass the test," Gwen informs. "The study guide is extra credit."
"Do you need me to quiz you?"
"Why are you doing this?" The girl interrupts. "We barely know each other."
"You seem like a smart girl who I don't want to see go down the wrong path."
"Vaping isn't bad," grumbling, she traces her fingertip around the rim of her cup.
"You're underage and very concerned about your father's reaction to your use of it. He also works nights and you're home alone most of the time, correct? I haven't seen a mother—"
"She died." Tapping her nail on the counter, Gwen keeps her gaze away.
Clearing his throat, the man continues. "After school, I want you to come here and do your homework."
"You're joking."
"I'm not. I can also feed you so you aren't always cooking for yourself. You're too young to be on your own like this."
Her lip curls before she can stop it. "I'm 16. I can handle myself. It's not like my dad leaves me to fend for myself, he trusts me to take care of—"
"I'm offering you company, a consistent schedule, and food. Anything else you need within reason. I'd take it, if I were you."
"What do you get out of it?"
"Confidence you're on the right track."
"I don't need— hey!" With swift movements, he leans over and picks up her cup. "I was drinking that!"
"If you don't want to stay, then you can leave. Your vapor thing is by the door, if you haven't taken it already."
Huffing, she slams her notebook closed and stuffs it in her bag all while her drink is poured into the sink and rinsed out. Grabbing the vape from the table, Gwen lets herself out and dumps her belongings onto her bed, grumbling under her breath about this and that and mourning a little that she never even got to taste the tea.
When Miguel answers the knock at his door, he's genuinely surprised to see Gwen standing there, rocking on her heels. They lock eyes for a second and Miguel steps aside to let her in.
"Thanks," she remembers to add after sitting down and beginning to unpack her bag. "Can I have some tea?"
"Honey, right?"
"Mm." As he warms the kettle, Gwen lays out her notes and organizes her pencils, pens and highlighters.
"You came back," Miguel notes, leaning on the breakfast bar opposite from her, observing. Shrugging one shoulder, Gwen thumbs through a variety of colored sticky notes. "How was the test?"
"Alright. Won't get my grade back 'til tomorrow."
"What do you have to work on tonight?"
"Preparing for the next unit, the consequences of the war. '20s, Great Depression." Blowing on her mug, Gwen's blue eyes flick up briefly before she adds, "you could probably help."
"History isn't my expertise," but he pauses, then, and frowns. "You're calling me old. Cute."
"I didn't say it," she defends, then cocks her head. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Didn't your dad ever tell you that's rude to ask?"
"Rude to ask a lady," Gwen corrects.
"It's still none of your business."
Rolling her eyes, Gwen takes another sip before pushing it aside and picking up a pen to start writing. After watching her for a moment, Miguel can't help himself from saying something.
"If you spend more time making your notes look pretty, you won't retain any of that information."
"This is how one of my teachers showed me," as she highlights an already underlined key term.
"I doubt they put that much effort into the shading value," but he does add that it is well done, just not appropriate for note-taking.
"Did you mean what you said?" Looking up from the page, Gwen plays with the cap of her pen. "About me coming here to do homework?"
"If you need it. I'm usually free in the evenings."
Turning in her chair, Gwen glances around and only then notices the lack of life.
"Is it just you here?"
"Yes. Always has been."
"Oh. That's... I'm sorry."
"For what? It's my decision. If I wasn't happy with it, I'd change it." Humming vaguely in acknowledgement, Gwen alternates the shapes of her bullet pointed dates.
"You get one more question," Miguel says after a while and the blonde looks up in surprise. "One."
"What's your day job?"
"I'm a scientist."
Her blue eyes bulge and she sits up. "Seriously? That's so cool. What kind of stuff do you do? Do you have your own lab? What's your doctorate in? Should I call you Dr. O'Hara? Where—"
Holding his palm up, Miguel shakes his head. "That was your one."
"That's not fair!" It isn't until she's retreating that Gwen realizes how much she had leaned forward in excitement. "Those were follow up questions, your answer wasn't—"
"You already asked about me living alone. I was being generous in letting you ask another."
Grumbling, she accepts her answer and returns to work, flipping through the pages of her textbook to make a list of vocab words.
"You can call me Miguel," he says as he takes her empty cup to the sink. "I'm still working on my thesis about animal DNA."
"What kind of animals?" The answer comes automatically and when Miguel pauses, mid-step, to sigh, it reminds Gwen of an annoyed but patient parent.
"Right now I'm working with different breeds of spiders."
"Those aren't animals."
"Wow, maybe you should give the dissertation, since you seem to know a lot about my work," he bites and Gwen opens her mouth but stops before speaking. While he doesn't apologize, the snark is out of his tone when Miguel speaks next. "Do you want dinner?"
"Oh, no thanks, I have something planned already."
Opening a bottle of sparkling water, Miguel leans against the kitchen counter and crosses his ankles.
"I'm usually back by 3pm. You're welcome to come by when you get out of school. Just knock - on the door."
"It worked out, didn't it?" She grins, picking at the corner of her page.
"Have you finished your notes?" He gestures with his chin towards her notebook.
"Are you kicking me out?"
"Soon."
Though she meant her question as a joke, Miguel's response was not and Gwen blinks in surprise, then looks to the clock on the wall. "What, is it your bedtime?"
"Almost."
"I know I made a joke about you being old earlier, but—"
"I get up early."
And Gwen gets it, sort of. She's not quite sure what a scientist does that requires a bizarre schedule like that but he's mysterious enough that it makes sense, somehow. Finishing with the main points of the chapter, Gwen works while Miguel warms leftovers on the stove.
"I'm done," she announces, sliding her book back into her bag.
"You can see yourself out," he calls from over his shoulder, busy stirring the pan.
"See you tomorrow?"
"See you tomorrow."
"What'd you get on your test?"
"103%."
"Do you see the importance of studying now?"
"I would've gotten it, anyway," Gwen retorts, breaking off a piece of biscuit and rubbing the crumbs off her fingers before turning back to her book.
"What other classes are you taking?"
"Nuh uh, you only get one question."
The steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board stops suddenly and Gwen fears she made a mistake. From the kitchen, Miguel sighs.
"Fair," is all he says before returning to chopping.
"The usual stuff," she answers. "World history, Brit lit, graphic design, geometry, French I, French III—"
Miguel interrupts. "Both?"
"Right?" She emphasizes, exasperated. "They let me test into French III but not out of I. It's offered every other semester, so..."
"Will you be taking II and IV in the spring?"
"Chais pas," she shrugs. "It's an easy grade, so I'm not too concerned about it. Uh, let's see.... did I say programming?"
"You did not. Is that something you want to do? Programming is a very diverse field."
"You sound like my guidance counselor," she grumbles.
"I'm offering guidance and counsel."
"I'm not sure what I want to do yet."
"And you don't have to." Walking around towards her, Miguel takes a biscuit and gives her an almost empathetic look. "Most people don't, at your age."
"Did you?"
"Yes, but I had a scholarship so even if it wasn't, I would have made it."
"So you knew as a kid you wanted to experiment on spiders?"
"That's a very simplistic way to look at it, but sure. Also, you've met your question quota."
Clicking her tongue, Gwen watches as Miguel takes the last piece and then clears her plate.
"Are you from New York?"
"Born and raised."
"How long have you lived here, in this building?"
"Four years. How long as your dad been a city cop?"
"Captain," Gwen corrects, pride in her tone. "And less than a year as captain, but he's been a cop since before I was born."
"What's your favorite subject in school?"
"Ugh, why do we always have to talk about school? This feels like a bad icebreaker game."
"How much does a polar bear weigh?"
Groaning, Gwen presses her forehead against her notebook. "Enough to break the ice," she answers, sardonically. "That is such a dad joke and it doesn't even work because I just mentioned icebreakers!"
"I've attended enough business conferences that I could probably rattle off 100 introductory questions easily, if you would prefer."
"I think I'd rather get back to talking about school."
"What's your favorite subject?"
"Dude."
From where he'd been doing dishes with his back turned, his shoulders shake in such a way Gwen almost thinks he's laughing.
"Can I ask a non-question question? And that didn't count."
"You can. Doesn't mean I'll answer."
"What's the plan for tomorrow?"
Turning off the faucet, Miguel is drying off his hands on a towel when he faces Gwen. "What do you mean?"
"Tomorrow's Saturday. Should I still come over, or...?"
"What does your dad work on the weekends?"
"He usually has Sundays off."
"You're just home alone all of the time?"
"I can take care of myself," sharp, defensive, her eyes narrow.
"Sometimes I go in on the weekends and it's when I do most of my errands, so I can't guarantee I'll be home at the same time."
"So this is just an after school thing."
Nodding, Miguel tosses the towel on the counter. "If I am home, you're welcome to visit but I keep a pretty strict schedule for my evenings."
"Yeah, what's up with that? That can't be healthy."
"Nope, that's all the questions you get. Ask again on Monday."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"You kind of suck for that."
"Mhm. Professional buzzkill."
"How are classes?" George asks, giving Gwen's shoulder a squeeze when he passes her. "Keeping your grades up?"
"Mmhm," she answers around a mouthful of cereal. Across from her, George makes his own and the two eat in silence for a moment before George speaks up again.
"How are you holding up? Lately, I mean. I know there's been a lot of changes, but—"
"Alright." Picking up her bowl, Gwen drinks the rest of the milk and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and George hands her a napkin.
"Are you doing alright by yourself? I know I work weird hours now."
"It's fine, dad," curt responses, Gwen chases droplets of milk still in the bowl with her spoon.
Understanding his daughter wasn't going to open up about anything anytime soon, George changes the subject.
"I talked to Mr. O'Hara the other day," and Gwen freezes. "The guy upstairs." Nodding his head towards the ceiling, Gwen looks up as well, as if the word gullible were written there.
"About what?" If it's about the vape, he is far too cheery.
"Well, I'm not quite sure what he does, but he gets home from work 'round the time you get home from school..." the sentence drops off, as if he's not sure himself of what he's saying. "Though he's a little strange, I think maybe it'd be good for you to go up there after school."
Gwen wipes off her glasses with the hem of her shirt to distract herself and hide her expression from her father. "I don't need to be babysat," and there's a bite of hurt in her tone.
"I know, I know. I just... I feel bad knowing you're by yourself so much now, and you thrived when—"
Holding up her hand, Gwen stops him from finishing the thought. "I'll think about it."
"That's my girl." Against the wood, George's phone buzzes and Gwen frowns.
"Dad. It's Sunday. You promised you'd take me shopping."
"I know, I know," picking up his phone, he doesn't need to tell Gwen that it could be an emergency at the precinct and he needs to check it. His chuckle is not what she expected and Gwen tilts her head, wordlessly asking. "Something I ordered was just delivered. Why don't you go grab the mail while I get ready and then we can go. Sound like a plan, kiddo?"
"Aye." Putting her bowl in the sink, Gwen slides on her sandals and calls out that she'll be right back, stepping into the hall.
Inside their mailbox - now with a formal name tag, finally - are two slips for two separate packages. Curious, she takes them to the front desk and is handed two boxes in return: one addressed to George Stacy and one addressed to Miguel O'Hara.
Great.
Debating which to deliver first, Gwen opts to tell her dad about the mixup first, so he doesn't become worried that she's taking so long to come back.
"Looks like we accidentally got one of Mr. O'Hara's packages," she announces, passing her dad his mail.
"Well, how about that! Let's go see if he's home."
Cringing, Gwen looks between her dad and the label. "It's the weekend, we shouldn't bother him."
"It's a great opportunity to talk to him. C'mon, it'll be quick." Slipping on his shoes, Gwen can't stall any longer and somewhat reluctantly follows her dad out the door, to the elevator and in front of Mr. O'Hara's door.
Knock knock knock. Glancing around the hallway out of habit, George comments to Gwen about one of the doors down the wall being covered in Halloween decorations, noting the early start when they hear the click of a lock being undone. Once the door's open, the man fills up the space almost comically so. Had Gwen ever noticed how tall he was?
"Sorry to bother you on the weekend," George begins, "but it seems we got one of your packages by mistake and wanted to deliver it ourselves."
Narrowing his eyes, Miguel looks between the box in Gwen's hands and George.
"And you didn't return it to the front desk because...?"
"Because, well, I figured it was a good enough excuse to come talk to you, if you have the time."
It's not that he doesn't have the time as much as he doesn't want to spend what minimal free time he has with having a conversation. George makes a subtle gesture with his head to indicate he'd like to come inside and Miguel pointedly ignores it.
"I don't mean to interject ourselves into your life," using his polite, civilian voice, George tries to seem like it's a casual favor he's preparing himself to ask. "It's just that I noticed you work early in the morning 'til early afternoon and I work afternoons until morning. My daughter here, Gwen, is in high school and home alone after school."
Placing a hand on her back, George subtly nudges her forward, having previously been halfway hidden behind her father like a child. Miguel's eyes briefly flicker to hers, searching for an explanation and only finding something apologetic and embarrassed.
"Okay?"
"So I was wondering if we could trouble you into watching her in the afternoon."
"I don't need a babysitter," she huffs, "I'm practically an adult."
"Barely."
"I'm almost 17!"
"In eight months. Enough arguing."
Waiting for their little dispute to finish, Miguel crosses his arms over his chest and watches them for a moment. "Watching her in the afternoon," he repeats. "I'm not fit to tutor."
"Oh, nothing like that. I just feel bad she's by her lonesome and hoped you could maybe provide her some company. She's good at keeping to herself and being quiet."
Wrong. She's inquisitive and chatty, asking nosy questions that Miguel has, admittedly, been indulging her with.
"Of course, if you're busy, I don't want to intrude on your time."
Too late.
"I'll have to see what my schedule is like," Miguel finally answers and George lets out a relieved exhale.
"Here, let me give you my number if you have any questions."
While George creates himself as a contact for Miguel, the man looks back to Gwen, who looks like she'd like to draw into herself and disappear.
"I really appreciate it," George says as he returns the phone, then affectionately ruffles Gwen's hair. "Hopefully I'll be hearing from you soon."
"Yeah." Shifting his weight onto his back foot to lean back into his apartment, George recognizes the gesture and concludes the conversation.
"You have a good rest of your day, then." Sticking his hand out for a shake, Miguel meets him. Though he wishes this interaction would end, he's not rude enough to ignore a handshake. Well, he is, but not after making an arrangement. After a brief farewell, the door is closed and locked once more.
"See?" A little laugh, George shakes his head. "What a strange fella."
It's when Gwen goes to call for the elevator that she realizes she's still holding his mail - she'd been been so focused and any implication that this was all a set up to get her and her friends busted that she forgot it was in her hands.
"Oh, wait a sec," she tells her dad and then strides back down to Miguel's door, knocking. It takes him a little longer to open the second time and Gwen rushes out her words. "I forgot to give you this. Sorry it's kinda warm, I was holding it for a while and my palms might've been a little sweaty and—"
"I got it." Taking the offered package, Miguel looks it over before his eyes hone in on Gwen again. "What was all that about?"
"I'll explain it later. Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time tomorrow," he confirms and she grins.
"'kay. Bye." Trying to walk casually back to her dad, Gwen asks from halfway down the hallway what store he wants to go to first, directing the conversation away from Mr. O'Hara before it could even get there.
"What was in the package?" Gwen asks as soon as she's through the threshold of Miguel's apartment.
"Do you want to use your question on that?" He follows with, closing and locking the door.
Dropping her bag, Gwen is not subtle in the way she meanders around, trying to see if she can spot anything new around his home. It amuses Miguel for a moment before she begins to get too nosy, poking through his bookcase.
"Oye." Snapping his fingers, Gwen spins on her heel and stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Sit down."
"You did not just snap at me like a dog."
Expression unchanging, he whistles and taps his finger against the top of the breakfast bar and she gasps.
"Tell me about this," gesturing between himself and Gwen, once she - reluctantly - takes her seat.
"It was my dad's idea," she begins, tapping her pen against the cover of her textbook. "I guess you're, I dunno, on the same wave about thinking I need someone to be with me."
"You and your dad just moved here, right? What were you doing after school before?"
Shrugging one shoulder, Gwen glances towards the floor and then back to her book. "I would go hang out at my friend, Peter's. My dad also didn't work nights, so that's new."
"And what happened with this Peter?"
"He died."
The words hang heavily in the air and Miguel stands from where he'd been leaning against the counter. For a moment, Gwen is worried he's going to offer his condolences and hug her but he only goes to the fridge and brings her back a can of soda.
Clearing her throat, Gwen mutters a thanks and keeps her gaze down.
"For what it's worth, I don't think it's because there's any doubt you can't handle your own. Your dad probably just wants to be sure you're coping well and not spending your afternoons isolating."
"I already get lectured at home about this, I don't—"
"I know. I won't play therapist. That just makes more sense, now, as to why your dad brought it up." Opening his own can, Miguel taps his nail against the side a few times. "So you didn't tell him?"
"No. Besides from, y'know, how it all started, I think he felt better thinking it was his idea. Please don't ever tell him about the vape," she adds, leaning forward a bit to try and catch his eyes.
"Are you still doing it?"
"I don't think my friends will let me anymore. Super uncool."
"Don't do drugs."
Pursing her lips, Gwen doesn't really have anything to follow that with that won't result in some form of well-meaning unsolicited advice.
"What are you working on now?"
"Geometry. Are you any good at math?"
"Been a while. Let's see."
Setting her pencil down, Gwen intends to pass the book to Miguel but he surprises her by coming around to her side and reading over her shoulder. After a few thoughtful hums, he backs off and shakes his head.
"I'm not suited to tutor, anyway. Best I could do is offer to check it when you're done."
Sipping from her drink, Gwen nods and hunches her shoulders, folding herself over her book. After a moment, Miguel leaves her be and begins to fuss about in the kitchen, picking up and cleaning.
"Hey?" With her bag packed, Gwen fiddles with the tab of her can. "I think I'm gonna go. I have dinner and, uh, laundry..."
"Sure."
"Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Don't forget to do your homework."
Over her shoulder, Gwen gives Miguel a look. Her brashness from earlier has gone at the mention of her friend and didn't quite recover - Miguel can't blame her for wanting to be by herself. He doesn't find it appropriate to share any anecdotes or advice or condolences but instead wordlessly extends his hand to take her empty drink, which brings a little smile to her face.
Locking the door behind her, Miguel catalogs his new information and starts to work on his own dinner. After putting some thought into it, he goes and looks at the bookcase she had been poking around in, looking if there was any personal information she could have pulled from him, but it's the boring lineup that he built for that exact reason. Not that he ever entertained, but for all intents and purposes he was another boring man with basic interests; dictionaries and research journals and the classics. They could just as well be a decorations, painted with the spines of books to imitate a full shelf and would get just as much use.
"When you said you just moved here - did you transfer schools?"
"Yeah. We could've petitioned to stay but the commute wasn't worth it. 'sides, it was weird without Peter. Part of why we moved." Thumbing at the ends of her hair, Gwen looks at nothing in particular. "I've made friends but it's hard."
"There's no right way to handle loss," though his words sound like a phrase off of a pamphlet found in a therapist waiting room, Miguel's tone belies any emptiness. Clearing his throat, he opts to change the topic before it sours the mood once more. "Have you looked at any clubs?"
"I know some girls who are trying to set up a band," shrugging, there's the hint of a smile on her lips. "They're looking for a drummer."
"Wouldn't have taken you for a drummer."
"What would you think, then?"
"An athlete. A gymnast, maybe." With his finger, he gestures to the way she's sitting - perched on the bar stool, her legs tucked beneath her.
"I did ballet when I was younger but it's more of a hobby, now." Unfolding herself, Miguel can't help but notice how gracefully she does so. Definitely on purpose.
"Did you plan for it to become more than a hobby?"
"I was understudy too many times that I gave up hope," heaving a sigh, she straightens her posture. "Could never beat the lead ballerina." Before Miguel can respond, Gwen holds up a finger. "No advice on how I shouldn't give up my dreams or whatever. I still do ballet, I'm just busy with school and it's taken the back burner. It's not off the table."
"That's good," nodding, Miguel repeats, "good girl. You're still young - don't close any doors while there's still a possibility."
Cocking her head, Gwen looks at Miguel. "Speaking from experience?"
"Possibly," he replies, then declines to elaborate. "How's that essay coming along?"
"Right, speaking of which— the essay's fine— is this something we're doing every day?"
"That's what we agreed on."
"Because I have a project for French coming up and I need to practice conversations with."
Miguel rubs at his jaw. "I'm really not—"
"—I was going to study with classmates, if that's okay?" Voice lilting, Gwen lifts her shoulders a tad, unsure, and Miguel frowns.
"Why would that not be okay?"
"We have this whole thing and you seem like the kind of guy who likes consistent schedules and didn't know if that'd break your routine or anything."
Expression softening into something almost considered a smile, Miguel pats the counter top. "I appreciate the concern, Gwen, but I'm a big boy, I can handle change."
Huffing, Gwen peels off a sticky note and starts to write. "We scheduled for Thursday but—"
"So you already had this planned?"
"Uh, yeah."
"But you still asked me for permission like I'd tell you otherwise?"
Shrinking a little, Gwen taps the tip of her pen against the paper, leaving little dots. "Uh, yeah," she repeats, much quieter.
"Do you want me to say no? That your afternoons are my afternoons and they'll have to figure something else out?" Crossing his arms over his chest, Miguel stands on the other side of the breakfast bar but still towers over Gwen, despite the space between them. Swallowing, she shakes her head. "You're your own person, Gwen. Do what you want," pointing a finger in her direction, he adds, "but no boys."
"What?!" Palms on the counter, Gwen gasps. "I-I'm not—"
"So there are boys?"
"They're my classmates," cheeks turning pink, Gwen uses her hands as she speaks, growing flustered, "who just happen to be guys."
"Boys," Miguel tsks. "They're boys. Where are you meeting?"
Rubbing her hands down her face, Gwen mumbles. "At Flash's place—"
"Good lord, his name is Flash?"
"Stoppp," hiding away now, Gwen pulls the collar of her shirt up to her eyebrows, exposing her belly as it rises. "My friends have already teased me about it, I don't need you on it, too."
"Fine, fine, I won't," relenting, Miguel puts his palms up but Gwen doesn't look, still beneath her shirt. Waiting a couple seconds, he leans forward and pokes her right above her navel, to which she squeaks in surprise.
"Hey!" Pulling her face out, she's red, making the freckles on her nose pop.
"That's on Thursday?" He calmly asks, pushing aside that interaction whereas Gwen keeps a hand defensively over her stomach.
"Yes. And it's just to study, no date."
"Does this Flash guy know that?"
"What happened to me being my own person? Can I not make plans that happen to involve gu— boys?"
"Not when it comes to boys that age. They are incessant and crude and up to no good when it comes to girls."
Narrowing her eyes, Gwen fixes Miguel with a challenging look. "Speaking from experience?"
"I think that's your question quota for the day."
"What! No fair, you totally had been asking a bunch of questions and you change up the amount every day! I'm not even keeping count anymore, so—"
"That's how you know you've asked too many."
Scoffing, Gwen watches as Miguel starts to work on dinner, trimming chicken breasts and patting seasoning into the meat. Despite his offer to stay, she leaves before it's finished to eat her own dinner: leftover pad thai, half of which sits in the precinct fridge for George Stacy's own dinner, usually taken around midnight.
"Those'll kill you, you know," Miguel remarks as George snubs the cigarette butt under his heel.
"So I hear," the man sighs, fanning his final exhalation of smoke away from them. "How've you been, O'Hara?"
"Miguel is fine. Long day?" He asks instead of answering the question, prompting another sigh.
"I won't bore you with the details but there's this investigation that my detectives have been wracking their brains over and it's starting to look like all of our leads are moot. There's no serial killer on the loose or anything," he jokes, trying to lighten the mood. "How's Gwen?"
Adjusting his stance, Miguel doesn't quite have the energy to play friendly and asks bluntly: "why are you asking me?"
"You spend more time with her than I do. Part of that's on me and I cannot thank you enough for taking care of her - sorry to have pushed that on you."
In the lull, Miguel doesn't respond and George reaches into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He doesn't offer one to Miguel and exhales slowly. "She, uh, lost a friend recently. It was really hard for her. I thought moving - you know, a new start - would help but then I got assigned this case and I'm doing nights and Gwen..." another drag. "I want to be there for her - for Christ's sake, I have to protect the city and I can't even talk to my own little girl." Tapping ash away, George watches as it dies on the sidewalk.
"She's fine. Gets her homework done. Can't say much else about how she is emotionally."
"I don't expect you to, but I think she appreciates the company more than she lets on. Didn't mean to burden you with that but you've really been a lifesaver, Miguel."
"Why me?"
Rolling the filter between his fingers, George looks to the sky for a moment in thought.
"I think you needed someone to keep you company as well."
Somewhere nearby, a car horn honks and disrupts the calm. George lets out a defeated sigh and Miguel glances down the sidewalk, towards his commute.
"I won't keep you any longer. Have a good day."
"Have a good night."
Gesturing with his cigarette, George then grins almost sheepishly. "And don't tell Gwen," he adds with a wink before putting it out beneath his shoe. When he looks back up, the twilight streets are empty.