#''so hey miggy it's been a while since we last hung out... are you doing anything this weekend?''

[spider-man-2o99]

he thinks he;s SOOO damn slick i swear to god im gonna break him over my knee and wring him out like a fucknf dishrag

[honeylikewords]

Pining crushing Miggy?? Cause I love some pining.

OH I WAS LITERALLY JUST TEXTING MY FRIEND ABOUT HOW I LOVE PINING! I hope this sates the pining urge a little!

(there aren’t many good Miggy gifs, so this will have to do as the image header for now!)

It all started months ago when Miguel had been asked to sit down with a journalist who wanted to report about the work Miguel, his lab, and his company were doing. 

Miguel was initially unhappy about it-- he very rarely enjoyed talking to the press, since they were so prying, always looking for some splashy story instead of the truth-- but decided that, of his team, he was probably the best equipped to be the spokesperson for the lab. After all, he was the lead researcher and the one with the best ‘stage presence’, so to speak, so he resigned himself to the meeting.

The journalist assigned to the report called Miguel to establish things, and Miguel had taken the first call with an air of frustration and haughty defiance. He had intended to embarrass her intellectually to the point where she’d drop the story and leave him well enough alone, but was soon met with the reality that his haughtiness would be no deterrent to her. 

Through all his performative intelligence, the journalist seemed to keep up, understanding what he was saying and how he was saying it, all while maintaining a shockingly chipper attitude, speaking in such a manner and cadence that Miguel could practically hear her smile through the phone. And even though she was sunny in a way Miguel had not prepared himself for, she was no less intelligent: she asked thoughtful questions and made Miguel take pause to answer her, and when he tried to use some highfalutin scientific gargon specifically to throw her off, she was somehow able to keep up and stay right on his tail.

He was, against his wishes, relatively impressed. 

The second call also found Miguel attempting to project his attitude of intellectual and academic posturing, but within minutes he had relented and just spoken with her like a normal man, even laughing at a few of her jokes and popping in some of his own. This second call lasted upwards of an hour as Miguel talked about the work he’d done at university regarding this particular kind of genetic research and how his thesis work had carried over from his PhD to this specific experiment, and he found himself pleased when she asked salient questions about the experiment’s relevance in years prior as opposed to currently. And pleased when she asked about the band he’d been in while in college.

By the third call, Miguel had recognized her number and answered with a smile. 

A few more phone calls came in here and there, varying in length, but always increasing in warmth and familiarity. By the time of the last phone call before the meeting was scheduled, Miguel had come to regard the journalist quite amicably, and with even something of affection in the back of his mind.

In the last call before the meeting, they confirmed a few final things; the cafe they’d meet at, the time, the day, and a few basic talking points that Miguel could come prepared for. She mentioned that this would, of course, just be the first face-to-face, seeing as how she’d also have to do a tour of the labs and maybe a secondary interview about some other questions she might have after the lab tour, and Miguel felt his heart sing to think of being able to talk to her more, then felt himself shut the feeling down and push it far, far away from the forefront of his thoughts. Before she hung up, she made a final confirmation, asking him if the day and time and location were all okay for the meeting. When he said yes, she made a light, airy laugh of pleasure on her end and said “alright, it’s a date!” before hanging up.

Miguel didn’t want to admit to himself how much he liked her saying that. 

When the day of the first interview rolled around, Miguel was both ready and completely unprepared. He dressed himself in a nice button-up with a vest (foregoing a tie, assuming that it would make him look like a stuffy prude instead of the young, handsome man he wanted her to see him as (why did he want her to see him as that?, he panicked to himself)) and some slacks, along with his good leather shoes; he even spent a few extra minutes in the mirror fixing his hair and making sure he was clean-shaven (but leaving just enough stubble for the image of ruggedness) before heading out the door and down to the cafe.

Miguel picked a seat at a small table that could only accommodate two chairs, and made sure that it was a window seat so that she’d be able to see him before she even entered the cafe. He sat patiently, but an air of anxiety surrounded him, making him shift in his seat and readjust the position of his legs time and again.

He waited for all of five minutes before she came in with a big, warm smile, rushing over to his table with her hand extended for a shake. Miguel, despite himself, found that he was more than a little charmed as she beamed at him and introduced herself.

“You must be Doctor O’Hara,” she said enthusiastically, shaking his hand with a firm, slightly feverish bounce. “Oh, it’s so great to finally get to sit down with you!”

“L-likewise,” Miguel replied, finding himself stuttering.

He balked for a moment; he never stuttered. Miguel was not a stutterer. Nor an easily flustered man. So why was he seeming to trip over himself as he rushed to the table to pull her chair out for her, to ask if she wanted anything from the cafe, to say it’d be his treat? Oh, this doesn’t sound like me at all, he thought, panicking a little.

But nevertheless, she seemed unfazed by his out of character slip, and declined his offer for a drink-- which, for some reason, made his heart sink-- instead flipping open a notepad and placing a pen on it, and taking out a recording device and setting it up between them on the table. Her hand hovered over the button as she turned to meet his eye with a cordial, friendly smile, one that sent Miguel’s stomach clenching.

“Do you mind if I record this? It’ll help me later with exact quotes.”

“Yeah, no, that’s fine, you can send me a copy of the recordings too--”

“I was planning on that, yeah! And I’ll have you proof-read the article in case I get anything wrong in it, you know, factually.”

Miguel nodded in agreement, folding his hands on the table before realizing that posture looked too tense and leaning himself back a little, trying to seem more relaxed. It didn’t work; he felt surprisingly nervous, as if something was pulling down his stomach, like a steel weight attached to the bottom of a balloon. 

She seemed to pick up on this, looking at him squarely in the eyes. Miguel tensed as she did, because it made him confront looking at her face-to-face, and made him confront the fact that she was, in fact, very, very pretty; pretty in a human and humble kind of way, without theatrics or facsimile. And she had beautiful eyes, the kind that made Miguel feel like he was being seen for the very first time.

He looked down at his hands.

“Hey,” she said gently, putting her hand out and touching his wrist, making Miguel’s hairs stand on end, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a little too much coffee this morning, got the jitters.” 

Miguel gave a fake, hollow laugh, and she frowned at him.

“You know, it’s perfectly normal to be nervous before an interview, so we don’t have to do this today if you don’t want to--”

“NO!,” Miguel interrupted, his voice coming out louder and more desperate than he’d originally intended. “I mean... no, I want to do this. I want to talk to you. I’m fine, really, I’m just getting in my own head about it.”

“Well, alright, Doctor O’Hara--”

“Miguel. You can call me Miguel.”

“...But that first time on the phone, you told me to only ever call you Doctor O’Hara?”

Miguel cringed to remember the way he’d forcefully insisted on being called Doctor O’Hara as if it was a badge of honor. It was when he’d still been trying to embarrass her out of bothering him, and remembering how he’d behaved, the rudeness with which he’d conducted himself... it made him want to shrivel into a ball and die on the spot.

“I know. I was being stuck-up, then, being a bit of an ass.” Miguel gave her an apologetic half-smile, trying to broach the gap he’d carved himself. “I’m really sorry, so you, uh, you can just call me Miguel. Or Miggy-- my friends call me Miggy.”

At that, she smiled so genuinely that Miguel could swear he felt his heart grow a full size larger. She seemed to feel more confident about his readiness for the interview, and seemed less estranged by the ‘Doctor O’Hara’ posturing of before. Calmly, she nodded and clicked the recorder on, tapping her pen on the pad with her smile still living on her lips.

“Alright, Miguel, let’s start at the beginning.”

The interview went on for nearly three hours straight. The initial hour was all very professional, with her asking topical questions about genetic research; what it is in layman’s terms, what kinds of experiments they were doing, ethical implications, medical applications, agricultural applications, social applications, et cetera. But the remaining two hours slowly devolved into, well, more of a coffee shop date.

Miguel started asking her questions: questions about where she’d studied journalism, what stories she liked to report on, her journalist icons, what her favorite news story of the last month was, how she liked to take her coffee, did she have any pets, what was her childhood like? When she answered, she’d ask him “and you?”, and somewhere along the way, both of them forgot the recorder was even running. Her pad and pen lay to the side, having been abandoned after a few hasty notes scribbled about the FDA testing and approval system. 

By hour three, Miguel had ordered them both drinks and a small plate of baked goods to share, and as he was answering a question about his experience on the “extreme parkour and stunt bike team” he’d formed in college, he idly reached his hand out to pluck a miniature scone from the plate. As he reached, he felt a brush of skin on warm skin, and he pulled his hand back, an electric surge rippling through him.

“O-oh,” he stammered, realizing he’d touched her hand. “Sorry--”

“No need,” she beamed, picking up the scone and holding it out to him. “Take it.”

“You can have it, really--”

“Mm, no, you can. I don’t like the fruit scones, anyway, I was reaching for that little cream puff over there.”

As he was about to pick it up and offer it to her, however, her phone began to ring. She glanced at it then made a soft gasp, dropping the scone back on the plate.

“Oh, oh my goodness, I didn’t even realize--”

“What is it?”

“Miguel, I’m so sorry, but I have to go; I was supposed to be back at the office half an hour ago for a staff meeting! I’m sorry, we’ll have to do a second interview later, but for right now, I need to go...”

She stood up abruptly and began scrambling to collect her jacket, purse, and equipment, and Miguel stood to assist her. His heart felt low and flat in his chest as he realized she’d be leaving, but he scolded himself internally: he should have known better. This was a purely professional affair, one solely about his work and about hers. He shouldn’t have imagined anything more, anything between the lines.

But then he felt her put her hand on his bicep and squeeze, tugging him back down to earth. He met her gaze and saw her sheepish, apologetic smile as she rubbed his upper arm soothingly, her brows bent and her posture diminutive, seeking forgiveness.

“I really am so sorry to cut our time short, Miggy,” she said as kindly as she could, giving his arm a quick pulse. “But I’ll see you again soon, right? Maybe next time I could swing by your office, or we could meet over dinner--”

“Dinner sounds good,” Miguel butted in, spirits rising. “I know this really good restaurant, Italian, nice and quiet. We wouldn’t get bothered.”

“Okay, great! Great! So just call me in, let’s say, an hour? I should be done with the meeting then... yeah, call me in an hour and we can set up when we’ll do that dinner interview, alright? I’ll see you soon.”

With that, she gave him a last, final squeeze and headed for the door, turning before she left to give him a parting wave goodbye, which he returned in a fuzzy, dreamlike haze. He watched her leave, turning to watch as she walked past the window and off into the streets of Nueva York. His head felt light and his body heavy, somehow simultaneously depressed and elated. 

He slipped back into his seat with a strangely heavy sigh and checked his watch; four in the afternoon. He’d call at five, maybe five-fifteen so he wouldn’t seem so cloyingly desperate (but he was, he reminded himself, he was cloyingly desperate). But he’d call, and he’d tell her about the restaurant, and he’d tell her about a great time to meet her, and about how good the food was there. That’s what he’d do, and hopefully, she’d like it, too.

His belly flutters with excitement to think of it and he puts his hands to his lips to cover his infectious smile (and to, hopefully, prevent people from staring at his fangs). Miguel almost wants to laugh with giddiness, as if he’s a schoolboy again, and at the same time, he wants to cry with embarrassment. He’s a muddled up mix of emotions, and he hasn’t felt this... this much in so long. 

And that’s how it all started.

Now, months later, she’s still working on the story, hoping to make it a multi-installment piece. She comes into the office, sometimes to talk with Miguel’s lab partners, sometimes to check on the stages of experiments that are taking place, sometimes to get photographs for the pieces, but every time she’s there, he stops her for a chat, asks if she’d like a coffee. Sometimes she has time to spare, sometimes she’s on a crunch. But every time he sees her, that spark, that flutter, that mix of emotion rises in Miguel and he just can’t keep himself away from her.

He waits with bated breath for a glance, a smile, a wave, just even the barest acknowledgment that he’s there and she can see him. When she turns those beautiful eyes on him, he feels a thousand myriad emotions and his face warms, his smile unintentionally slipping out to greet her. He can’t resist hovering near her, staying in the office late when she’s there, hoping every time that his phone rings that it’ll be her.

Sometimes when they talk, or walk near each other, they’ll brush against one another and Miguel will feel that surge of energy, his heart hammering an unforgettable rhythm against his chest. Sometimes his fingers will meet hers as they reach to open the door at the same time, or she’ll hand him documents to sign and he’ll semi-accidentally place his hand over hers and feel, for a fraction of a second, what it would be like to hold her hand. 

Every now and then, when they talk face to face, Miguel will find his eyes wandering down towards her mouth, and he’ll end up watching her lips form words so elegantly, their smooth, plush softness calling out to him. He’s more than once felt the urge to just put his hands under her chin and kiss her, kiss her like there are no rules of reporting conduct, no barriers between them. But he never does; he can’t, for his sake and, more importantly, for hers.

Of course, he won’t act on these feelings, however strong they may be: the two of them are entangled in a professional praxis, hovering near each other but kept neatly divided by the walls of their work, separated by their respective responsibilities to their professionalism and to their professions. He’s promised himself that once the final installment of her work on his research and company is out, he’ll tell her how he feels, since, by then, it will no longer interfere with their work, but... for now, all he can do is look at her from a measured distance and dream of what it must be like to be loved by a woman that wonderful.

He wonders if she dreams about him, too.