This concept is so good! It's all I'm going to be thinking about today đ€§
New rehab program - Pt2
~ You're the very last therapist that the law has sent to "help" Shigaraki Tomura. All Might is the one who recommended you but the thing is, you have to be roommates with the villain ~
Warnings: You have anxiety, skin picking problems (Not mentioned in this text but will be in next parts), emetophobia, angst? (Idk if that counts as angst)
Author's note: So this part is VERY self indulgent, but you can enjoy it nonetheless!
In a month, you learned alot about his "schedule".
Shigaraki was quite the night owl. In the morning, you'd hear nothing coming from his room but by the time noon approached, you'd start hearing shuffling. He'd eventually come out, do his morning routine, probably, in the bathroom then sat down at the table to eat lunch with you. He never sat close to you though, always at the very opposite end of the table. You both never really talked either, well, you did try here and there but everytime he'd give you that one murderous look, that'd easily make you shut up.
Then he'd get up and watch TV while you did the dishes. Tomura was usually looking at Netflix or Youtube.
You were glad he felt comfortable enough to spend an hour or two on the couch while you were in the next room. You had tried to sit down in the living room to watch something with him, but he'd get up and watch the rest in his room. It always made you feel horrible. You knew you were unwanted since the very beginning but acting like that, right in front of you, was just painful. It only happened once and it was enough to make you stop trying to watch tv with him.
If he didn't watch TV after eating, he'd immediately go back to his room and not move from there until dinner.
Dinner was like every lunch, silent and awkward but he never seemed to find your food horrible as he always finished his whole plate or never showed any signs of disgust. Maybe he was just a good liar, but you couldn't help but feel glad that he liked your cooking.
You also picked up how much he didn't want help. Not just for therapy, but for everything else too.
One time he had lost "something", you figured it was important due to him rummaging around the whole place, so out of curiosity, you had asked him what was going on.
Surprisingly, he had answered. "Lost something"
"Would you like me to help? What did you lose?" You had genuinely asked.
By the look he had given you, you immediately knew that he was highly suspecting you. He probably thought that you had hidden his stuff. Tomura refused your help, and threw an insult so you never figured out what he was looking for. He eventually had stopped searching an hour later. Hopefully, you thought he had found it.
There was the time when his new gaming chair had arrived. He had installed himself in the living room to assemble it.
Half an hour later, you heard a thud and an angry Tomura swearing loudly so you ran to him. "Are you okay??" You had carefully approached him
Whatever happened that day, he only had stood up, looked at you dead in the eyes and went: "Fuck off" Before he locked himself in the bathroom.
But right before he did, you had spotted him holding his hand while he walked past. You figured he hurt himself and it hurt⊠You had only wanted to help since the beginning but he didn't want to. Of course you couldn't force him, but still.
There were other small events like these where you quickly learned that he preferred taking care of himself.
Little did you know, something would change soon
``` ````
Today was the only day that Shigaraki was allowed to go out that wouldn't require groceries or stuff like that. He could go out do anything he wanted! But under the eye of a pro hero, of course. Which, you couldn't help but observe, that it would get him more tense than usual.
Dabi and the pro hero, Hawks, had came to pick him up. The winged hero was in charge of the blue flame villain, like you were in charge of Shigaraki. He was also here to see how you were handling things with the crimson eyed villain.
When they walked in, Dabi went to Tomura's bedroom, while Hawks leaned on the kitchen counter in front of you. You were holding a warm mug of hot cocoa, unsure about this outing, but you trusted the heroes, didn't you? "Well, I'm not sure how it's going or what you're doing with him but he never had a therapist staying this long before"
You held a tiny smile before looking down and sighing. "Well, I honestly think I failed.. We didn't make any progress.. And sometimes it's.." You hesitated. He raised a brow but patiently waited for you to finish. "It's scary.. Whenever I try to do something, I.. He looks at me like I'm the worst thing on Earth and I immediately back off.. I- I don't think I'll be able to endure this for long"
The hero's expression softened even more than earlier. "Hm.. I get ya, it's not easy at all and it's even risky.. But hey I heard your quirk is quite useful for that, he didn't try to⊠Do anything against you, right?"
You nodded in agreement, your quirk was just enhanced reflexes. If something was thrown at you with no ill intent, you could easily catch it, like a ball or your keys. You could also easily climb up on a pile of books and if you had to fall, you'd easily land on your feet. But if someone wanted to attack you, you could easily dodge attacks. Though, it wouldn't work if someone threw a ball with too much strength or speed, or if you fell from too high.
"When are you thinking about leaving?" The hero asked.
You glanced back up at him. "Well, once the Director of the program knows, I think I should be able to leave next week"
Hawks nodded but as he was about to add something, Dabi and Shigaraki walked past you two. The purple-ish-scarred man giving you a respectful nod while Tomura didn't even acknowledge you before they entered Hawks' car.
The winged hero usually didn't need one but when he was hanging out with more than one person, he couldn't fly with them. Even though that would be more than hilarious. "Welp, time to go, I should bring him back around midnight"
You nodded, giving him an amused smile. It sounded like he was Dabi's dad telling you that he'll bring your "rebellious" child (Shigaraki) safe and sound.
You watched them leave with the "ex-villains". He was lucky that they were wearing those necklaces or else he would've been easily outnumbered. Now that they were "quirkless", he could handle them both with the strength of his feathers, if they even tried something that is.
You tried staying up all night to welcome them back but you ended up falling asleep on the couch.
The next morning, you woke up finding a little note on the little table in front of the couch.
'He drank a little bit too much, so he might be cranky tommorrow, sorry
- Hawks <3'
Great
Now you had to deal with an hungover villain.
"I'm leaving soon" You sighed to yourself.
You got up, walked to the bathroom, brushed your teeth and all that.
You then decided to take a shower, but as soon as you were done, a towel wrapped around you, Shigaraki kicked the door open. You screamed and jolted. "W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING??"
The minute you saw his face, a cold shiver went down your whole spine, you KNEW what was going on.
Your brain was YELLING at you to run as far as possible to escape. But Shigaraki hurried past you and hunched over the toilet.
You had, by instinct, already covered your ears with your hands as your body started shaking violently and tears were forming in the corner of your eyes.
You kept your eyes, very anxiously, on the door.
Your brain was screaming at you, telling you to RUN, to ESCAPE, that it WASN'T SAFE to stay near him!
He was fine, he was fine! He didn't help-!
But he's your PATIENT-!
NO NO NO NO! RUN!!
Danger-! DANGER!!
NO, HELP HIM, he could CHOKE and DIE!!
You DIDN'T want to let someone die when you were RIGHT THERE, to help!
Shigaraki restarted gagging and, without being able to control your body, you stormed out. At this point, your shaking had increased. You clutched, holding it for dear life, the towel wrapped around you.
Once you had reached the extreme opposite of the house, which was a corner in the dining room, you had curled up in a ball. You silently cried, squeezing your hands against your ears, wanting to block EVERY little sound. But you had to calm down, you HAD to, you couldn't like this! He couldn't see you like this!
'What do I do? What do I DO?!' You wanted to scream.
You let out a whimper, you knew what to do but you really REALLY didn't want to get near him.
Your brain was screaming danger all over and over again. What a pathetic therapist you were, being mortified at the sight of vomit. Hell, you didn't even had a glimpse of it! And you were curled up in a ball, naked, in a corner of the dining room.
After what seemed horribly long, you very very carefully removed your hands from your ears and you surprisingly, and gladly, didn't hear any sound.
Though, it worried you, was he-
You quickly got up, the room spun a little, and headed to the bathroom. You, once again, very very carefully peaked inside and found him sitting on the floor, his back against the bathtub.
You shakily walked towards Shigaraki and carefully lifted his hair up a little. He flinched but never struggled against you, his body probably still felt too upset to try anything.
You were still shaking like hell and you never looked at him when you said: "L-Let's get y-your hair cleaned.." You didn't care about your very trembling voice, you just grabbed a small towel, poured water on it and gently rubbed his hair. You almost didn't look, not wanting to get a glance of anything that he had thrown up.
It slowly made you relax.
He was fine, you were fine, you weren't going to catch whatever he had because it was just a hungover, you cannot catch a hungover, you weren't hungover, you wouldn't get sick. You kept repeating those sentences nonstop in your head.
You grabbed his shirt, tugging it a little and he understood what you were doing. He raised his arms and you removed it. Then throwing it in the sink, as fast as you could to not touch or see anything that could trigger your fear more than it already was.
You had to take care of him, you had to, it was your job, wasn't it? You also kept repeating those in your mind.
You bent down next to him, your vision was a bit blurry but you felt fine, It was just not focusing on anything, which was perfect like that. Though, were you really feeling fine? No, not at all, you were still shaking, your heart felt like it was going to explode and your breathing also hadn't settled that much.
You didn't glance at him, you just put the back of your hand against his forehead, just making sure, but it was hard to keep it against him due to your trembling. He seemed fine though.
Your throat squeezed, you had to force yourself to talk. "A-Are you okay?"
Shigaraki looked so exhausted, almost zombie-like. Mostly with the state of his hair, it hid his whole face like a mop was thrown on top of him. He nodded before mumbling. "..Are you?"
You blinked, focusing your eyes again and you realized that he was looking at your hand who was still shaking against his forehead. You slowly removed it, trying to compose yourself.
You wanted to tell him that you weren't okay, but that would make you and horrible therapist, wouldn't it? You were the one that had to take care of him, not the opposite. Your lips quivered, and tears restarted to form in the corner of your eyes but you controlled yourself as much as you could. "Y-Yeah" Your voice cracked, of course, but you would keep lying if he kept asking.
He threw a quick glance at me. "Bullshit" He spat out, keeping his voice low though as he sounded more raspy than usual.
You showed him a weak smile before murmuring: "Yeah"
This would've been a good time to talk and have a little therapy session but the both of you stayed silent. Personally, you didn't want to push him, not after what he had gone through a few minutes ago. And him? He wasn't a therapist, what could he even say?? Not that he cared anyway. In all honesty, he felt so horrible that he didn't give a shit about you. He just felt like sleeping plus drinking water since his head and throat were killing him.
You eventually stood up and left to your bedroom. Though, you couldn't help but feel bad for leaving him in the bathroom.
Part 1
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EVERY YOU EVERY ME #9
COLLABORATED WITHÂ @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader
Summary: You get a new mysterious co-worker.
Word count: 8,100
Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astrobootâs Masterlist | thirstworldproblemssâ Masterlist
[Previous] [TBC]
August 1st
Nearly pancaked by grand piano falling from the 8th floor outside of favorite cafe. No casualties (except the piano).
August 5th
Freak blizzard out of nowhere during lunch. Nearly crushed by large icicle dropping directly outside the exit of the Chrysler building. No other known casualty.
August 6th
An escaped hippopotamus from the Bronx zoo ran 11.3 miles, nearly got stampeded when exiting hotel for work. No casualties.
August 12th
Tornado appeared inside the Guggenheim museum, nearly squashed by large falling statue. Nobody nearby was seriously injured.
It's already mid-August now. You've used up more than a month of your allotted three. It means you don't have much more time to waste, but that knowledge does nothing to help you in figuring things out.Â
Youâve compiled a comprehensive list of the Universe's ongoing murder attempts, determined to keep track of them all. All in all, there are 37 incidents and counting that youâre aware of⊠and theyâre all different.Â
They differ in severity. They differ in scale and they differ in frequency. Sometimes it can take weeks, sometimes days, sometimes within hours of each other. If thereâs any sort of pattern to themâanything that might help you predict what will happen next or how to stop itâyou canât see it. Thereâs nothing that gives you any hint or clue as to where you can start to make progress with solving this mystery.
The one thing you have been able to observe from cataloging these incidents is that Miguel was right about what he told you that day at Starbucks: the universe is ramping up. Each attempt is becoming more and more bizarre, defying the very laws of physics and nature in its attempts to snuff you out. Before this, in all of your years in New York, youâve never heard of a blizzard in July or a tornado indoors.Â
With the escalating dangers, Miguel is more on guard than ever. Sticking close to you at all times like a particularly insistent herding dog thatâs always a few inches from nipping at your heels. Even when heâs seemingly preoccupied by something elseâreading a book, folding clothes, eating a crate of kit kats in one sittingâyou can always tell that heâs keenly aware of and attuned to your every minute move.Â
Practically, the only time he lets you out of his sight is for bathroom visits.Â
Work is still a point of contention between you two. He hates that he can't enter the building to monitor you at work and make sure you're safe, and after that incident when you caught a co-worker trying to take a surreptitious selfie with Spiderman while Miguel was loitering around in the windows, youâd banned him from climbing and scuttering around the exterior of the building like some deranged squirrel.Â
Itâs made him even less pleased about your whole work situation, something heâs not shy about sharing with you. Every morning when you are about to leave for work, Miguel will stand by the door with that ever present frown and ask you:Â
âWhy are you still going into a job you hate when thereâs only two months left?â
This morning, you sigh as you reach for your jacket and messenger bag.Â
Part of you completely understands and even agrees with his logic. If the end of the world is only two months away, why go back to that shithole everyday? You could go to Disneyland. Eat fancy croissants in Paris for breakfast. Have Lyla fake a reservation at an all-inclusive yoga retreat in Bali. You could be living your life like every moment is your last.Â
The thing is though, as delusional as it may be, youâre not ready to bet on the world ending just yet.Â
âMiguel, I fully intend for the universe to still be around in two months. And I donât want to be unemployed when that day comes. Iâm not some trust fund baby. Once we figure this thing out, youâre gonna be free to go, and if you take Lyla with you, then what am I supposed to do? Live on the streets? Rent in the city is ridiculous, and my rent-controlled apartment got blown into a million pieces.â
For once Miguel doesnât seem to have anything smart to say back. He tilts his head, quietly studying your face. Then after a long pause, he gives you a curt nod, as if something clicked into place.Â
"Fine."
You stop mid-way through zipping up one of your boots to eye him suspiciously.Â
Okay, thatâs⊠different.
In all the mornings youâve repeated this argument, this is the first time heâs simply accepted your explanation without sassing you back. He just gazes right back, apparently unperturbed, and holds the door of your hotel room open for you, ready to walk you to work.Â
There is definitely something going on inside his head, because this stubborn dummy never lets anything go without a fight. You just donât know what it is yet.Â
By mid-morning, you've forgotten all about your suspicions, too busy dealing with the aftermath of your coworker's incompetence. You're not entirely sure how they managed to corrupt the Excel formula youâd painstakingly inserted to make sure all the numbers add up correctly, but two hours later, you're still trying to get the data to compute properly.Â
Itâs the kind of mind numbing task that lets your mind wander, and you spend most of that morning wondering what Miguel is up to. Heâs probably lingering near the building, eating mini donuts by the dozens from that food truck that is always parked around the corner.Â
Thereâs a pointed series of knocks on your cubicle wall. The noise is grating, and it makes the whole of your back seize up because you recognize that signature knock from sound alone. Itâs your boss, probably here to ask if you have capacity to take on more case evaluations.Â
And sure enough, as you reluctantly turn to look, you see her, toothy smile and all, looking down at you in that hammy and strained way of hers.Â
âAre you busy?â she asks. âI just wanted to introduce you to the newest member of the team.âÂ
She gestures to the person standing beside her. Your gaze goes up over their insanely long legs, up and over the narrow and tapered waist and torso, up over the wide chest and broad, broad shoulders, and even before you get to the familiar face, you already know who you are looking at, because no one else is that tall.
Your mouth gapes open wide in shock.
This stupid motherf-
âThis is Mickey OâHara,â your boss introduces, simpering up at him. (You didnât even know she knew how to simper.)Â
Has Miguel gone insane?
What is he playing at?!
He didnât even bother to change his name properly!
And the man looks unfairly good in office casual! Heâs dressed in a white, well-fitted button down shirt and dress pants. Wearing ridiculous thick-rimmed glasses that would belong on Gregory Peck. Riotous curls are as messy and wild as ever, not having even bothered to comb it back. You donât know who he thinks heâs fooling, the subdued get-up only makes him stick out like a sore thumb.
âMickey is our newest hire,â your boss continues, batting her eyes at him. âHe's interning with our team as a junior insurance claims adjuster and will be shadowing you for the next two months.â
After that, Miguel truly is with you everywhere you go.Â
He spends most of each workday sitting on a spare chair in your small cubicle, the two of you squeezed into 6'x6', shoulder touching shoulder in that tiny, cramped space.
A superhero he may be, but Miguel is a terrible office worker. He seems completely bamboozled by the copier, and you quickly learn not to ask him to do any copying or scanning or even pick your printouts from the printer, because he always manages to mangle the process, coming back with crumpled up prints or half-shredded paper that looks like budget confetti.
Before the week is over, heâs gained a reputation with the rest of the team as the handsome-but-useless junior that canât even make coffee for shit.
Most of the time, he doesn't even make an effort to look like heâs doing any actual work, just sits right next to you, and reads books all day long. When you scold him and ask him to at least pretend like he's doing busy work, or he'll get fired, Miguel will just shrug and quietly hum back at you, engrossed in whatever latest sci-fi book his nose is buried in.Â
"If they fire me, I'll just have Lyla hack into their HR system and rehire me."
Then thereâs the way his sleeves are always rolled up halfway up his arm, hugging tight around the firm muscles of his forearm. The peep show of gorgeously tanned skin that is always on display for all to see. It's obscene.Â
Heâs maddening and distracting.Â
Still, you canât be too mad about his presence. The office is a much more treacherous place than youâd initially thought. Itâs a danger zone of death traps.Â
One morning when youâre in the supply room, getting a new pad of post-its from one of the massive industrial shelvesâthe ones that are supposed to be bolted to the wall for safetyâsuddenly crumpled, taking half the wall with it and nearly flattening you. That was almost game over for you. Squashed like a bug and entombed under a pile of archived TPS reports.Â
Then thereâs that time with the runaway elevator when the supposedly secure and unbreakable industrial cables snaps, with you in it, falling through 40 floors. And you still shudder everytime you walk past the copy machine because of that time it tried to electrocute you. If Miguel hadnât been there for all of these incidents, youâd be a goner.Â
Another upside is that itâs also nice to have a cubicle buddy. On slow days, the two of you kill time watching YouTube origami tutorials and practicing with post-its stolen from the temporarily-relocated office supplies.Â
Despite having hands the size of a giant, Miguel is surprisingly good at it. Delicately folding paper cranes, butterflies and flowers that sit in the place of pride atop of your computer screen, compared to your questionable attempts that usually wind up in a crumpled ball in the trash.Â
With Miguel there, your days at the office are never boring or predictable in the way they used to be. It no longer feels like you are just going through motions. It's almost⊠fun.Â
If there wasnât a cosmic executionerâs ax looming over your neck, you donât think you would mind spending every day with him like this.
You take it back. You do mind spending days with him like this. Miguel is the worst.Â
You've been doing data entry all morning, and the man will not shut up about how primitive Excel is.Â
âMalo! I donât understand how your company relies on this software. There are so many data consistency issues! It completely lacks data validation and integrity checks, and itâs too prone to human error when entering crucial data, which results inââÂ
You take deep calming breaths as you continue to type, trying to pretend his rant is white noise. Â
The previous day's near death experienceâan electrical surge from the printer, trying to finish what the copy machine startedâalso wiped out one of the file servers, and now you and half your department are stuck manually re-entering three years worth of data. Â
Two hours in, your fingers are aching, and you're about ready to start banging your head on the keyboard out of frustration. (Or banging the keyboard on Miguelâs head if he doesnât shut up.)
Like he can hear your thoughts, the man in question obligingly stops talking, and thereâs a moment of blessed silence before your chair glides smoothly and suddenly to the left as Miguel rolls you out from in front of your computer. Your first instinct is to wonder what new danger heâs saving you from, but no⊠Heâs just moving you out of the way to make space for him to drag his own chair in front of the screen.
âEnough,â he says firmly, already typing out some unintelligibly complex code at a speed that far outstrips your own personal best of 67 words per minute, âI canât watch you keep doing this when itâs so simple to automate.â
You sometimes forget just how smart Miguel is.Â
True, he canât seem to work the office printer, but heâs a genius scientist who single-handedly built an A.I. sophisticated enough to hack into financial institutions and topple governments. He successfully invented a machine that travels between dimensions. Every other sentence coming out of his mouth sounds like something that would confound Stephen Hawking. You donât know why youâre surprised heâs able to automate Excel spreadsheets.Â
It doesnât take him very long at all.Â
Within minutes, heâs finished, hitting enter one final time, and then you can see all of the cells rectify themselves one by one. Errors disappear and new corrected information appears, data populating blank cells and aligning itself in tidy rows.Â
You lean in closer to get a better look. Your elbow snags the edge of your coffee cup and the cup topples over, splashing runaway hot coffee across your hand.
Before you have a chance to react, thereâs a strong pull backwards. Miguel is already grabbing you and pulling you sideways into his lap and out of the firing range.
The cup clatters off the edge of the desk and onto the floor. The rest of the burning liquid never had the time to land on you.Â
Then youâre sitting on top of him, confined in the much too small seat of the office chair that can barely fit him and his broad backside, and much less the both of you. But if itâs uncomfortable, Miguel doesnât show it. He takes your hand in his to inspect it carefully.
The patch of skin burns and stings, but you canât tell if itâs from the coffee or his burning touch that makes you feel like thereâs liquid fire simmering in your veins.Â
âYou okay?â he says, his voice right in your ear.
He is so close. Surrounding you. Broad arms locked around your waist and the firm muscles of his thick thighs under yours.
âYeah,â you manage, nodding slowly. Your tongue feels heavy and dry in your mouth.
He quietly drags your hand closer to his face, then blows on the back of your burnt knuckles to soothe the sting.Â
âBetter?âÂ
Those stunning eyes are staring into yours from inches away, cut cheeks right there, nose barely brushing against yours, and â god, is he close. Too close.Â
Miguel is always in close proximity to you these days. Never more than a couple yards away, but save for life or death situations, the two of you do not find yourself like this. He only ever holds you when youâre crashing through the skies or about to collide with a runaway vehicle. This is different somehow.Â
Your heart feels like a trapped bird in your chest, fluttering so fast and panicky it might burst from inside out at the proximity.Â
âIâ umâ ahâŠâ Youâre not saying any words, just making strange noises in your throat like a squawking bird.Â
Your eyes flicker away from his face avoidantly and from the corner of your eye, you spot Matt from accounting spying on you from the cubicle across.Â
Oh god. This probably doesnât look great, does it?
Youâre sitting on a co-workerâs lap in the middle of an open plan office. Compromising does not even begin to describe the position you two are in.
Jumping off his lap, you quickly stand up and turn away, trying to ignore the flustered heat in your cheeks.Â
You walk back over to your chair, about to sit yourself back down, but thereâs spilled coffee everywhere. The dark brown liquid quickly sinking into the already stained fabric of the seat. You need to clean this up or else your chair is going to smell like expired coffee for the rest of time. Grabbing for your bag, you start digging for some tissues so you don't have to walk up to the supply closet.
You pull out item after item. Tampons. Sunglasses. A half-eaten chocolate bar. More tampons. New wallet with new ID, (expedited, all courtesy of Lyla). A handful of pennies. A random pamphlet. Still no tissues though, so you upend your bag onto your desk, wincing at the clatter.Â
How on Earth have you accumulated this much stuff in the few short weeks since your apartment was destroyed? And how on Earth do you not have any kleenex or napkins or anything in your handbag??Â
You paw through the mess, hoping for something useful, then swear as some of it spills over onto the floor. Ducking down, you crawl half under your desk, collecting wayward tampons and receipts, until your eyes pause on the pamphlet.
Not just any pamphlet. Itâs yellow and bright with Whoopie Goldberg's face in the corner. It's the map you received from the fortune teller lady. One of your many misfires.
Now that you look closely at it, there are faint lines that seem to glow faintly in the dimness under your desk that weren't there when you were looking at it in plain daylight.
You pick it up and unfold it, laying it out on the floor. It looks like itâs been written on with some kind of a glow-in-the-dark marker, but itâs not dark enough for you to see clearly. You need to get somewhere darker to test your theory.
Backing out from under your desk, you get to your feet and head briskly off down the hall. You barely make it three steps before Miguelâs on your tail, his towering height blocking out the bright LED lamps above as he follows after you like the worldâs biggest duckling.Â
âCielo, whatâs wrong?â
âNothingâs wrong,â you murmur curtly under your breath. The heat from before is still riding persistently on your face, and you quicken your steps, hoping it doesnât show.Â
You half run to the end of the hall until you reach the small supply closet. When you open the door to step inside, Miguel is right behind you, apparently trying to squeeze himself in after you.Â
"We won't both fit in here!" you scold as you close the door after you. His unhappy expression is the last thing you see as darkness envelops you in the pitch black.
Thereâs a niggling feeling of guilt that wiggles down into your skin. But you remind yourself that you can always steal cupcakes meant for clients from the conference room to make it up to him. All will be forgiven if you appease his sweet tooth.Â
Ducking your head to stare down at the map clutched in your hands, you squint your eyes in the dark to study it closely. There's a small star glowing bright in the middle of the map.
It's a literal star map.
She gave you a location.
You're standing in front of an old stone building at 177A Bleecker Street, smack in the middle of Greenwich village with its picturesque ivy covered old brownstone houses.Â
Then there's this monstrosity: Sanctum Sanctorum. The infamous residence of Dr. Strange.
The mansion is built in a mix of a Victorian and Gothic style as if the architect couldn't make up their mind and just decided 'why not both?' Throughout the rooftop, there are ornate carvings and intricate stonework that you suspect was meant to lend it a mysterious air, but instead the place reminds you of Disneyâs Haunted Mansion ride attraction.Â
You bring up your hand to the old knocker, gripping it firmly. Your lungs tighten, breath constricting in your chest as you hesitate, unable to bring yourself to pull the brass down to make contact with the wooden front door. Instead youâre holding it still in the air.Â
Maybe this isnât a good idea after all. How are you going to explain this?Â
âThe universe is out to get me, please send Avengers to help.â
Isnât he just going to think youâre nuts? One of those delusional Supes-fan with munchausen syndrome?
"We can still leave," Miguel says.Â
The man's been protesting every step of the way here, buzzing in your head about how much of a bad idea this is.
You frown, turning around to him. "I want to do this,â you answer.Â
His continued opposition is the final push you need. You bring down the knocker against the front door and tap it repeatedly.Â
There's no answer.
Part of you has to fight the urge to turn your feet and flee, saving yourself the embarrassment. But before you do, thereâs a loud creak and a heavy scraping noise against the entrance as the double door swings inwards and slowly opens.Â
No one greets you by the door. The entryway before you is empty, revealing a grand imperial staircase leading to the second floor, curving upward into a majestic spiral on each side of the room.Â
It looks deserted. Itâd be impolite to just step inside without someone to greet you and explicitly invite you in. But the doors did open to let you in.Â
You look at Miguel, unsure of what to do, but the man does not have the same compunction for politeness that you do, heâs already walked in, shoes and all, straight into the main hall.Â
âCan we just get this over with without you making your usual stupid grand dramatic entrance?â Miguel says into the empty room seemingly to no one in particular and you donât know who he thinks heâs talking to.Â
A ring of ember and fire sparks into existence out of nothingness in the center of the room. The ring grows wider, and you can see hints of another room inside of the circle: one decorated in a different decoration style than the current room youâre in: moroccan seats and plush cushions with oriental wooden carved furniture.Â
A man steps out from within that room to stand in front of you both. The ring of light closes behind him once heâs made it through. Clad in a rich purple tunic and dark robes that is monk-like in appearance. Miguel steps in front of you, tucking you safely behind him.Â
"You're not Strange," Miguel sneers, and you want to smack him. Why does he always have to be this rude?
"Oh, I'm quite strange. But I am not the Doctor. I am Wong. Iâm the Sorcerer Supreme and guardian of this place." The manâs voice is calm and formal, and he holds himself with a stately manner as he speaks.Â
You pop out your head from behind Miguelâs side. "Weâre here to see Doctor Strange."Â
At the repeated mention of Strange, the manâs formality seems to fall away, an expression of irritation bleeding into his features.Â
"Let me know when you find him. Because he is not here."
"Where is he?" Miguel asks, and thereâs that contempt rumbling in his voice again.Â
"I do not know. Probably playing hooky again. The man comes and goes as he likes." Wong makes a muttering noise under his breath as he continues. "Treats this sacred place like a summer gig at McDonalds."
Your chest deflates. How are you supposed to get Dr. Strange to help you if heâs not even here?
"I need help,â you plead with Mr. Wong. Maybe he can help you if Dr Strange canât, he is the Sorcerer Supreme after all, supreme is the highest level, right? This might even be an upgrade from Strange. âI know this sounds crazy, but I think the universe is out to get me."Â
Wong just looks at you, expression unchanging, and okay, yeah, that was maybe not the best place to start. You take a deep breath, trying to figure out how to make yourself sound less paranoid.
"I've almost died 40 times since the beginning of the summer. I just want to know why this keeps happening and how to make it stop."
You dig into your bag, pulling out the folded map.Â
"We talked to a fortune teller in Chinatown, and she gave me this map. It led us here, and I'm really, really hoping you can help me."
Wong dips his head down to the map, "This is a celebrity home star map," he says, with a straight face and a neutral voice that only slightly betrays that he thinks you're batshit crazy.
âI know it sounds crazy, but-â
âSanctum Sanctorum opened its doors for you, which means it wanted me to meet with you. I believe what youâre telling me.â
Oh thank god.
You tell him everything, rambling on as you try to explain whatâs been happening and what little you know about it as best you can. The near death experiences, Miguel being a Spiderman from another dimension, the destruction of your apartment, the unnatural phenomena and the universeâs escalating attempts on your life.Â
Wong is quiet throughout, studying your face with grave concentration as you speak.Â
When youâre finally done, he sighs with deep weariness that emanates from the core of his soul. He looks down on his feet, tapping them in deep consideration.
"I have an idea,â Wong says cautiously, âI could perform a Multiversal Divination on you, that might give us a clearer idea of what weâre dealing with,âÂ
âWhat does that mean?â Miguel asks, anger vibrating off his skin and boiling in his tone. Â
This man needs to calm down. You clearly need to take him to anger management, because since the moment heâs stepped into this place heâs been on the edge (even more so than usual).
âWhat does a âMultiversal Divinationâ entail?â he continues, âIs that some magical mumbo jumbo thatâs going to hurt her? Because if so weâre notââ
âIâll do it,â you say, interrupting his objections, and you sidestep Miguel who is scowling, mouth already parted in yet another protest, to stand in front of Wong.Â
Wong looks to you and then Miguel, then back at you again, caught in the awkward stalemate, before you interrupt.Â
âPlease, I need answers. Whatever it is, if it might help, I want to do it.â
Wong nods, stepping closer to you. "This will feel a little bit strange," he warns with the bedside manner of a patient doctor.
His hand comes to your collarbone and he places his palm there with a gentle push. There is barely any effort put into it, but you feel the force of it as if you had been slammed with the full force of a six ton truck. Your body wants to leap out of its skin. It is the sensation of being dumped in cold water from head to toe. A shock runs through your entire nervous system.
Images flash before your eyes, flickering by too fast for you to process. Theyâre vivid and bright. Glimpses of a scene: your apartment, your work, your commute home. Each of them expiring in a fraction of a moment before you have a chance to latch on and make sense of any of them individually.
You see yourself in picture after picture. Except slightly different in each. Short hair. Long locks. Curly.
In some you're wearing glasses instead of the contact lenses that you usually use. In others, youâre sporting the piercing you wanted to get at 16 but never did. Sometimes you have tattoos, sometimes not; occasionally youâre covered in them. Dyed hair, in every color of the spectrum: pink, blue, purple. A myriad of versions of you, of every variation of the decisions you could have possibly taken in your life.Â
There are pictures of memories you have had and not had. They rush in and flee before you're able to grab hold of one.
Captured moments of lifetimes you have never lived.
It's overwhelming. You don't understand what you're seeing. Thereâs pandemonium inside your head.
Then everything slows to a crawl.
The scene unfolding before you is one that you immediately recognize. An image that you'll never forget.
Window after window after window flashing you by. You know this view. Have seen it twice before. The same view of the Chrysler building as you were falling. But it's different this time.Â
The sky isnât blue, nor is it gray. Itâs a pink and an abnormal purple, a color youâve never seen on it before and it looks both beautiful and completely wrong. Thereâs an angry tear in the sky, cracking at the edges with static. The whole of the sky looks like it is going to cleave in two and bring the whole world with it. Is this the future? Is it the past?
There's no pain, but somehow tears run down your cheeks uncontrollably.
In the distance you hear Miguel's voice, muted even though you know from that tone that he's furious and must be bellowing loud enough that it echoes through the walls. It sounds like you are underwater, and you have to strain to make out what he is saying.
"Why is she crying?" He's definitely shouting, voice raw and growling. Is this part of your memory or is it happening in the now? "You're hurting her."
The ground approaches.Â
"Stop! Stop!" Miguel's voice is shouting, but there's no way to stop this. Everything is going too fast this time around.
Miguel is here, tearing through the sky towards you. But you know it's too late. He's too far away. He can't save you this time.
Then everything does stop.Â
No images in your head. No noise in your ears.
Everything goes black, like the ending of a movie.
Then you hear a thud.
It's loud and close and real.
You snap yourself out of your fugue state, to see Miguel towering over Wong's body where the Sorcerer Supreme lies, limp and lifeless on the ground.
âWhat did you do!? Are you out of your mind?" you shout, running up to them.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Wong isnât moving, not even blinking!
"He was hurting you!" Miguel roars.Â
"He wasn't hurting me, you big doofus!" you shout back, and itâs only then that the fury in Miguelâs eyes seem to abate.Â
"What's wrong with him?â you ask, bending down Wongâs limp body on the ground. âIs he dead!? Did you kill him?â There's a rising panic pushing inside your throat.
"He's just paralyzed."
"Heâs paraâ What do you mean paralyzed? What did you do to him?"
"I just... I bit him," he uses a finger to part his lips slightly, pushing the upper one up just enough to reveal the sharp edges of his fangs. "There's toxins in them that can have a paralyzing effect."
You glance back at Wong. Heâs still worryingly still.Â
âIs there some kind of way to un-paralyze him!?"
"It was just a small bite," Miguel says, ducking his head down sheepishly to stare at the floor, like a scolded boy. "I didnât use that much venom... Itâll wear off. He shouldn't be out long. Maybe half an hour or so."
âIâm sorry. So, so sorry,â you tell Wong fervently, hovering over him. You can see his eyes tracking yours and the rise and fall of his chest, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the proof that heâs still alive. âDo you, um⊠Do you want me to help you up?â
âHeâs not gonna want to move for a few more minutes,â Miguel interjects from behind you. âMoving will be incredibly painful until the venom wears off the rest of the wayâ.Â
What the actual fuck!?
You throw a glare at Miguel, as you loop an arm under Wongâs waist, âWell help me move him so he can be more comfortable.âÂ
At your command, Miguel helps you prop the man up against the wall in what is (hopefully) a more comfortable position, and then you sit next to each other and wait.
"I can't believe you bit the Sorcerer Supreme," you mutter under your breath. âMiguel, you canât justââ you cut yourself off, too frustrated to find the proper words.Â
"I'm sorry,â he says, grimacing at your scolding, looking regretful for once as he ducks down his gaze. âYou looked like you were in pain".
Your anger subsides, if only slightly at his repentance.Â
âIt still doesnât make it okay. You canât just attack someone like that! He was trying to help us.â
He doesnât say anything more to that, just stares down at his feet in contrition.Â
The two of you sit in the silence.Â
Your mind goes back to the surreal experience you just had. The myriad of thousands if not millions of images that were flashing through your mind at the speed of light.
The warped shape of your world, the jarring images of it distorted and wrong, as it started to collapse.Â
Miguel had said that didnât he? That the universe was going to ramp up its game and if it didnât succeed, it would eventually self-destruct in its mission to get you.
It takes 26 minutes. The first sign that the toxins are wearing off is that Wong is able to wiggle his toes. His recovery accelerates after that, he's able to move his fingers, then the muscles in his face until he's able to form a grimace. He doesn't look happy, and you don't blame him.
After another five minutes or so, he's able to speak again.Â
"Strange way of expressing gratitude, literally biting the hand that helps you."
You get up on your feet to help Wong, and Miguel moves next to you.Â
âNo, you stay there! Donât move,â you order, and even though he scowls, Miguel complies.Â
You hunch over next to Wong, and help him sit fully upright. He stays seated, but dusts his robe off from the caked soot and fine layers of dirt.Â
âThis has happened in other dimensions,â Wong tells you. âAnd if we donât stop it, our universe will be destroyed.â
âHow do we stop it?â you ask.Â
âThe universe wants you dead. It wonât stop until it achieves its goal.â
Your stomach drops.Â
âSo in order for this to stop⊠I need to die?â
Thereâs a look of barely contained fury burning in Miguelâs red eyes that seems to vibrate out of his skin and pounce. But he doesn't, this time he remains in place, visibly restraining himself, still following your orders.Â
âThere is that option, or you will need to find the reason for why it wants to kill you. And you need to find it soon, because you donât have a lot of time left. You will have even less time once the people of this world realize the threat you present to the continued integrity of this universe.âÂ
âAre you threatening her!?â Miguel demands, and somehow even though you didnât hear him move, heâs right behind you, red eyes glowing, shoulders rising, looming over Wong, ready to cut him down at any further hints that the man might be a threat to your safety.Â
Wong doesn't seem deterred in the slightest.Â
You have to give it to the Sorcerer Supreme. He's a brave one. It took you weeks before you stopped being intimidated by the man, and Miguelâs never bitten you.Â
âI am only telling you what the universe tells me. And it tells me that you do not belong here at all. The universe thinks neither of you belong here.â
You think back on fortune teller's drawing of the poorly drawn circle and stickfigure of you thatâs speared with arrows.
"What if we went⊠somewhere else?" Miguel asks.
For the first time since he entered this house, his tone is no longer dripping with anger. âWhat if we left this universe and dimension?â
The image of white blankness enters your mind at his words. You shudder at the reminder. The cold numbness of the void and the sensation of nothingness. Dread fills your veins. A cold clammy sweat flashes hot and cold against your skin at the memory.
Wong tilts his head up in deep consideration. âThat might work. This universe would slowly return to equilibrium with her gone. But⊠This will just start again in any new Universe. Most likely she wouldnât be able to stay. She might have to leave every dimension she's in for the rest of her natural lifespan. A life spent always on the run.âÂ
Wong pauses as he glances over to you with sympathy and concern in his gaze. âIs that something you would want?âÂ
What is the alternative here? To lie down and die?
âYes.â
âOne monthâs time, you need to find a way to leave this dimension before then.â
Back at your hotel that evening, you wake up to the sound of distress. Muffled whimpers and quiet moans.Â
By habit, your eyes roam the room, seeking out Miguel in the dark. Heâs lying on the sofa from across the room and even in this distance you can make out that his body is writhing beneath the covers. But youâre groggy and too sleep-drunk to make sense of what youâre hearing or seeing.Â
Thereâs murmured noises from him, and it takes you far too long to understand whatâs going on.Â
Heâs having a nightmare.Â
Tugging off the blanket on top of you, you get up and scoot over to the end of the bed over to him. Miguel looks like heâs in pain. Thereâs a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he tosses and turns, face pinched in pain and distress. Now that youâre closer, you can make out words in the sounds heâs making.Â
âQuiero quedarme contigo. No te vayas, no te vayas,â he keeps murmuring.Â
He looks exhausted. Which, of course he is. He's been on constant alert trying to protect you. Fighting off supernatural weather phenomena, blocking hazardous furniture and fighting off charging hippos out of nowhere. Of course he's worn out.
âShhhh, Itâs alright.â you whisper to him, reaching out to gently stroke his arm, attempting to soothe him. âItâs okay.â
He groans unhappily in his sleep, burying his head into the cushion.
âQuiero quedarme contiââ
"Hey, hey, Miguel,â you tap insistently at his shoulder now. If you canât soothe the nightmare away, then maybe you can at least wake him up out of it, âIt's okay. Wake up."
This time his eyes slam open, wide with adrenaline and shock, and he shoots upright, head whipping from side to side as he scans the room. Every inch of him prepared to leap into a fight. Â
âWhatâs wrong? Whatâsââ
âYou were having a nightmare,â you explain to him.Â
He stiffens at that, dropping his eyes to stare down at his lap unhappily.Â
âShit, did I wake you?â he runs a hand over his face, then lays back down, âSorry.âÂ
Silence blankets the two of you, and you donât know what else to say to him. Except just that you want him to be able to restâtruly restâafter the day, week and month youâve both had. You donât want him to have to go back to snatching moments of troubled, uncomfortable sleep on that stupid, too-small couch.
âYou could come sleep on the bed with me,â you offer, âThat couch is nowhere near big enough for you.â
"It's fine," he mutters, "It's been fine the last month, and it's fine now."
"It's not though. You're clearly not sleeping well. I should have asked you before. I'm surprised your back isn't already killing youâthat sleeping position looked painful."
His head darts down, eyeing his own spread legs that are sticking out into the empty air from the bottom of the couch. But he doesn't concede the point.
"Please?" you try again, "It will make me feel better."
Apparently all you needed to do was ask, because Miguel immediately complies like your request was a decree. He gets up, pulling the quilt with him, his mop of curls in adorable disarray as he drags his feet over to the other side of the bed and flops down with a loud thump that makes the whole mattress bounce underneath you.
You can feel the pull of the sheets where his legs threaten to brush up against your bent knees, and you're beginning to realize you didn't think this through. Even in the big bed, there's only so much space, and he seems to be taking up most of it. Â
He's close, and you can't seem to peel your eyes away from the strong line of his throat. Can't help the way your body reacts. Your pulse starts to race, heart kicking up hard and fast against your ribs.
Miguel turns around to observe you with narrowed eyes. âYou okay?âÂ
Shit! Did he hear you? That timing was too on the nose. You nod at him a little bit too frantically and you sound high-pitched and skittish even to your own ears.Â
 âYes of course, why wouldnât I be?â Â
âYour heart is beating really fast.â
Fuck. He could hear you. Of course he can, he has super hearing powers doesnât he?Â
âIâm just tired,â you stammer out, wrapping the blanket close to your chest for layers as a shield from his super hearing.Â
Miguel doesnât push it. He turns back around, letting his head drop down the pillow.Â
The distance between you has been growing smaller and smaller with each passing day together and you think you have been crossing an invisible line that you shouldnât be crossing as of late.Â
You think of the closeness of him in the office, the weight of his arms on your waist as he held you in his lap. His eyes on you. The bare skin of his broad back casually revealed to you when he was changing. The same back that you find yourself staring up at in this moment.Â
âGo to sleep,â Miguel rasps from your side, and you nearly jump out of your skin in surprise.Â
You close your eyes, but somehow in the dark you become even more keenly aware of his presence in the bed with you. Your heart seems to skip a little bit faster as the seconds pass, each beat a little bit harder.Â
There's a quiet sigh, then a much louder exhale, as he turns back towards you in bed.Â
"What's wrong?" His voice is still gruff with sleep.
"I canât fall asleep,â you say, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. âCan you talk? It might help me sleep."
He snorts with a laugh. The sound of it makes something pleasant skitter up the length of your spine. He's got a nice laugh. It's a shame he doesn't laugh often.
"What's so funny?"
"No, nothing. Just... some things never change." Even in the dim of the unlit room, you can see the smile on his lips.
"What do you want me to talk to you about?" he asks.
You tilt your head, considering it. Miguel rarely gives you a carte blanche to ask him for information. Logically, you should use this moment to seize a tactical advantage and ask him for all the salacious details that you know heâs been keeping from you. But as you wrack your brain for questions, the only ones that come to mind are disappointingly ordinary. You just want to know more about him. Small, silly, personal details, the way he seems to know everything about you.Â
"Tell me about where you're from," you request, "Your dimension. Your hometown."Â
He shifts on the bed, lying flat on his back until heâs staring up at the ceiling with you as he reminisces.Â
"It's called Nueva York. It's significantly more technologically advanced than this dimension. Definitely cleaner. People aren't as big of assholes as they are here. Public hygiene is way better, everything doesnât reek of piss. Oh, and thereâs not a rat epidemic in the public transportation system there."Â
His head turns to his side to look at your face, and he gives you a small mischievous grin as he continues. "Food is healthier. You don't get junk food there."
The words should be complimentary, but from his tone of voice and what you know of his eating habits, you think itâs probably a win for your dirty, rat-infested dimension.
"Lots of skyscrapers and neon-lights everywhere. It's colorful."
He pauses, as if he's struggling to find anything more to say about the place. Then his head tips to the side, meeting your eyes, and his gaze is soft.Â
âI'll take you there," he promises, voice quiet and warm and it makes something sweet and honeyed trickle inside your veins pleasantly.Â
âHow?â you wonder.
His smile drops, replaced by an unhappy frown. âNot sure yet, but Iâll figure it out.â
âCanât we just open up a portal like last time?â
He shakes his head.Â
"The last time I took you through the portal, it was meant to take us back to my dimension. But I built the parallel universe traversal device to transport meâand only meâthrough the multiverse."
He reaches out to you, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. The contact makes your skin tingle, but you donât pull away.Â
"I wasn't thinking last time. We canât take the risk of winding up back in the void.âÂ
Heâs mumbling now, nearly asleep. His eyes half-shut as he blinks slowly, struggling to keep them open as he slowly blinks.
"Someone that disappears in the void, they'll be erased from existence and out of every timeline. No one will ever remember you or know you existed. It's as if you've never existed at all."
You eye the watch on your wrist. The slight sheen of the bed light reflecting against the shiny glass.
"Can we modify the watch?"
"Firstly, not a watch", he reminds you by rote as he fluffs up his pillow with his arm.Â
"And second..." he pauses, eyes drifting up to study the ceiling before he shakes his head, "I've tried. It doesnât work. The power source isnât powerful and your world is not technically advanced enough for me to build an upgraded self-sustaining fusion power source that would be needed. Itâs how we ended up in the void.âÂ
Worry burrows into your chest, and your gaze drops down from his face. It always feels like youâre taking one step forward and ending up two steps back. Futile and hopeless but thatâs what you get for trying to fight against the will of the universe.Â
"Go to sleep," he says again, his hand coming to rest gently on top of your head, "I'll figure it out, don't worry.â
You smile, warmed by the comforting gesture and his reassurance.Â
âI won't let you get hurt this time."
âŠâthis time.â
The promise cuts through you like glass. Sharp and jagged and clawing its way into your chest until it hurts you to breathe.
Miguel is talking to you, but you donât think itâs you heâs thinking of when he says the words.
He attacked Wong without a second of hesitation when he thought you were hurt. He's exhausting himself half to death to protect you. But you know that heâs not really doing any of this for you.Â
Itâs not your comfort he was thinking of when he cradled your burnt hand and gently blew on your fingers. Itâs not your love of egg tarts that makes him save the flaky pastries for you when the two of you go out for dinner. Itâs not youâhas never been youâthat heâs seeing whenever his eyes linger on your face when he thinks youâre not paying attention.Â
You're riding on the emotional coattails of the other you. The unwavering loyalty that he had for her has transferred to you now that she's gone.
He must have really loved her.Â
Thereâs a sharp fissure in your chest, and you try to swallow down the thistle of needles thatâs found its way into your throat, only to discover that your saliva tastes sour and bitter.Â
Closing your eyes, you can see an image of yourself smiling with him, laughing with him, holding his hand. Except itâs not you.Â
Itâs her.Â
Other-you, with the wedding band and the happy life andâ And somehow better hair too, the lucky bitch!
Except⊠she wasn't lucky, was she? She's dead.
Sheâs dead, and you still resent her for what she had with Miguel. It's such an ugly feeling.Â
You squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, but the image doesnât go away. Nor does that acrid taste in your mouth. You can't help it. This irrational and childish madness is eating into the edges of your mind. You're envious of your other self.Â
God thatâs fucked up.Â
Does someone like you even deserve to be saved at all?
Credits & Dedications: To @thirstworldproblemss for all the rubberducking we do together on this silly little story. Thank you so much for sitting with me and making this fun! I love you 234238472938492374923 x infinity and back again.
a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.
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Tight Grip, Broken Dam (6)
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You donât question it anymore, when Miguel appears in your bed at night. Heâs not there for sex, no, youâve never even kissedâthough you would be lying if you said you werenât open to the idea of kissing him. Heâs there for comfort. For rest.
If only it could stay so simple.
Pair:Â Miguel O'Hara & GN!Reader
Notes: for series: slow burn, ambiguous relationship, found family dynamics, reader is in their late 20s. for chapter: miguel being... well. if you're here you're familiar with his shit. references to offscreen deaths. panic attacks and grief
Word Count: 3.5k
Read this chapter on Ao3 here. If you like my work, please consider leaving kudos there as well! You do not need an account to do so.
Author's Note: hiii!! you must be thinking "wtf, it's not monday/sunday where tumblr user flowerpotmage is?" and you'd be correct! i'm posting this chapter on my sunday before my night shift, as i'll be away from my laptop on monday/tuesday while i visit my mom.
i'm a little nervous about this chapter for some reason, so i rly rly hope you like it <3
Miguel does not think heâs catastrophizing.
Heâs sure that Jess would disagree, if he confided in her what he was thinking. Scratch that, he knows she would if she knew any of what he was doing.
Peter probably would, too. Shocking Peter. If Miguel knew how many shocking Peter Parkers heâd have to deal with on a day to day basis he probably would have thought twice about inventing the damn multiversal watch.
So, as of now, Lyla is the only one saying anything about his behavior. Sheâs the only one who knows.
âI think youâre catastrophizing, boss.â
âI am not.â
âAnd I think you owe them an apology.â
Miguel doesn't disagree, but... âWhat do you know, Lyla? Youâre a LYrate Lifeform Approximation.â
âA very good one with a deep understanding of human relationships and emotions since you lifted me out of being locked to your apartment and got me that upgrade from your old friend, Miguel.â
He huffs.
âI think you're self sabotaging out of a PTSD induced fear of loss.â
âDios mĂo, Lyla, okay, will you just let me out of this damn bathroom?!â
Lyla does let him out, eventually (despite his growls of âVete a la chingada!â when she initially refused), but it doesn't mean she leaves him alone. It's not that she keeps pestering him directly on the subject, but rather that she pokes at it around the edges, a toothpick testing the crust of bread in the oven. Little comments about how you would have been the perfect backup for this or that anomaly event, (âTheyâre benched until theyâre healed, do not ping them.â) or randomly wondering aloud what you might be up to when heâs in the kitchen rinsing a plate (that immediately breaks under his abruptly tightened grip).
And his sleep is terrible. It's been a week and a half since he stepped foot in your dimension, longer sinceâ
He tries not to think about it.
âYou know, I can think of something that would help with that,â Lyla practically taunts him late at night when he's trying in vain to relax enough to find sleep
âNo.â
The thing is, he shouldn't have gotten so used to it in the first place. Shouldn't have become dependent on you for a good night's sleep. Because how shocking embarrassing, crawling into your comradeâs bed like a child who canât sleep without their parents.
But it helped. And Miguel had never been the best with impulse control.
Dana was proof enough of that, even before everything changed.
And now Gabriella, too.
He lets his mind wander to her, far more willing to linger on the ache of grief and well-deserved guilt than any fresh hurt. A reminder of why he does the work he does, validation for why he keeps everything where it is, why he tries not to let the other Spiders get too close.
Heâs royally shocked that last one up, that's for sure.
You hear about the new Miguel before you see him from small group passing you in the hallway where youâre waiting to ambush Peter and chew him out for yesterdayâs antics. Secretly, youâre also there because you're curious about this other Miguel and want to get a look at him when he arrives, mostly because of your Miguel having been so firmly against you joining the recruiting team.
So youâre waiting, casually, just past the opening where the lobby opens out into the larger HQ, when you overhear them.
âHeâs so much friendlier,â comes one Spider-Womanâs hushed voice.
âI donât think Iâve ever seen our Miguel smile so much,â a Spider-Man replies. âEven if it is with closed lips.â
They pass by, off to wherever theyâre headed, and then you hear Peterâs voice approaching just around the corner.
âYeah, whoever designed the place had a real one for architectureââ
You push yourself off the wall, turning on the ball of your foot to stand in the doorway and block his path.
âPeter.â You greet him with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms, feet planted shoulder-width apart. You vaguely register Jessica Drew and the very, very tall familiar figure beside her, but you have your sights forcibly fixed firmly on Peter for now.
Play it cool.
âOh, thereâs Garden-Spider!â
âItâs just Spider,â you suppress a smile, rolling your eyes. âHe likes to call me that because I have so many plaâŠâ You turn your gaze to the new Miguel, voice dying in your throat.
The first thing you notice about the new Miguel is how similarâno, nearly identical he looks to the one you already know. His hair is slightly different, a lock of it falling across his forehead instead of pushed back. His suit is darker, more matte and black instead of blue, and heâs wearing sunglasses even though you're all indoors.
But none of that is what killed your sentence dead in its tracks. Because the second thing you notice is how when he sees you, he looks like heâs encountered a ghost.
Peter, of course, goes to introduce you two, waving off your comment about his nickname for you. âNew Miguel, this isââ
New Miguel whispers your name in what can only be utter disbelief.
âOh boy,â Jess says.
âUm,â you say dumbly, the confidence in your posture going a bit slack.
To his credit, the new Miguel seems to pull himself together fairly quickly. He closes his mouth, and you recognize a familiar twitch in his jaw muscle just before his throat bobs in a nervous swallow.
âSorry,â he says. âI justâdidnât expectâŠâ he gives an apologetic, borderline sheepishly wry smile, and you see a glint of sharp teethâof fangsâand suddenly you understand his slight mumbling, why he doesnât open his mouth too wide. âFigures that thereâd be a version of you thatâs the hero out here in the multiverse.â
You give a nervous, forgiving smile and hold out your hand. âSorry. Earth-7723,â you introduce yourself.
He looks at your hand, eyes glancing back up at you behind his tinted glasses before he accepts it with his own.
âMiguel, but Iâm guessing you already know the other me Iâm hearing about. Earth-209.â
âEarth-209 in the year 2099,â you quip. âFun.â
He lets loose the barest chuckle, more of an amused huff really, as if the tension in his body wonât let him laugh properly. If you werenât so familiar with your Miguelâs body language you probably wouldnât have even noticed. It feels strange, being able to read a complete stranger so well. You wonder if heâs having the same experience, and how well he knows the you from Earth-209âbecause clearly he does know another version of youâand you also wonder if itâs as strange for him as it is for you to see such a familiar face on a stranger.
âYeah,â he agrees, letting go of your hand; his own falls to his side. âVery fun.â
âWe should get you to the Bossâs lab and introduce you,â Peter says after glancing between the two of you.
Jess nods. âI agree. You probably have questions.â
âYouâre not off the hook,â you say to Peter with a pointed finger, trying to dredge back up your earlier determined mischief, doing your best to set aside the dizzy surrealism and unbalanced feeling from the brief interaction with Miguel 209.
âWhat did I ever do to you?â Peter says as the group begins to pass.
âOh, donât play innocent after that stunt yesterday.â
âWhat stunt?â Jess asks, raising an eyebrow, starting to smile.
âOh, he knows.â You mirror her expression with your own raised eyebrow.
âNope, I donât. Bye!â Peter waves, hurrying the group along.
âNo, I wanna know what's got Garden-Spider out for revenge,â Jess says even as she walks off with the two men, giving you a wave and a smile.
You watch them go, your arms now more wrapped around your middle than crossed. The new Miguel, Miguel 209, turns to look at you over his shoulder like he needs to check that youâre real.
You give him your own small smile and lift a hand in your own little farewell waveâone that he returns with a matching and equally small smile and the ghost of something sad in his brow as he turns back to watch where heâs walking.
The circumstances under which you had met your Miguel were much different. Part of your story was actually quite similar to Gwenâs, and many other Spider-People: hiding your identity from those you love, balancing the two worlds until one encroached on the other, a full scale incursion that ended in more than one life ruined and at least one snuffed out. An unavoidable event by all accounts, according to Miguelâs theory of canon events and every article about grief and guilt and control that youâve read since.
It turns out that when you have great power, and a great deal of self-appointed responsibility, the guilt stage is hardest to overcome.
Then your dimension had its first anomaly. A copper steam-powered Rhino had wreaked a path of destruction through the underground subway. It was a miracle that nobody was killed. Well, more accurately it was because of him that people were able to walk away with their lives.
Once the scene had cleared, the panic hit you, raw and fresh as the cracked rubble. Damaged walls brought to mind an image of an entirely different event featuring more structural damage and death. As a result, when he went looking for the Spider he had helped in order to invite them to join his effort to keep the worlds intact, he found you where you were crouched behind a cracked pillar. Your knees were to your chest, your head in your hands, and your breath ragged.
âHey,â he said, voice low as he knelt on one knee in front of you, barely more than a foot and a half away. âItâs okay. You did it.â
You looked up at him, your hands still cradled your head and your eyes now wide under your mask.
He had a hand held out to you, stretched out in an offer to help with standing up.
You glanced at it, at him, back at the hand. With a sharp movement that seemed to startle even his apparently cool and collected self, your hand darted out and grasped his, squeezing tight. He began to stand. You shook your head, and he froze.
âSorry,â you managed to gasp out. âI juââ a desperate gasp for air interrupted your words, but you managed to continue: âI just need a second.â
He settled back down onto his knee. His hand adjusted to hold yours more gently.
âBreathe,â he said gently.
You did. And then you said: âYou have a cool suit. Whatâs your deal?â
âIâ what?â
âYourâ your suit,â you said with a shaky, breathy laugh. âI like it.â
He hummed, a quiet thoughtful sound. âThank you.â
âWhatâs your deal?â You asked again. âYouâre⊠like me. But I havenât seen you before.â
Then he gently squeezed your hand, letting go to rest his arm on his knee.
âIâm from another dimension.â
You linger around Earth-928, wandering and pacing the criss-crossed beams of Spider-HQ, exchanging polite hellos with other Spider-People.
Word about the new MiguelâMiguel-209âthe one you can only refer to with clarifiers in your head because heâs not your Miguel and you need to differentiate or youâll feel even more off kilter than you already do, has spread fast.
âI canât believe thereâs going to be another Miguel around.â
âDo you think heâll co-lead?â
âI wonder how similar they look.â
âI bet heâs just as serious.â
âDo you think heâs as much of a leader type, or nah?â
âI heard heâs just as builtââ
You swing up to one of the little used alcoves, a little space that feels like a cozy waiting room or one of those places in that mall you had found yourself in when you visited California as a child, styled with almost too firm armchairs and potted plants that gave the quiet corner the illusion of being shielded from passersby.
Thatâs where Jess finds you, strolling into the space like her belly has no impact on her.
You offer her a slight smile and a glance in greeting, shifting in your window seat to face her better when she takes a seat across from you, hand resting on her stomach.
âI think you need to talk to Miguel.â
âWhich one?â you canât help it, your mouth quirking up at the corners.
She chuckles. âWell, probably both at some point. But Iâd give the new one some time to⊠adjust.â
You nod, then nod again at her belly. âLooks like everythingâs still going well?â
She nods, smiling. âLast check up went great. Ten fingers and toes, two eyes, the whole nine yards.â (You hold back the impulse to quip âWow, thatâs a big baby.â) She pauses, and then sighs. âListen. Iâm sorry about the meeting yesterday.â When you look at her with a questioning frown, she elaborates: âPeter told me you hadnât gotten the schedule.â
You look down, picking at nonexistent dirt on your suit. This one is new, a remake after your previous one had gotten shredded in the road-rash incident. âItâs fine, really. Miguel probably assumed I was still on⊠medical leave.â The last two words come out more bitter than you had intended.
Jess just watches you. âYour hands doing okay?â
You shift slightly, pulling off your gloves to present your palms to her, and she leans forward to look properly. The skin still has a slight irregular shine from the fresh scars, but only if you know what to look for.
âLooking good,â she says, leaning back into her seat.
âDo you wanna get some food?â you blurt.
She raises an eyebrow, and then laughs in pleasant surprise. âSure.â
Youâre closer to Peter than you are to Jess, but itâs still nice to spend time with her outside of meetings and anomaly wrangling. Sheâs telling the story of when she first met Gwen.
âI canât believe she called him âDark Garfield,ââ you laugh. âHow have I not heard about this before?â
Jess laughs and shakes her head, adjusting her grip on her burger. âIâm as surprised as you are. I guess Gwen tries not to brag, or something.â
You nod. âSheâs a great kid.â You sigh. âI worry about her sometimes, honestly. I canât imagine being Spider-Woman, or man, or any of it, so young.â
Jess sombers. âYeah. I know what you mean.â
Miguel wonders how all the Peters do this, how theyâve all adjusted to being surrounded by alternate versions of themselves when it felt so strange for him just to be face to face with one of his own. Itâs not that he didnât know, not that he wasnât aware of the other versions of himself in the multiverse.Â
He just didnât expect to actually come face to face with one of his variants like this. One that was living. One that was also Spider-Man.
Miguel-209 had just left the lab with Peter following the latter's offer of a tour, leaving him alone in his lab with Lyla. He stands, hands braced against the console, head hanging low from his shoulders.
He pretends his chest doesn't feel tight.
âDo you think any other Miguels also-?â
âLyla, please,â he cuts her off.
For once, she listens, falling silent.
Miguel takes a deep breath, pushing himself up on the exhale. âDid you add it to his file?â
âI did.â
Miguel nods. âLock it.â
He doesnât look at Lyla when she crosses her arms, creasing her brows under the pink glasses.
âItâs locked.â
He nods again, turning away further. One arm crosses over his chest, and much like when he paced the corner of the medical room a week ago, his elbow rests on his crossed arm and his fingers rest on his lips.
âTheyâre going to find out.â
âI know,â he says. âI know. And they should. But only from him. And I donât need anyone elseâŠâ he trails off, unsure how the sentence ends. âItâs clearly private. For him,â he adds on at the end, gesturing his hand and resting his fingers back on his lips.
âAnd you trust Jess and Peter not to say anything?â
âRun daily reports,â Miguel says, changing the subject, lowering his arms to perch on his hips.
âYou got it, boss.â
It had taken some very light convincing on his part (a portal) to get you to believe his story, and only slightly more after that (basic info on the multiverse and what he was aiming to do) to get you to join the Spider-Society.
Parker had been one of the first to welcome you, eventually dubbing you Garden-Spider when he visited your dimension and saw the greenery of your city, and more specifically, your apartment.
Then you hugged Miguel in his lab.
You still get embarrassed when you remember how the rest started. Another panic attack. More tears. Youâd found that personâs shirt in your storage closet, and with nobody to call in your dimension who knew about both your lives, your first thought was him.
So you called. Not to ask for anything really, youâre not even sure why you did it. You suppose, if you think about it, your brain picked him as the most recent example of comfort and sympathy youâd experiencedâthough in the first month while getting to know him, those wouldnât have been the words you would pick to describe Miguel OâHara, even if they were now.
So, in a desperate grab for a lifeline, part of you had reached out before your conscious mind could stop the taps of your fingers.
âIs everything alright?â He asked when he answered, a holo-bust of his suit popping out of your watch.
âIââ you gasped, trying to speak through your choked lungs. âIââ
âIâll be right there.â
Not even fifteen seconds later a portal opened in your bedroom and Miguel stepped through. He crouched before you. âAre you injured?â
You shook your head, buried your face into your hands. âSh-shit, n-no,â you managed to get out, and tried not to look at his thighs and the shape they made where they sat right in your line of sight. âIâSorryââ
He didnât say anything more, just moved closer and offered a hand as his mask receded. You nodded, and he rested it on your shoulder, eventually pulling you into a somewhat stiff hug, like he was trying to remember how they worked. Eventually he let go, once your breaths and tears had calmed.
âCan I get you anything?â
âWater,â youâd whispered, beyond mortified now that you had calmed down. âI can-â
But he was already up, leaving your room to find a cup for you. It took a minute, while he figured out your kitchen cabinets, but he returned with what you'd asked for.
âPeterâs right,â he said when he passed the cup into your hands. âYou have a lot of plants.â
You laughed, then turned quiet, shy. âThank you, Miguel. If⊠if you ever needâŠâ
He nodded. âI appreciate that.â
It surprised both of you that it wasn't long before he called to cash in on your offer.
âAre you⊠Do you mind returning the favor again?â He asked through your watches, quoting you indirectly.
âOh, yeah, of course,â youâd replied after a millisecond of surprise. âI can be there inââ
âNo. I meanââ he huffed a sigh. âIs it alright if I come there?â
Another second of surprise. âOh, of course,â you repeated.
âThank you.â
That happened a few more times, the two of you âexchanging favorsâ of comfort and rest between regular days around Spider-HQ and missions across the multiverse.
Until one mutually grueling day came around and the exhaustion was too much for even your super-powered bodies, and Miguel had helped you home from a mission.
âShock, I justââ
âYeah. I need to fucking lay down,â youâd laughed tiredly, and eased yourself down onto your bed. You didn't even take your suit off; still smeared with soot and grime and a little bit of someone elseâs blood.
He chuckled at that, running a hand over his hair. âYeah.â
By then you had gotten halfway decent at keeping your eyes to yourself, glancing away from the muscles of his arm and the way they moved.
âCome on,â you sighed. You patted the space on the bed next to you, exhausted and already melted into your bed. âYou look like you need it too.â
Even with your eyes closed you felt him hesitate. But you left it alone and folded your hands over your stomach, one ankle over the other, letting him decide for himself what he wanted to do.
The soft sound of your floor creaking let you know he was walking around to the other side of your bed. The gentle dip of the mattress let you know when he was sitting, and then the weight next to you accompanied by the sound of fabric told you that he had laid down by your side.
His quiet sigh when he had gotten comfortable told you that he had, in fact, needed it too.
That was the best nightâs sleep youâd had in months.
It was for him too.
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