(Miguel O'Hara x Reader, Finnick O'Dair x reader, Joel Miller x Reader)
KINKTOBER '23 MASTERLIST
(Miguel O'Hara x reader)
TLOU Masterlist
(Joel Miller x reader, Joel x Tess x reader)
The Hunger Games Masterlist
(Finnick Odair x reader)
Spiderman 2099 Masterlist
(Miguel O'Hara x reader)
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Ongoing series
- Rigor Mortis - college roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader
Series Masterlist
summary: Relationships end. People die. You move on, and Miguel does too.
warnings: angst, slow burn, smut, friends with benefits, mentions of depression, child death (not explicit), grief. 18+
- Just to kiss me - Finnick Odair x Reader
summary: You meet Finnick at a gala. He's not what you expect.
warnings: angst, strangers to lovers, mentions of depression and suicide, emotional hurt/comfort, canon level violence.
- Meet the Millers, part one, part two, part three - neighbourhood dilf!Joel Miller x reader
summary: Your neighbour, Joel Miller has always caught your eye. After a perfect storm of events, you end up in his house. Or more accurately, in his bed.
warnings: pwp, fingering, grinding, squirting, dirty talk, eventual fwb, reader and Joel are oblivious asf, a bit of angst . 18+
>>>
Join my taglists here <3
Requests are open! I'm down to write drabbles for a lot of shows (check tags), and NSFW asks are okay but 18+ for anything spicy!
nothing I write is beta-read / not always proofread so please excuse grammar, typos, etc!!
I JUST SCROLLED DOWN YOUR PAGE AND REALIZED YOURE A MED STUDENT. EEK LOVE ✨ Good luck with studying, imma spam your page with more love later ✨✨
I have 5 exams left and the academically rigorous degree i signed up for is, in fact, academically rigorous. life long learning my ass I JUST WANT TO BE FREEEEEE
summary: The days begin to blur. Finnick provides some light.
warnings: angst, some suggestive language
required reading: The song "We'll never have sex" by Leith Ross <3
a/n: ....Reading SOTR and I remembered I had a draft for this fic lmfao. mb 🌚
taglist (comment if you'd like to be added <3): @agent-grey-fics, @starhastoomanyfandoms
wc: 3.9k
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If I said you could never touch me
You'd come over and say I look lovely
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I want to look…. council-womanly.”
There are blank faces. And with the click of a pen, a room full of suits fall over themselves to reassure your mother, Council-woman Arachne, of her status. Her poise, her grace, the flair with which she ties up her hair - all without fault.
In the midst of it, you lean back and tuck yourself even further into the wall. The slight raise of an eyebrow is all you can muster. Indifference; or at least, you hope it comes across that way. A week of filming had been taxing, protesting her insistence at your presence even more so - appealing to the shred of human decency she had left. Of course, it had been to no avail. A child pawing at her skirt; sticky-fingered, fervent; was all she saw.
As. Always.
“Mother.” You had said - or whined, maybe, it was hard to remember in such a stuffy room. “I've been working through the weekend. You have people you pay for their opinions - you can’t just ask me to take a whole week out for your campaign!”
“I'm not asking. It's important you stay by my side.”
“I would rather die.”
She tuts. “Always so dramatic. Must everything be a death knoll for the end times?”
She gets more verbose when stressed, you had noted.
“Mother–”
“I need to be able to count on someone. Someone with your eye - these things are finicky; you know how Capitol people can be.”
“My eye?” You spat.
Her appeal to your ego had been shameless, and you curled your lips with disgust.
“Your–” She came closer, bony hand on your shoulder. It still burns with the touch, and like frost creeping up glass, she had made her way to your cheek. “Your eye. Like your father's; you see things my team won't be able to.”
You shove down fire and brimstone, resisting the urge to spit in her face at the mention of a man you never had the chance to know. You had met him only in whispers, in her faraway glances and the slight shake of her voice. For a second, she thawed, and like the snap of elastic against skin; your mother quickly pulled away.
What a load of shit.
You don't say what should, then and now. Your mother looks too shiny and manicured, especially in the glow of a holo screen. Billboards and magazine covers - hell, there was talk of cup holders and table runners. Ariadne, a face you can trust. In her bid for Overseer, it came across as insincere - as blatant as the propos The Academy passes off as history. A spotless history written by victors, white as falling snow.
She looks to you in a sea of fawning faces. Lips tight, shoulders drawn back. Admittedly, you find yourself tempted to hiss and kick off. To do what you have always wanted to, a staunch middle finger at her bid to stir media frenzy. Council-woman Arachne clicks her pen. And like a well trained dog, you are quickly brought to heel.
“It's desperate, Mother.” You say it under your breath as the last dregs file out.
She huffs, the closest thing to a laugh she can manage. You think her body isn't built for it; her ribcage too tightly wound, without the space for joy.
“It's… pertinent.”
You read between the lines. They're too stupid to understand anything else.
“It's fake.”
“Don't be stupid.” She sighs. “Of course it is.”
You're drawn back to a night that seems so far-away. To clear waters and untouched beauty, wild and fervent Mother Nature tucked away somewhere in the capitol. To Finnick and his eyes, glassy and rehearsed. Fake. In the same way your mother is, you suppose, but with him there was something under the surface. Rusty and a lot less yellow-gold, but it was something.
“May I be excused?” It sounds pathetic, but a week of incessant nagging has taken its toll.
Curt, she nods. Spun on a heel no higher than 1 and a half inches, she storms past; leaving with a click-click-click on cold marble.
You're exhausted. A higher power takes you through the kitchen, past mock-ups and coffee-stained mugs. You thought you were used to the dozens in and out of your house; stumbling through meetings and tete-a-tetes at odd hours. Now it seems no different, and you are greeted by cushions out of place and chairs strewn into a circle. You push them aside and make your way up ornate stairs, limbs heavy with sleep.
There's a buzz at your wrist. Your heart skips a beat and you don't have the energy to clamp it down. It could be Vonnie, but you want it to be Finnick – so, so desperately.
You're bursting at the seams with his… friendship? That rings hollow. Nights spent on the phone, talking until your voice is hoarse and well into the early hours of the day. Friendship doesn't seem to span the width and depth of your feelings - as new and exciting as they are.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
His voice is impossibly warm. Tension at your temples melts away with its honey.
“Hey, Finn.”
It echoes in an empty hallway. It doesn't quite have the same timbre as his, and you find yourself worrying - do you sound tired? Haggard? Do you sound as bright as that first night on the balcony?
“Long day?” He posits.
You hum, trudging into your room. Every step feels like treacle, and so you collapse into bed, still in the day’s clothes.
“That's one way to put it.”
And he chuckles - in that way that brings heat to your face.
“So tell me all about it.”
“I–” Can’t. A word that rattles around in your head like pills in a little tin. “Just work. Like always.”
“You know, I've been thinking…”
“That never ends well.”
“Let me finish.” He titters. “I think you should quit.”
You snort into soft sheets. “You're just tired, Finnick.”
“And you're projecting, but I’m not being rude about it.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I am. Maybe I'm so tired that I've started hearing voices telling me to do stupid shit.”
“I'm being serious.”
“You're never serious.”
“Not true. I'm a very serious person–”
“Tell that to the Flickerman airing out your personal business every Friday at 10.”
A guilty silence follows.
“Something about snake venom and hair dye?”
“It wasn’t– It was–”
“Fake?” You hiss. It comes out with more bitterness than intended, swiftly followed by regret. Wincing, you brace yourself for impact. But there isn't a crash-bang and sharp words, as you expect. Instead, he chuckles drily.
“It's horseshit, actually.” Now, he sounds tired, shuffling around wherever he is. You imagine him tossing and turning in a 4 poster bed with gold thread sheets, tossing away decorative pillows in frustration.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
Calling it lying feels a little mean, so you opt for something more… tactful.
“Tell a story.”
He hums, intrigued. There's a click on his end and your comms chime.
“Finn, I haven't even showered.”
“Don't care.” He says simply. “I want to show you something.”
“Finnick–”
“Please?” He says it so softly you almost miss it
Fuck.
“Fine.”
Through gritted teeth, you sit up and accept the video call. In an instant, he's there, shiny and moonlit in a modest bedroom.
“Wow.” He says, eyes sparkling. “You look–”
You giggle, a schoolgirl laugh that echoes in your room. Your room, crystal white and bare, seems to glow. It feels like Finnick’s warmth - but more likely, it was just the light from his holo.
He's smiling now, wide and sincere.
“Look,” He says gently, holding something up. “This was my mother's.”
It's a blanket, similar to the one you wrapped him up in that night. He cradles it in his palms, careful that gaudy rings don't catch at the threads. Turning it this way and that…. it sparkles in the light.
“She made it for me when I was a baby. Would wrap me up in it every night.”
The weaving is intricate, with every stitch revealing another, tiny threads that captures light like diamonds. It reminds you of Cinna’s dress; crystalline and light, draped like woven silk and water.
Simply put… “It's beautiful.”
“It is. I used to have these nightmares… drowning, if you can believe it.” His smile turns bittersweet. “And every time I would wake up screaming and gasping; she would bundle me up in that blanket and rock me to sleep.”
He doesn't look at you. Instead, he's engrossed by its shine, ethereal in dappled light. And.. is that a tear? He turns away; embarrassed, maybe, as if you've seen too much.
Your heart hurts in a rush to comfort him, and you find yourself unable to find the right words.
“Finnick.” You start. “I–”
It's sudden. A grimace, and he clears his throat. Whatever was there, crystalline, disappears in just a second.
“Real or not real?”
You blink twice, hard.
“...what?”
“Real–” He says simply. “-or not real?
Your throat is dry. “I don't understand.”
He smiles, a blinding one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
“My mom's long gone. Died when I was born. I'm good, aren't I?”
His eyes are puffy and smeared with shiny grease, and rosy blush kisses his cheekbones. You didn't notice before, but even his collarbones are peppered with bronze, patchy and orange gold. Maybe you weren’t the only one who had a rough night.
“I suppose.” You're curt.
“Experience is the answer, love.” He taps his nose, and stack of rings clinking with a flourish. “A shit ton of experience.”
~~~
There are nights Finnick falls asleep to the sound of your voice. That one was no exception, and he finds himself amongst a mountain of sheets. Morning light streams in, warming a face shiny with nothing but last night's sweat. He's grateful, although a little sticky, for some nights off - a far cry from last week's onslaught of debauchery and watered down wine. Monday was a press release; Tuesday was a cosmopolitan soiree; Wednesday, another Flickerman appearance; and so on, and so forth.
Somewhere in between the hangovers - which was new, he doesn't usually let himself drink more than a glass of ambrosia - was you, sleepy and shy. He liked seeing you blossom as the nights pass; opening up like the feathered petals of a lily. The musings of an overworked assistant turned poet, he thinks. You talk of Hadrian and his dull meetings, the latest music, and gossip from the shadows of council parties. Sure, he prides himself with his talents as a good listener, and an impeccable memory to boot; but God, his brain turns to mush. For all his charm and wit, all he can think about is your laugh. The way his heart swells when you begrudge a stupid joke, or roll your eyes at his sharp tongue.
In the morning light, he thinks of your hand at his cheek and swells with something else. How soft your lips must be, and how gently you would lay amongst amber sheets and woven blankets. He traces circles in his flesh; down, down, down, and past bruises still healing from other forays. You would touch him like this, he thinks, hand splayed against tan skin, lips brushing past his navel.
He sighs.
A fantasy. Indulgence. Lips cherry red with sickly-sweet fruit and drink. Some of them bite, in his dreams and out of them. He scratches at scars carefully covered; the half-moon of fingernails pressed into skin amongst tawny constellations. He grimaces at a not-so-distant memory; shrill laughter like splintering glass.
Freckles? She had said, an actress, or something - he chooses not to remember. How quaint.
It makes his stomach turn, but you make his heart ache with what he decides is worry. Self-preservation, wrapped up in spindles of dandelion, soft and quaint.
Would it be like that with you? Would he take that chance?
“Finnick?” It's Annie, yelling from somewhere downstairs. “Stannis is here!”
He stirs, unable to break away from that fantasy. He hopes it fades with the morning light.
~~~
Your days are a blur. Campaign prep makes your mother terse, wound up in the red string. It was odd to see her like this. She was… unsure. Unsteady, like she was wearing someone else's slimy skin; in a gaudy suit instead of her usual trim-and-proper linens.
Today was one of such days, and you are left at the dining table, picking at imaginary lint. Upon your mother's insistence, you have been dressed in something similarly over the top - ruffles and glitter and a tasteful show of legs. You've been bronzed and aggressively buttered; before interrupting the bedazzling with firm defiance, of course.
Clearly, your anger is displaced. There's a buzz in the air, assistants and suck-ups streaming in and out of the front door, setting up too-bright lights in your front room. There’s even talk of a camera crew, and a Flickerman - all before you've had your breakfast.
As usual, you are ignored. Save for a pitiful glance or two, there is no explanation for the storm brewing in your house. The floorboards seem to rumble, and expensive crystal shakes in the cupboards at the footfall. Your usual passivity doesn’t suffice. After swallowing bitter pill after bitter pill, it seems you've reached your limit, with one question rattling around in your head…
…what the fuck is going on?
You manage to flag down a stray assistant - a familiar face, but you barely remember his name.
“Excuse m–”
He holds a metallic finger up, before furtively typing at his wrist.
“You can't just–” You stop yourself, clamping down a quiet rage. “Excuse me.”
“Yeah?” He grimaces.
“What’s going on?”
“You haven't been given the schedule? Interns were meant to check in about a half hour ago.”
You're taken aback. Which vapid nepotism hire did he mistake you for?
“I'm Councillor Arachne’s daughter.”
A beat passes, and it's only when your lips press into a fine line does he see the resemblance.
“Oh!” Eyes wide, he fawns, ushering you to a chair tucked into the corner. “This is – well, you should've been debriefed, but – we're setting up for your mother's first TV appearance.”
“TV?” You're confused.
“Live television! I secured… I mean, I helped to secure the morning slot on Capitol+.” He beams, expecting congratulations.
It doesn't come. He continues:
“Introductions, mostly. The main thing we've learnt from the test groups is that the Councillor seems too much like a career politician – they didn't trust her, you know? At first, TV was out of the question – you know your mother – but we think this will help her seem more grounded. Less of the serious stuff. How does she do her hair? What perfume does she wear? And, of course, we let the capitol see her home, meet the family… you've seen the segments, right? The first of many, we hope.”
“W-Wait, the family? Will I be filmed too? Am I expected to–”
“He's here?” He taps at an earpiece, engrossed. “One second.”
And then he's gone, whisked away by something or the other, leaving you flailing in the aftermath.
You have a lot of questions - none of which were answered, frustratingly. Brushed aside yet again, it's all you can do to stalk off. Furrowed brow, you dig around in a kitchen drawer; poking at the corners. You find a pipe and tobacco, its edges smooth with use. A smoke break, away from the chaos. Exactly what you need.
There's a spot outside, shrouded by neatly trimmed hedges and stone. Once upon a time, as a reckless teen, you'd sit amongst the bramble and hope your mother couldn't see the smoke from her ivory tower. In an itchy dress, a size too small instead of too big, you do the same now.
The pipe was your father's. Made of bone – whale, she had said once, and hand-carved. It's small, compact, fits in your hands just right. You wonder how it fit in his. The tobacco burns roughly, cheap shit from a market your mother would never be caught dead in. A few unsteady puffs; shaky, but it's not the nicotine; and you lean back onto the wall, tucked into a corner. Something washes over you…. relief, maybe?
You cough, clamping down the noise lest someone hears. No, not relief. Acceptance, you realise grimly.
There's rustling, and a body slips in to the corner you've hidden away in. 6ft, tanned, with cropped sandy hair - he presses a finger to plump lips as if to say hush. Finnick - here, in your home - and it is all you can do to suppress a surprise splutter.
“Finnick?”
He hisses, eyes darting through the hedgerows before turning to you.
And then it happens - a wave of recognition crashing towards him at breakneck speed. When he says your name; confused, barely a whisper; you want to cry out. It's too much to explain, much too quickly - but you don't even get the chance.
The buzz of comms. The click-clack of dress shoes on concrete. A half-dozen interns, PR reps choosing that very moment to rush past. A crescendo, punctuated by your mother's voice, you think - and then they are gone. Quiet, at long last.
You sit back amongst the dirt, eyes looking up at the sky.
“What are you doing here?” He’s exasperated.
“Smoke break.” You say simply, unable to help yourself. “What about you?”
He sighs, scooting closer. His hand is outstretched.
“Smoke break.” He says.
Wordlessly, you pass him the pipe and lighter; watching as he takes shaky breaths. Better than last time, for sure, but he smokes like a teenager fearful of punishment: eyes on a swivel, hands restless.
You keep your head trained to the sky, tracing outlines of clouds. Squinting, of course, lest the bright glare blinds you - you could keel over from Finnick's watchful gaze alone.
He sets the pipe down.
“How are you here?” He strains. “Is Hadrian here too?”
Your mouth goes dry. You’re drawing blanks, unable to come up with an excuse quick enough.
“He… I’m working.” You decide to keep it short.
“Working, or hiding?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” You huff, batting away tobacco smoke and desperately avoiding eye contact.
He says your name, leaning closer. “Look at me.”
There’s something about his tone that makes you shiver - and so reluctantly, you comply. He sounds the way you feel; gravelly, fraught, and with an edge you can’t quite place. Sea-green eyes turn to steel - with a cold, murky depth akin to a swirling ocean. It’s intense, uncomfortably so. You catch the way his hands creep across to dig into the dirt next to you, the clench of his jaw, his furrowed brow. His body betrays him, as yours fails you. Your chest seizes as the facade drops.
“Are you lying to me?” Your walls fly up at his tone: accusatory, like he doesn't lie for a living.
“I’m–” You hesitate. He is no longer your Finnick; easygoing, charismatic, witty. He transforms: strong, corded muscle and wild eyes.
He holds you down with a grip firm enough to cage you in.
“Who are you?” He spits. “Are you working for him?”
Your mind races at its implication. Who? Hadrian? The press?
“Finn–” You start.
“Is he listening?”
“Finnick–” His grip tightens.
“Does he know?”
“Fuck, Finnick.” You gasp. “You’re scaring me.”
Like the break of waves across a swollen sea, he seems to melt away. He dissipates, backing away, hands tight and drawn into his body. A moment passes, and he crumples, head in his hands to rake at blonde locs.
“Sorry.” He mumbles. “Can’t help it, sometimes.”
Rooted to the spot, you can still feel the rush of blood to your head, pounding at your temples. With the way he shakes, with every laboured breath; you think he feels it too. But you’re scared to name it, you think. Fear. The kind you’ve seen once before: a little blonde boy covered in blood, gasping and panting with a trident in his hands. Only this time, it’s not sandwiched between the 8 o’clock news and Flickermann interviews; you can’t change the channel and hide behind its black mirror.
“She’s my mom.” You say carefully, unable to reach across the chasm that falls just past your feet. He doesn’t seem to react, so you clarify. “Councillor Arachne. That’s why I’m here.”
He doesn’t look up. “Real or not real?”
You move towards him, and he flinches. Now, the feeling that grips your chest is guilt. It tastes sour, like the bile that rises up to the back of your throat.
“This is my house, Finn.” You say quietly. You paw at the foliage. “These used to be roses. Pink and white; my mother used to grow them. I’ve been sneaking off to smoke here since I was fifteen.”
Why doesn’t he say something? Fuck.
“And I didn’t lie, Finnick. I work for Hadrian, but not because of my mom. I worked hard to get a job, and I do want to help people at the council, and–”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to–”
“Real.” You say, a little too desperately. “I swear.”
Finnick nods, finally looking you in the eye. It’s your turn to melt, withering in the heat of his gaze. But what right does he have to judge? Why must he know everything about you? You simmer and stew, lips tight. You must look like your mother, you think bitterly; turning away.
“Look at me.” He says it softer, this time, hand tracing your jawline.
“Why?” You try not to, but are drawn to him - a moth taken in by flicker and flash. “You sure I’m not a crazy fan?”
“That's not funny.” He shakes his head, decidedly not amused.
“Really?” You’re incredulous. “Was it funny when you said it?”
“I know, I know.” He sighs, shaken. “I'm an asshole. I’m sorry.”
He is an asshole, you decide. A beat passes. And then, with fingertips glancing the shell of your ear, he says with a soft smile: “Real.”
With the way he looks at you, you falter. Tears well up - the embarrassing, blubbering kind - hot and threatening to spill over.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He avoids the word ‘lie’, you note.
With links to a prominent council member, there was no telling who could be listening, who could want the information you have access to. You tell yourself it's for your safety; and not guilt at the blood spilt to get you there in the first place. Hissing and spitting, it slithers up from the cracks; shame, bearing your last name and it's heavy weight. For safety, you want to say, but it rings hollow in the grounds of your gated home.
Swallowing roughly, you croak, “It was nice to be someone else for a while.”
He nods, and you rest your head on his shoulder. It is warm from the light peeking through hedgerows.
“Okay.” He says simply. Finnick tucks himself into you, closing his eyes to match his breath with yours.
Like the sun, you suppose, heat radiates from his chest. Rumbling and steady, you watch as it rises and falls. Drawn towards each other, he runs his hands over your bare arms, before they come to rest in yours. You gasp. A red welt peek out from his sleeves, angry and swollen. As if on instinct, he shifts and it is swallowed by linen hem. You watch carefully, tracing the freckled skin on the back of his hand. Like a flower preserved in amber, he seems so fragile, like this.
And so you bite down dangerous questions, too scared of its answers – or worse, his distinct lack of them.
Do you plan on finishing Rigor mortis or do I have to finally let my delusions? I still re read it every now and then, hoping to see a new chapter pop up😩
yes I will be finishing RM. I'm a busy med student and I go where the inspiration takes me! I think i burnt myself out the first time around so I'm taking things a little slower. trusttt i still have the brainworms for RM!Miguel hehe
warnings: apocalypse!Jayce x F!reader, he's very much a sub here let me liveeee, 18+
I'm kinda late but I'm horny and the Jayce thirst on my dash has me thinking about post-apocalyptic!Jayce - grizzled, weary and battle-worn. 5 o'clock shadow turned to a beard, his hair a little wilder and he's run out of reasons to tie it back. Yes, he walks with a slight limp but haven't you heard the stories of the years he spent trapped underground; scavenging and tinkering and going half-mad in the aftermath of the blast? It's just a rumor; one of radioactive rats and creatures in the deep-dark; but his eyes seem duller in fire than the other survivors.
Even his voice - gruff and deep and reluctant, somehow - tells a story of someone who has seen the worst. He's a little shifty, but not in the way most are. He pulls forward at bangs and clatters, reaching for the mallet hung close at the waistband. Towards the danger, and not away from it - like a hero in times gone by.
He would be kind. More generous than he should be, yes, but he's learned more than his fair share of hard lessons to deny anyone a seat around the fire. Jayce crackles at the seams, dim embers at the hearth that persist, persist, persist. People liken him to a wounded lion; but to you, he's a workhorse - dogged and dependable, and very, very stubborn.
And that's why, when he eats pussy, he doesn't budge; clamping thick fingers at your legs to spread you wide open. Nose pressed against your folds, he spreads the flat of his tongue across your hole - deeper and deeper at an agonisingly slow pace. He grunts and grumbles when you tug at his hair; mumbling something about patience between plush thighs. Fuck that. You focus on the brush and scratch of stubble as you push down gently. Of course, he complies, tongue darting deeper, curling between velveteen walls.
He moans, now; harsh grunts making way for gasping breaths - it's rumble softening, just for you. He's close. You know his tells, by now, the curve of his body against a scant bedframe: painfully hard, throbbing. And yet, he keeps his eyes screwed tightly shut, pressing sloppy kisses to your clit in a way that makes you purr. You smooth out furrowed brow with the pad of your thumb.
"It's okay," you whisper, and he shakes - body heaving from the effort. He's far more generous than he should be, you know, and so he wants to make you come first. Over and over, on his tongue, as he licks it up faithfully.
"Jayce?" You say, moaning. "Look at me. Please."
And it takes a second; you feel it, you hear it - hitched breath and the stilling of swollen lips. He surfaces, amber eyes heavy and molten.
"Do you want to cum?"
He hesitates. You know the answer is yes, but he's embarrassed - trying to hide the way he humps against the floor to ease the tightness in his pants.
It's nothing you haven't seen before. And so he answers, finally, with a curt nod; followed by a tight please, wet lashes caught so beautifully in the light of a sole gas lamp.
You hum, one hand in his hair, guiding him back down to your cunt; where he resumes a stuttering pace. This time, he looks up, doe-eyed.
"Come for me, sweetheart." You say softly.
There's a feathery scar just shy of his hairline, that snakes down to sharp cheekbone. You watch as it flutters, then twists; contorting as he scrunches up his face with ecstasy groaning into your pussy, rocking against air. He comes in his pants, unabashedly, and your body reacts accordingly - head tipped back as you follow, clenching around his sloppy tongue.
You flop onto the bare mattress, blissful as he presses wet kisses to your thighs and to your folds. You're breathless and still recovering, when you feel Jayce ease two fingers into your hole, curling them and scooping out your cum so it coats his fingers.
You sit up. His eyes have glazed over and he wraps thick lips around thicker fingers, drunk on the taste of you.
"One more?" You can't help but ask.
And Jayce, ever the giver, obliges. He eases his fingers back in, watching in awe as you cream around the base of them.
(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 10, Part 12
summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)
a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈
Join my taglists here
wc: 7.2k
Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3
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cracks in clay, poured over
Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room.
She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans.
There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe.
Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.
It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand.
Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.
The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say.
He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue.
He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…
Cold.
You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.
“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.
He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours.
“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”
When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.
“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.
“Nothin’”
His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.
“You're a fat fucking liar.”
Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it.
There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…?
Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.
Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.
He frowns.
“I think I'm happy.”
…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.
“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.
“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead.
“Different?”
You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth.
In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.
“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–
“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.
His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances.
He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.
You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.
“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.”
Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.
Maybe we could've been more.
~~~
He’s an idiot, you think.
“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples.
“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”
For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up.
“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.
“You look like shit–”
You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”
“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”
“I do not.”
“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”
You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.
Wait. How did he know you had—
“Took you long enough.”
He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.
Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely.
There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.
[Sent: 15:32]
Are you guys still on for tonight?
[Received: 15:32]
👍👍
[Sent: 15:3]
Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?
[Sent: 15:32]
👍👍
“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”
“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”
You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.
His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.
“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”
When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile.
“You hungry?” He asks.
“Starving.” You say with a grin.
~~~
You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.
Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?
You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.
“It’s– Pete, it’s–”
More jumbled words from the phone.
“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”
He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet?
A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun.
You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in!”
Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.
“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”
You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.
“Did you want something?”
When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.
“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”
“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.
“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”
“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile
“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”
Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...”
“But?”
“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”
“I can keep you company.”
“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”
“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”
He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw -
“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.
“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.
With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over.
“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”
~~~
The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…
The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.
The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.
“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”
Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights.
“It's okay, Em.”
Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname.
“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”
Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.
“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.
“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.
“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.
“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour.
Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think.
She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.
“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”
“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.
She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.
“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.
“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl.
You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”
“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?
“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”
And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere.
There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.
She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again.
Clatter.
“One more time, sweetheart,”
Clang.
“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”
Thunk. You've got an idea.
“She’s not going to eat, Mig.”
He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
~~~
It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.
“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.
“What do you mean, you know a place?”
You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.
“The park on 10th?”
“Nope.”
“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”
“Nope.”
“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.
“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”
Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.
“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”
“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”
~~~
The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.
But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub.
He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint.
There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big.
Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.
“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed.
May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.
You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.
The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.
May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.
He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.
“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck.
“How do you have access to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?
“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”
Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.
You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket.
We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own.
“Mig?”
Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes.
“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.
“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.
“Just fine, sweetheart.”
“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”
You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.
“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”
Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.
Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines.
“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”
Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.
“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.
“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.
“I was only a janitor, Mig.”
“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”
You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look.
“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires.
“Her name's May.” He grunts.
“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”
“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”
Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.
A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?”
She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.
“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”
“Sure, but what about–”
“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”
Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.
But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore.
“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”
He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.
The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.
“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.
“I… I know.”
“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”
He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”
“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”
“Something like that.” He grunts.
“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.
“I was 17 - so, no.”
“Ouch.”
Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.
“Do you still work with them?”
“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”
“I meant Alchemax.”
They snort. “We went our separate ways.”
Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…
Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.
Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.
“What exactly do you do?”
“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”
Liv gives him a blank expression.
“So you're young.”
“I guess.”
“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”
His jaw shifts.
“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.”
They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.
“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”
Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on.
“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights.
“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”
“I–We are saving the world.”
He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.
He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.
Hypothesis.
“If this a personal gripe–”
“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”
“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis.
Observation.
A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.
“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”
And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.
Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.
Analysis.
He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones:
Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara.
Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara.
We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.
But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?
A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.
And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?
You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.
“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.
“Come look, come look!”
He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.
“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”
“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”
He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.
(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 10, Part 12
summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)
a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈
Join my taglists here
wc: 7.2k
Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
cracks in clay, poured over
Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room.
She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans.
There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe.
Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.
It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand.
Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.
The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say.
He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue.
He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…
Cold.
You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.
“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.
He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours.
“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”
When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.
“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.
“Nothin’”
His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.
“You're a fat fucking liar.”
Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it.
There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…?
Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.
Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.
He frowns.
“I think I'm happy.”
…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.
“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.
“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead.
“Different?”
You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth.
In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.
“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–
“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.
His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances.
He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.
You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.
“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.”
Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.
Maybe we could've been more.
~~~
He’s an idiot, you think.
“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples.
“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”
For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up.
“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.
“You look like shit–”
You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”
“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”
“I do not.”
“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”
You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.
Wait. How did he know you had—
“Took you long enough.”
He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.
Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely.
There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.
[Sent: 15:32]
Are you guys still on for tonight?
[Received: 15:32]
👍👍
[Sent: 15:3]
Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?
[Sent: 15:32]
👍👍
“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”
“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”
You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.
His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.
“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”
When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile.
“You hungry?” He asks.
“Starving.” You say with a grin.
~~~
You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.
Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?
You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.
“It’s– Pete, it’s–”
More jumbled words from the phone.
“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”
He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet?
A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun.
You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in!”
Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.
“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”
You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.
“Did you want something?”
When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.
“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”
“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.
“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”
“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile
“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”
Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...”
“But?”
“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”
“I can keep you company.”
“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”
“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”
He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw -
“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.
“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.
With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over.
“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”
~~~
The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…
The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.
The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.
“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”
Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights.
“It's okay, Em.”
Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname.
“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”
Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.
“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.
“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.
“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.
“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour.
Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think.
She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.
“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”
“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.
She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.
“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.
“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl.
You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”
“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?
“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”
And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere.
There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.
She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again.
Clatter.
“One more time, sweetheart,”
Clang.
“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”
Thunk. You've got an idea.
“She’s not going to eat, Mig.”
He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
~~~
It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.
“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.
“What do you mean, you know a place?”
You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.
“The park on 10th?”
“Nope.”
“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”
“Nope.”
“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.
“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”
Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.
“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”
“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”
~~~
The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.
But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub.
He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint.
There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big.
Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.
“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed.
May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.
You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.
The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.
May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.
He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.
“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck.
“How do you have access to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?
“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”
Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.
You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket.
We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own.
“Mig?”
Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes.
“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.
“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.
“Just fine, sweetheart.”
“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”
You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.
“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”
Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.
Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines.
“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”
Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.
“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.
“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.
“I was only a janitor, Mig.”
“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”
You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look.
“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires.
“Her name's May.” He grunts.
“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”
“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”
Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.
A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?”
She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.
“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”
“Sure, but what about–”
“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”
Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.
But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore.
“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”
He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.
The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.
“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.
“I… I know.”
“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”
He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”
“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”
“Something like that.” He grunts.
“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.
“I was 17 - so, no.”
“Ouch.”
Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.
“Do you still work with them?”
“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”
“I meant Alchemax.”
They snort. “We went our separate ways.”
Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…
Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.
Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.
“What exactly do you do?”
“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”
Liv gives him a blank expression.
“So you're young.”
“I guess.”
“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”
His jaw shifts.
“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.”
They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.
“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”
Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on.
“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights.
“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”
“I–We are saving the world.”
He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.
He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.
Hypothesis.
“If this a personal gripe–”
“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”
“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis.
Observation.
A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.
“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”
And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.
Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.
Analysis.
He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones:
Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara.
Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara.
We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.
But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?
A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.
And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?
You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.
“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.
“Come look, come look!”
He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.
“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”
“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”
He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.
(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 10, Part 12
summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)
a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈
Join my taglists here
wc: 7.2k
Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
cracks in clay, poured over
Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room.
She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans.
There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe.
Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.
It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand.
Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.
The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say.
He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue.
He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…
Cold.
You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.
“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.
He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours.
“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”
When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.
“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.
“Nothin’”
His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.
“You're a fat fucking liar.”
Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it.
There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…?
Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.
Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.
He frowns.
“I think I'm happy.”
…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.
“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.
“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead.
“Different?”
You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth.
In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.
“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–
“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.
His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances.
He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.
You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.
“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.”
Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.
Maybe we could've been more.
~~~
He’s an idiot, you think.
“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples.
“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”
For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up.
“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.
“You look like shit–”
You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”
“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”
“I do not.”
“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”
You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.
Wait. How did he know you had—
“Took you long enough.”
He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.
Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely.
There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.
[Sent: 15:32]
Are you guys still on for tonight?
[Received: 15:32]
👍👍
[Sent: 15:3]
Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?
[Sent: 15:32]
👍👍
“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”
“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”
You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.
His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.
“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”
When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile.
“You hungry?” He asks.
“Starving.” You say with a grin.
~~~
You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.
Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?
You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.
“It’s– Pete, it’s–”
More jumbled words from the phone.
“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”
He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet?
A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun.
You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in!”
Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.
“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”
You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.
“Did you want something?”
When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.
“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”
“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.
“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”
“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile
“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”
Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...”
“But?”
“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”
“I can keep you company.”
“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”
“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”
He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw -
“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.
“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.
With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over.
“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”
~~~
The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…
The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.
The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.
“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”
Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights.
“It's okay, Em.”
Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname.
“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”
Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.
“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.
“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.
“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.
“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour.
Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think.
She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.
“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”
“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.
She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.
“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.
“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl.
You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”
“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?
“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”
And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere.
There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.
She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again.
Clatter.
“One more time, sweetheart,”
Clang.
“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”
Thunk. You've got an idea.
“She’s not going to eat, Mig.”
He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
~~~
It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.
“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.
“What do you mean, you know a place?”
You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.
“The park on 10th?”
“Nope.”
“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”
“Nope.”
“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.
“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”
Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.
“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”
“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”
~~~
The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.
But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub.
He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint.
There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big.
Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.
“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed.
May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.
You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.
The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.
May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.
He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.
“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck.
“How do you have access to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?
“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”
Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.
You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket.
We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own.
“Mig?”
Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes.
“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.
“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.
“Just fine, sweetheart.”
“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”
You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.
“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”
Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.
Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines.
“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”
Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.
“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.
“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.
“I was only a janitor, Mig.”
“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”
You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look.
“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires.
“Her name's May.” He grunts.
“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”
“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”
Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.
A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?”
She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.
“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”
“Sure, but what about–”
“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”
Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.
But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore.
“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”
He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.
The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.
“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.
“I… I know.”
“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”
He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”
“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”
“Something like that.” He grunts.
“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.
“I was 17 - so, no.”
“Ouch.”
Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.
“Do you still work with them?”
“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”
“I meant Alchemax.”
They snort. “We went our separate ways.”
Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…
Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.
Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.
“What exactly do you do?”
“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”
Liv gives him a blank expression.
“So you're young.”
“I guess.”
“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”
His jaw shifts.
“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.”
They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.
“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”
Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on.
“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights.
“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”
“I–We are saving the world.”
He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.
He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.
Hypothesis.
“If this a personal gripe–”
“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”
“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis.
Observation.
A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.
“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”
And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.
Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.
Analysis.
He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones:
Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara.
Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara.
We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.
But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?
A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.
And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?
You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.
“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.
“Come look, come look!”
He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.
“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”
“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”
He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.
(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 10, Part 12
summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)
a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈
Join my taglists here
wc: 7.2k
Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
cracks in clay, poured over
Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room.
She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans.
There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe.
Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.
It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand.
Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.
The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say.
He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue.
He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…
Cold.
You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.
“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.
He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours.
“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”
When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.
“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.
“Nothin’”
His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.
“You're a fat fucking liar.”
Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it.
There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…?
Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.
Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.
He frowns.
“I think I'm happy.”
…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.
“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.
“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead.
“Different?”
You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth.
In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.
“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–
“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.
His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances.
He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.
You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.
“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.”
Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.
Maybe we could've been more.
~~~
He’s an idiot, you think.
“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples.
“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”
For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up.
“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.
“You look like shit–”
You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”
“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”
“I do not.”
“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”
You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.
Wait. How did he know you had—
“Took you long enough.”
He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.
Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely.
There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.
[Sent: 15:32]
Are you guys still on for tonight?
[Received: 15:32]
👍👍
[Sent: 15:3]
Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?
[Sent: 15:32]
👍👍
“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”
“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”
You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.
His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.
“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”
When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile.
“You hungry?” He asks.
“Starving.” You say with a grin.
~~~
You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.
Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?
You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.
“It’s– Pete, it’s–”
More jumbled words from the phone.
“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”
He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet?
A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun.
You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in!”
Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.
“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”
You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.
“Did you want something?”
When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.
“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”
“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.
“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”
“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile
“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”
Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...”
“But?”
“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”
“I can keep you company.”
“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”
“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”
He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw -
“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.
“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.
With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over.
“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”
~~~
The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…
The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.
The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.
“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”
Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights.
“It's okay, Em.”
Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname.
“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”
Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.
“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.
“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.
“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.
“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour.
Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think.
She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.
“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”
“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.
She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.
“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.
“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl.
You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”
“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?
“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”
And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere.
There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.
She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again.
Clatter.
“One more time, sweetheart,”
Clang.
“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”
Thunk. You've got an idea.
“She’s not going to eat, Mig.”
He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
~~~
It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.
“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.
“What do you mean, you know a place?”
You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.
“The park on 10th?”
“Nope.”
“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”
“Nope.”
“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.
“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”
Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.
“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”
“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”
~~~
The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.
But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub.
He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint.
There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big.
Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.
“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed.
May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.
You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.
The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.
May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.
He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.
“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck.
“How do you have access to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?
“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”
Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.
You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket.
We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own.
“Mig?”
Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes.
“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.
“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.
“Just fine, sweetheart.”
“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”
You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.
“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”
Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.
Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines.
“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”
Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.
“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.
“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.
“I was only a janitor, Mig.”
“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”
You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look.
“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires.
“Her name's May.” He grunts.
“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”
“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”
Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.
A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?”
She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.
“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”
“Sure, but what about–”
“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”
Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.
But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore.
“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”
He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.
The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.
“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.
“I… I know.”
“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”
He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”
“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”
“Something like that.” He grunts.
“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.
“I was 17 - so, no.”
“Ouch.”
Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.
“Do you still work with them?”
“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”
“I meant Alchemax.”
They snort. “We went our separate ways.”
Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…
Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.
Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.
“What exactly do you do?”
“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”
Liv gives him a blank expression.
“So you're young.”
“I guess.”
“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”
His jaw shifts.
“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.”
They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.
“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”
Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on.
“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights.
“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”
“I–We are saving the world.”
He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.
He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.
Hypothesis.
“If this a personal gripe–”
“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”
“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis.
Observation.
A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.
“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”
And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.
Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.
Analysis.
He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones:
Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara.
Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara.
We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.
But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?
A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.
And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?
You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.
“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.
“Come look, come look!”
He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.
“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”
“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”
He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.
(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 10, Part 12
summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)
a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈
Join my taglists here
wc: 7.2k
Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
cracks in clay, poured over
Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room.
She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans.
There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe.
Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.
It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand.
Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.
The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say.
He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue.
He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…
Cold.
You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.
“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.
He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours.
“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”
When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.
“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.
“Nothin’”
His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.
“You're a fat fucking liar.”
Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it.
There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…?
Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.
Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.
He frowns.
“I think I'm happy.”
…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.
“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.
“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead.
“Different?”
You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth.
In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.
“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–
“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.
His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances.
He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.
You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.
“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.”
Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.
Maybe we could've been more.
~~~
He’s an idiot, you think.
“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples.
“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”
For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up.
“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.
“You look like shit–”
You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”
“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”
“I do not.”
“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”
You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.
Wait. How did he know you had—
“Took you long enough.”
He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.
Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely.
There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.
[Sent: 15:32]
Are you guys still on for tonight?
[Received: 15:32]
👍👍
[Sent: 15:3]
Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?
[Sent: 15:32]
👍👍
“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”
“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”
You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.
His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.
“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”
When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile.
“You hungry?” He asks.
“Starving.” You say with a grin.
~~~
You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.
Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?
You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.
“It’s– Pete, it’s–”
More jumbled words from the phone.
“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”
He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet?
A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun.
You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in!”
Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.
“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”
You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.
“Did you want something?”
When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.
“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”
“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.
“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”
“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile
“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”
Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...”
“But?”
“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”
“I can keep you company.”
“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”
“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”
He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw -
“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.
“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.
With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over.
“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”
~~~
The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…
The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.
The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.
“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”
Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights.
“It's okay, Em.”
Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname.
“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”
Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.
“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.
“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.
“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.
“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour.
Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think.
She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.
“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”
“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.
She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.
“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.
“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl.
You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”
“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?
“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”
And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere.
There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.
She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again.
Clatter.
“One more time, sweetheart,”
Clang.
“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”
Thunk. You've got an idea.
“She’s not going to eat, Mig.”
He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
~~~
It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.
“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.
“What do you mean, you know a place?”
You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.
“The park on 10th?”
“Nope.”
“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”
“Nope.”
“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.
“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”
Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.
“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”
“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”
~~~
The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.
But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub.
He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint.
There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big.
Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.
“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed.
May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.
You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.
The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.
May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.
He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.
“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck.
“How do you have access to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?
“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”
Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.
You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket.
We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own.
“Mig?”
Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes.
“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.
“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.
“Just fine, sweetheart.”
“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”
You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.
“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”
Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.
Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines.
“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”
Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.
“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.
“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.
“I was only a janitor, Mig.”
“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”
You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look.
“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires.
“Her name's May.” He grunts.
“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”
“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”
Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.
A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?”
She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.
“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”
“Sure, but what about–”
“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”
Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.
But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore.
“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”
He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.
The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.
“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.
“I… I know.”
“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”
He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”
“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”
“Something like that.” He grunts.
“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.
“I was 17 - so, no.”
“Ouch.”
Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.
“Do you still work with them?”
“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”
“I meant Alchemax.”
They snort. “We went our separate ways.”
Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…
Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.
Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.
“What exactly do you do?”
“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”
Liv gives him a blank expression.
“So you're young.”
“I guess.”
“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”
His jaw shifts.
“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.”
They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.
“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”
Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on.
“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights.
“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”
“I–We are saving the world.”
He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.
He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.
Hypothesis.
“If this a personal gripe–”
“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”
“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis.
Observation.
A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.
“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”
And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.
Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.
Analysis.
He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones:
Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara.
Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara.
We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.
But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?
A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.
And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?
You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.
“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.
“Come look, come look!”
He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.
“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”
“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”
He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.
(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 10, Part 12
summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)
a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈
Join my taglists here
wc: 7.2k
Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
cracks in clay, poured over
Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room.
She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans.
There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe.
Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.
It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand.
Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.
The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say.
He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue.
He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…
Cold.
You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.
“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.
He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours.
“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”
When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.
“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.
“Nothin’”
His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.
“You're a fat fucking liar.”
Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it.
There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…?
Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.
Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.
He frowns.
“I think I'm happy.”
…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.
“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.
“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead.
“Different?”
You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth.
In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.
“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–
“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.
His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances.
He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.
You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.
“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.”
Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.
Maybe we could've been more.
~~~
He’s an idiot, you think.
“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples.
“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”
For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up.
“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.
“You look like shit–”
You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”
“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”
“I do not.”
“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”
You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.
Wait. How did he know you had—
“Took you long enough.”
He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.
Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely.
There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.
[Sent: 15:32]
Are you guys still on for tonight?
[Received: 15:32]
👍👍
[Sent: 15:3]
Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?
[Sent: 15:32]
👍👍
“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”
“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”
You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.
His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.
“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”
When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile.
“You hungry?” He asks.
“Starving.” You say with a grin.
~~~
You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.
Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?
You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.
“It’s– Pete, it’s–”
More jumbled words from the phone.
“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”
He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet?
A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun.
You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in!”
Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.
“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”
You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.
“Did you want something?”
When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.
“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”
“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.
“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”
“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile
“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”
Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...”
“But?”
“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”
“I can keep you company.”
“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”
“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”
He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw -
“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.
“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.
With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over.
“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”
~~~
The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…
The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.
The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.
“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”
Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights.
“It's okay, Em.”
Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname.
“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”
Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.
“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.
“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.
“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.
“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour.
Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think.
She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.
“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”
“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.
She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.
“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.
“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl.
You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”
“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?
“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”
And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere.
There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.
She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again.
Clatter.
“One more time, sweetheart,”
Clang.
“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”
Thunk. You've got an idea.
“She’s not going to eat, Mig.”
He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
~~~
It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.
“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.
“What do you mean, you know a place?”
You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.
“The park on 10th?”
“Nope.”
“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”
“Nope.”
“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.
“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”
Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.
“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”
“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”
~~~
The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.
But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub.
He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint.
There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big.
Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.
“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed.
May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.
You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.
The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.
May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.
He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.
“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck.
“How do you have access to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?
“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”
Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.
You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket.
We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own.
“Mig?”
Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes.
“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.
“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.
“Just fine, sweetheart.”
“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”
You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.
“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”
Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.
Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines.
“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”
Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.
“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.
“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.
“I was only a janitor, Mig.”
“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”
You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look.
“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires.
“Her name's May.” He grunts.
“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”
“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”
Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.
A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?”
She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.
“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”
“Sure, but what about–”
“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”
Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.
But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore.
“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”
He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.
The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.
“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.
“I… I know.”
“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”
He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”
“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”
“Something like that.” He grunts.
“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.
“I was 17 - so, no.”
“Ouch.”
Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.
“Do you still work with them?”
“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”
“I meant Alchemax.”
They snort. “We went our separate ways.”
Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…
Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.
Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.
“What exactly do you do?”
“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”
Liv gives him a blank expression.
“So you're young.”
“I guess.”
“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”
His jaw shifts.
“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.”
They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.
“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”
Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on.
“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights.
“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”
“I–We are saving the world.”
He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.
He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.
Hypothesis.
“If this a personal gripe–”
“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”
“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis.
Observation.
A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.
“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”
And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.
Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.
Analysis.
He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones:
Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara.
Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara.
We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.
But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?
A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.
And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?
You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.
“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.
“Come look, come look!”
He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.
“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”
“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”
He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.
