TW: talk of death

  I had a nightmare, and now I can't sleep. I stare at the ceiling with dry eyes and tear-stained cheeks and count the seconds that mock me.

I've never had nightmares like these before. Never so frequent and never leaving me so drained, so emotionally tormented. Before Miguel died, I could count the times I'd waken up crying on my fingers. Now it's happening every night.

  I can never quite recall how they go; the images slip from my grasp before my eyes even open, but the way I reach for a body that isn't beside me gives enough clues to guess. They always seem to wrench my heart from my chest and squeeze it with a cruel, cold hand. I always seem to have Miguel's name on the tip of my tongue.

  His pillow holds so many tears.

  It doesn't smell like him anymore.

  He's fading away from me.

  I push back the covers and swing my legs over the mattress, and then I just sit and stare at the floor until my simmering grief bubbles up in a sob that I catch with my hand. I want to scream. I want to ball up everything that I'm feeling and cry it out, to wail until my throat bleeds, until even the heavens can hear me.

  But I have to be quiet. Rosalina sleeps just down the hall.

  "Mig," I whimper, as if he can hear me, as if I can call him back to me, as if he's right beside me like how he would be if he was still here. I imagine his hand rubbing my back, imagine his soothing words, imagine the way he'd pull me into his chest until I exhaust myself and sleep against him. It just makes everything so much worse.

  It's agony. To cry like this at night, bridled by the need to be quiet. To smile throughout the day as if the Miguel that sleeps in my living room is the one I married, the one I share my past with. As if my husband isn't rotting away to bone in the glade of some far-off forest.

  I don't know how much longer I can take it.

  I'm not sure how long I sit in the dark and force my weeping to be no louder than a whimper, but when my throat becomes so dry that it hurts, I rise to my feet and stumble down the stairs to retrieve a drink from the kitchen. Something diverts my course, however, and I end up standing in the doorway to the living room.

  Sprawled on the couch that's ridiculously too small for him, Miguel sleeps, bathed in the illumination of the streetlights that peeks through the curtains. I stare at his legs hanging over the side and past all my wrappings of grief, I feel my old friend guilt swell. He doesn't look comfortable.

  If he wanted to sleep somewhere comfortable, he could always just go back to his own home with his own bed. But something tells me that he'd rather sleep on an uncomfortable couch than go home to an empty apartment each night. 

  I startle when his head rises over the back of the couch. His red eyes catch mine. His hair is a mess. I stifle back the urge to cry again.

  "How long have you been up?" I ask.

  "Since I heard you crying," he answers.

  I look down awkwardly. "Oh..."

Miguel sits up properly and pats the seat beside him, an invitation. I hesitate on the threshold of the living room, unsure, before padding across the floorboards and sinking into the couch. I bunch this half of his blanket over my knees and hug them, staring at the coffee table.

  It's warm from his body heat. It smells like him.

"Have you been having nightmares?" Miguel asks softly.

  I nod.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "No," I choke out. "No, I really, really don't."

  Miguel quietens. He sits beside me and stares at the coffee table, too. Did he spend sleepless nights like I do when his Y/n died? Did he have to cry quietly like I do? Does he still cry over her?

  I bury my face into the blanket. It soaks up my new tears.

  "Oh, cariño." Miguel places his hand onto my shoulder. He doesn't apologise like how other people would in this situation. He's been through this. He knows that apologies mean nothing, do nothing.

  I shudder beneath his palm. I turn my head to look at him, at his heartbroken expression that matches mine.

  "Do you think he was scared when he died?" I whisper. It's difficult to speak through my thick throat. "Was he was afraid? Was he lonely?"

  Miguel's expression folds with sadness. "I don't know."

  "I should've been there for him," I whimpered. I have to stop myself from saying 'it should've been me.' It's always been me. It's been me a thousand times over. And saying that before him would be a terrible idea.

  How many Miguels are out there right now, grieving like I am? 

  I turn my head and rest it against his arm. I'm boneless, limp with misery and heartbreak. Miguel pulls me into his chest and presses his face into my hair. And he's not my Miguel, but he's close enough to trick me.

  I cry until I exhaust myself, and then I fall asleep in his arms.

••🕷️••

  I wake to the sensation of fingertips brushing down my spine.

  My already droopy body relaxes further beneath his touch, malleable, putty. I open my eyes and find Miguel staring at the ceiling, gaze soft and unfocused. Our legs are tangled beneath the blanket he must've pulled over us sometime while I was sleeping.

  I've missed the warmth of waking up entwined.

  His red eyes drift down to where I'm watching him. My pillow is his chest, gently rising with each long, slow breath he takes. It rumbles when be speaks.

  "Morning," Miguel greets quietly. His fingertips don't stop their course - from the base of my neck, between my shoulder blades, before tapering off at the small of my back. He does it three more times before I find my voice.

  "Hi," I whisper. "Did I have any more nightmares?"

  He shakes his head.

  "Sorry for stealing your couch."

  "Don't be." Miguel closes his eyes contently. "This is the best sleep I've had in years."

  I smile small. It's hard to believe that when I've only spent one night on here and I'm already aching. He's been sleeping on it for a month and half.

  Still though, he's not lying. He's not even bending the truth.

  "You should get a proper bed," I murmur. "Spider-Man shouldn't be protecting the multiverse and then sleeping on a couch."

  "No room for one," he sleepily mumbles. "I'm fine like this."

  I go quiet. I stare at the curve of his chin and contemplate. He's right; my brownstone is too small to create another bedroom, and he's also wrong; he isn't fine like this. He shouldn't be fine with this.

  His touch continues its course. With each stroke, my reservations ease, slipping from my fists like sand.

  "Take mine," I finally say. "Sleep with me."

  Miguel's fingers come to a screeching halt. His eyes snap open and drop to mine, suddenly awake, wide with surprise. I stare back.

  "Are you sure?" he asks.

  I hesitate. I'm not sure, not really. But he's going to be staying for a long, long time, and he can't very well sleep on the couch forever.

  Besides, waking up like this is nice. Waking up without the demons bending over my bed is nice.

  I nod. "Yeah."

  His shocked expression slowly melts into a fond smile. There's a tenderness to his gaze that erodes the rest of my hesitation away, that fills me with a soft sensation. "Okay."

  My smile warms. And then the moment is abruptly shattered by little feet stomping down the stairs and Rosalina's shout of 'we're running late!'

  Our eyes widen before turning to the window, where the sun that's flooding through is a lot brighter than it should be. We scramble to get off the couch, untangling our legs and throwing aside the blanket. The chill of the morning makes me wish I had a few more hours in his arms.

  Miguel races to the kitchen to get Rosalina's lunch ready. I sprint upstairs to shower and get changed. After such a gentle way to wake, it quickly becomes a morning of chaos.

Rosalina's eating when I enter the kitchen and helplessly hold my injured arm out for Miguel to re-wrap. I'd tried to myself and made a mess, gauze loose and uneven and folding over itself. He smirks at my sloppy attempt and unrolls it to start again.

"Thank you," I say as he expertly wraps my arm. Rosalina watches from the kitchen table.

"Anytime, mi vida," he hums.

"You gotta kiss her ouchies like you do for mine," Rosalina points out as she scoops more cereal into her mouth. "It's scientifically proven to make you heal faster."

Miguel snorts, focusing half on his task and half on my daughter.

"Is that right, Dr. Rosalina?" Miguel asks amusedly.

She nods confidently. Miguel and I share an amused look. He ties off my bandage and tucks it neatly and, much to Rosalina's unhappiness, steps back to give me space.

"Well?" she insists.

Miguel glances painfully at me and I have to grin in amusement. Now he's the one getting pressured by Rosalina. She's difficult to turn down, especially for something that should be so simple and common between parents.

And last time ended... poorly, but that was before I soothed his almost-panic attack, thinking I'd been badly hurt. And that was before he held me while I cried, before I fell asleep in his hold and offered him my bed.

That was before he eluded to us becoming something.

I hold out my bandaged arm with a tilt of my head. "Well?" I echo my daughter.

Miguel's brows raise with shock. I'm full of surprises today, apparently. And I'm surprising myself, too, but the twist in my stomach isn't out of guilt or regret when he places one gentle hand above my elbow, the other on my wrist, and presses a chaste kiss to the bandage around the inside of my arm.

He looks up at me through his lashes, kiss lingering. My eyes widen. My lips part with a shaky exhale.

Rosalina pushes her way between us to drop her bowl in the sink with an "excuse me!" before dashing back up the stairs to brush her teeth.

My arm recoils to my chest, burning at the point where he kissed it. Miguel rises, and my gaze rises with him, up and up until my neck's almost craning backwards. I'm frozen, fixated, locked within his stare. It's as if I've been paralysed by his venom once again.

  He made it far more intimate than I expected.

  "You're back to work today," Miguel reminds, as if he's totally fine and I'm the only one spiralling out of control. "You'll need your laptop."

  "... right," I breathe. I'm still staring at him and it takes a moment for his words to click. I blink, dazed, and shake my head. "Right."

  His lips curl into a knowing smile. I turn quickly, fleeing in the guise of searching for my device. His little chuckle follows me.

  Minutes later and we're clambering into the car. We drop Rosalina off seconds before the bell rings and then, instead of returning home, Miguel turns into a parking garage.

  "What are we doing here?" I ask.

  Miguel shrugs. "No use driving all the way home just to go through a portal."

  "Huh. Smart."

  "I know," he murmurs, and turns into an open park. I scoff at his ego. His grin is lidded and low.

  I've only worked from the Spider-HQ twice since starting my work-from-another-dimension, but now it seems that I'll be based there for at least the next few months until the Bugle's structurally sound to hold employees again. This has far more pros than cons;

  Pro one - I get to work in a place where there's hundreds of variants of my favourite Super-Hero and finally feel a part of this side of Miguel's life. Pro two - I'll get to bother Miguel into eating lunch with me every day. Pro three - I'll get to bother Miguel with my new best friend Peter.

  And the one and only con - I am fully expecting that Miguel is right, and I won't get any work done. But at least I'll have fun and it'll be a massive change of pace. A change of pace is probably exactly what I need to keep me from dwelling too much over my husband.

  He stops the car and drops the keys into my open hand. Beneath Miguel's shirt his suit materialises, crawling its way up his neck in a line of white pixels. I really can't get over how advanced the tech in his world is.

He meets my gaze. The spot where he kissed my arm still burns. I quickly look away.

  We step out the car and lock it. Miguel leads me to an empty, unmonitored fire exit and opens the hexagonal portal from his Gizmo. He offers me a smile before stepping forward and being consumed by its red, pulsating, rotating light.

  I've almost gotten used to the nervy, hallucinogenic sensations of dimensional travel. Almost. I still stumble when I'm spat out in the lobby, and Miguel still catches me. And it still amuses him to see me have to take a moment to reorient myself, hanging onto his arms just so I don't topple over sideways.

  "You okay?" he asks with a grin.

  "Fine," I huff. "Peachy. Dandy, even. I can reality hop all day."

  "Really?" His voice is dry with doubt.

  "No, Miguel," I groan. "No, I can't."

  He laughs and takes my laptop bag for me. "Come on. Let's get you some coffee."

  As if by magic, I'm in a much better mood.

  While waiting for Miguel to get our morning boosters I meet Web-Slinger, a Spider-Man who seems to have come right out of a Wild West film, complete with a cowboy hat and even an equine companion called Widow. An equine companion who can also shoot webs, which... isn't disturbing.

  "My real name is Patrick O'Hara," he says. I'm so focused on his deep, southern twang and the fact that his horse is snuffling at my sleeve for pats that I almost miss it.

  "O'Hara?" I question. "You're an O'Hara, too?"

  Patrick brings his hat to his chest. His mask's eyes turn down with sadness.

  "Ma..." he says despondently. "I thought you'd at least recognise yer own son..."

  My brain comes to a standstill. "Come again?"

  Patrick snorts and smacks my good arm with the rim of his hat before placing it back on his head of dark hair. "Naw, I'm just kiddin,' darlin.' There's hundreds a' O'Hara's in this joint."

  I nervously laugh and pat Widow's muzzle. What the fuck. His joke almost just gave me a heart attack.

  "Mornin' boss," Patrick greets when Miguel joins us. I'm quick to take a sip of the coffee he hands me, needing the caffeine twice as much than before.

"Patrick," Miguel greets with a nod. "Widow."

Widow nickers in reply and I side-eye it unsurely. Is this horse sentiently intelligent? What makes a spider-horse different than a regular horse, other than shooting webs from its hooves?

It's too early in the morning for this.

We bid Patrick and Widow farewell before departing for Miguel's office. The Spider-HQ is still so big and unfamiliar that I turn my head every which way to visually explore it during our walk. Even here, with hundreds of interesting people, Miguel still draws stares. He's effortlessly magnetic. No wonder why so many spider-people are eager to follow his lead.

I take a slower, more appreciative sip of coffee while a small seed of pride blossoms in my chest.

When we get to Miguel's office he sheds himself of his civilian clothes and leaves them in a neat pile on one of the many lab tables. I set myself up in my usual spot - a table in the corner - close enough to Miguel to call to, far enough away to concentrate.

Though I'm not sure how well I can concentrate when he's wearing that skin-tight spider-suit of his that accentuates every right part of his body. And I certainly won't be able to concentrate when his back is turned to me.

He plants a hand on his hip and cocks a knee as he talks to Lyla. My gaze travels down to his ass.

I force myself to slowly turn my eyes away. Fuuuuuck.

  "Hey, hey!" Peter's voice booming through the dark-lit station snaps my focus back from wandering into explicit territory. He saunters in with his arms raised in triumph and beams at me. "It's my favourite normie!"

  I roll my eyes. "Good to see you too, Pete."

"How you holding up?" he asks. He leans against my desk and winces at the split in my lip. "Looks like you got pretty knocked around."

I smile at his worry. "I'm fine. I had four days off to recover. Now I've gone a little stir-crazy."

Peter chuckles sympathetically. "That'll do it. And, uh..." He awkwardly glances at Miguel, who's probably overhearing us despite how Peter lowers his voice. "How's the big guy doing?"

I peek up at him on his elevated platform. "Better, now." Miguel also had four days off from managing the multiverse and stayed home with me. He's been sticking by my side a little tighter than usual since he had his scare.

I don't mind the clinginess. I might even enjoy it, a little.

"Ah, good." Peter nods firmly. "He sounded really out of it when he called Jess and I to handle the situation at Alchemax. I've never seen him so panicked before."

"Me, neither," I murmur.

Peter and I ruminate on that for a second before he chuckles and pats his hands to my shoulders twice.

"But you're good!" he says brightly.

I smile. "I'm good."

  "Good!" Peter grins and steps back. "Alright, I gotta report to my grumpy boss - who doesn't have a soft spot for me, unlike you." He scowls at me halfheartedly. "Favouritism in the workplace."

I send him an amused, deadpan look. "Bye, Peter."

Peter flicks a web up to Miguel's platform. "You're just like him sometimes, you know that?" He zips up to the station before I can retort.

I sigh with a smile and turn to boot up my laptop. I think it's the most underdeveloped and clunky piece of tech in this entire reality, despite it being a new model from my dimension.

Miguel and Peter talk amongst themselves while I work, squinting against the bright light of my screen within the darkened room. I'm pulled out of my concentration when the now-familiar light of a portal opens up in the centre of the room. Miguel and Peter both drop lithely from the platform.

  "Anomaly," Miguel answers the unspoken questions resting in my expression.

  "Ah." I nod. "Keep him safe for me, Pete."

"I'll protect him with my life!" Peter calls back before yelping when Miguel whacks him in the back of the head. I snicker. "I was just kidding, man, yeesh."

Peter stomps through the portal with a continued grumble.

Miguel turns his glare to me and it softens. "I'll be back soon."

I smile. "Good luck."

He walks backwards into the portal. A smug grin crawls its way onto his face. "I don't need luck."

"Get punched."

Miguel tsk's as his mask slips up and over his head. "So rude," he mutters, before disappearing through the portal to begin his mission.

When the portal slips away into nothing, my smile grows and then fades. I drop my head into my arms and groan. Every day that passes, I'm getting so much more attached to him. So much and so quickly that it scares me.

  At least it makes sense, though, right? He's Miguel.

  "You doing okay there?" Jess's voice makes me bring my head up. I didn't even hear her enter. She stares down at me with a look mixed between sympathy and amusement.

  "No," I sigh. "I think I'm having a mid-life crisis."

  Now her expression is all sympathy. Jess sits on the edge of the desk. "Oh, honey. Tell me what's happening."

  I glance at her, considering whether I admit my feelings out loud or continue keeping this revelation to myself. At her openness, her kind patience, however, I cave.

  I need someone else to talk to about this with. Someone who isn't Miguel. Someone who's just a friend and not something intricately, intimately more.

  "I'm in love with him," I murmur.

  "That's not so bad."

  "It is," I insist, sending her a troubled frown. "How terrible do I have to be to fall in love with Miguel's replacement?"

  Jess's brows raise. "Oh. That's your dilemma."

  I slump deep in my seat and stare at the ground. "That's my dilemma."

  She sighs and pushes her goggles up to rest against her hairline. "Y/n, we've all lost people here. We all know what it's like to lose someone you love."

  My gaze turns to her. She smiles at me, sad, tinged with the pain of a cruel memory. I sit up straighter.

  "It's hard," she continues. "I know it is - god, I know. But if you find something that makes you happy, even just a little bit, you have to dig your nails into it and never let it go."

  I digest her words, silent.

  Jess reaches out a hand and clasps my shoulder. Her stare is intent. "Your Miguel wants you to be happy."

  But I still feel so awful about it. "I guess."

  "No, not 'I guess,'" she says firmly. "He does."

  She speaks about him as if he's still with us. I'm not sure if that take on his death makes me feel better or worse. 

  "Stop overthinking it," Jess says. "Stop punishing yourself for it. Just let yourself be."

  It'd be nice to let myself be. It'd be nice to be happy with Miguel and Rosa - genuinely, fully happy. I'd get to feel like myself again. I'd get to love Miguel without feeling like a traitor.

  But the claws of grief just don't want to let me go. I don't know how to live with it. I don't know how to accept it. It won't let me.
 
  I send her a wobbly, weak smile. "I'll try."

  Her determined expression turns with a smile. "That's what I like to hear."

  Jess uses her webs to swing up to Miguel's platform and does whatever multiverse business she came in here to do. I spend the next few hours writing the same paragraph over and over again, frustrated, brain plagued with thoughts of two Miguels.

  My attention gets caught when a notification of a new email from Rosalina's school pops up in my inbox bar. Already knowing that my curiosity wouldn't let me write another word, I click on the pop-up to open the email and read through it.

  "Lyla?"

  She pops into existence atop my laptop's lid, legs crossed. "Mm?"

  "Can you call Miguel for me, please?"

  "Yur." She rolls backwards over the lid with a flourish and disappears again.

  Miguel's tiny, holographic form pops up from my Gizmo, huffing from the effort of his current battle. His mask's eyes widen.

  "Y/n? ¿Qué pasa?"

"Hey, are you busy?"

His hologram flickers as he swings from his webs, fighting an anomaly which the Gizmo doesn't pick up. "I can talk."

"What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?" I ask.

"Don't know, why?" He yelps and ducks from an attack I don't see. "¡Coño, por poco! Sorry, continue."

"Rosita's got a school dance coming up," I say. "We'll need to get her something to wear."

"School dance?" he puffs. "They still do those?"

I snicker dryly. "Yes, Miguel, they still do school dances."

"Are we gonna get her a little dress?" His voice goes up with excitement. "Ah por dios, she'd look so cute in a little dress."

My heart flutters stupidly at his reaction. "I take it you'd like to come shopping with us, then."

"Sì, of course, yes!" he exclaims, before leaping with his talons outstretched and tumbling over the thin air of an invisible foe. "Just give a minute to- ¡ay! Stay down! - a minute to get this guy back to base, amor, okay? I'll see you soon."

  I hum in agreement and watch as his little form vanishes with a flicker. I look up when Jess leans against my desk and crosses her arms, clearly having eavesdropped. She raises an inquisitive brow at me.

  "Happy..?" she asks.

  I exhale slowly and smile small at her. "I'm getting there."