Rosalina's phone charm by rocklobster0!!

TW: mentions of blood drinking

It's a Monday night when Miguel stays out late, patrolling the city as Spider-Man. If his enemies realise that Miguel is not Miguel (but also is Miguel), then I'm none the wiser.

What I am is keyed-up and anxious, a growing insecurity that swells during cooking, eating and then clearing up after dinner. I can't help but fear that this Miguel will perish, too, and I'll really be left alone to raise my daughter - something I'm frighteningly unsure I'll do a good job of.

Rosalina, again, asks where her dad is. I, again, get struck in the gut and flinch with guilt.

She doesn't like that he's working so much. I don't know what else to say except to apologise. She misses her dad. What more can I do?

We watch a movie she picks out, and the hours in the evening whittle away until it's her bedtime. I plait her hair and keep her company while she brushes her teeth. I tuck her into bed and kiss her on the forehead.

Her big, sad brown eyes grow sadder when I pull away. This would be when Miguel would kiss her on her forehead, too. His absence is sorely noticed.

"I miss dad," Rosalina whispers.

My grief, so well I'd handled it, returns with a blaze of violent glory. My throat chokes up, and tears that come with no warning spill down my cheeks. Rosalina is alarmed, brown eyes widening and mouth opening with shock. She sits up, ruining her perfect duvet tuck that she loves, and wipes my tears away.

"It's okay, mom," she hurriedly placates as she soaks up my tears with her sleeves. "He'll come back."

I shame myself by crying even more. Pulling Rosalina into a hug, I bury my face into her soft hair. She hugs me back just as ferociously, so tightly that I'm briefly stunned by her strength. She holds me so tightly that I fear she's the only thing keeping me together.

"He'll come back," Rosalina whispers into my chest. "He'll come back."

She doesn't even realise what she's saying. She doesn't even know that her words make the pain in my heart all the more worse.

He won't come back. He won't ever come back. But I can't even tell her this, can't confess the reason why I'm a sobbing mess on a Sunday evening. She's confused - but clarity will only serve to hurt her.

I hug Rosalina until I'm calm, and then I hug her some more. I hug her until she falls asleep in my arms, and then I carefully tuck her in and gaze at her dozing face.

She looks so much like her dad. She looks so much like him that it hurts to see.

I turn off the lights and leave her room.

I don't go to bed, I can't - I'm too awake, too nervous. I pace the living room as I wait for Miguel, as the hours tick on. I pace until my legs grow tired and then I sit on the couch. I stay there for so long doing nothing but worrying that I, eventually, fall asleep.

It's only a blink, but when my eyes peel open again, laden by exhaustion, I feel the vague sense of swaying. I blink again, and my vision finds the outline of a stylised, red spider cast over a broad chest clad in navy.

I glance up. Miguel looks forward as he ascends the steps to the second story, face stony and worn. He looks hardened beyond rock, sharper than steel, and yet his hold is so soft, his arms so gentle.

He sets me out on my bed and pulls the covers over my shoulders. He hesitates only when he sees that my eyes are open, watching his every move with languid sleepiness. His red gaze seem to glow in the dark, but I don't find it all that scary anymore.

"Hey," he whispers. He crouches at my bedside and subconsciously brushes his suited fingers along my hairline. "What are you still doing up, hermosa?"

I close my eyes at the sensation of his touch. It's been so long since I've felt affection like this, been held like this. What was once a regular blessing is now less than a novelty; nobody has touched me like this since my husband died, and my body reacts, singing beneath his fingertips.

I recall him asking a question. "Needed to..."

Needed to... what? Needed to see him? Needed to know that he's okay? Alive? That Rosa still has a dad? Needed to make sure I'm not alone?

I'm so afraid of being alone.

"Oh, amor." Miguel wipes my tears before I even realise they spill. "It's okay to cry. I cried, too, when I lost..." He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale and looks down.

I catch his hand. It's warm, so warm, and damp from my salty tears. His hand engulfs mine entirely, and I hold onto it like a lifeline. Like if I let go, I'll be lost forever. I'll never be found. He's my anchor in the darkness.

"I don't wanna be alone," I whimper, staring at him through the dim shadows of my room. He's not my husband, but he's familiar, he's kind, and he's not letting me face the loss of Miguel by myself. "I'm so scared."

"I'm not going anywhere," Miguel vows, voice low with promise. For emphasis, for reassurance, he holds out his pinkie. I stare at it through eyes that slowly grow blurrier, before slowly linking mine through his. He presses a kiss to the curve of my finger, and my heart jumps.

No, no. Don't do that. Don't. I can't do that. It's too soon. Too complicated. Too painful.

But Miguel's none the wiser to my spiralling thoughts. His lips brush against my finger when he next speaks, his eyes hold mine with an intensity that glows in the dark room. "I'm not going anywhere, Y/n, I promise. I'm with you."

He says it like he's making a vow to god, or whoever it is that oversees all these universes - if there even is someone at all. He says it with words imbued with determination, like he'd reshape fate with his bare hands if he could. Like he'd change the story that happened to me a thousand times over, in a thousand different realities. A blacksmith of destiny himself, forging, mending, reshaping.

And it does something to me. Something that my heart revels in but my head does not. It's a war, a fierce battle. His words are so affirming, so dedicated, so vehemently terrifying. Fear sizzles throughout my body.

I shuffle back in my bed, refusing to let my pinkie slip from around his. I pull him with me.

It terrifies me. I can't stop. He needs to leave.

  But I want him to stay.

Miguel follows, clambering onto the mattress, his suit glowing dimly in the dark. It's made of some futuristic tech, illuminated through with nanites and codes and micro tech. They flicker when I place my hand on his red shoulder. They react to my touch as if they're alive.

"I don't want to be alone," I repeat, voice softer, brittler, raw. My hand tightens on his shoulder. The nanites and codes and micro tech flutter faster. "Stay with me. Please. Please."

Go. Go. GO.

Miguel's eyes are wide, unblinking. He stares at me as if I just spoke the words he'd been wishing for me to say, been holding himself back from hoping for. I'll disappoint him. I can't be the Y/n he wants me to be.

I can't replace her. He can't replace my Miguel.

He lifts a hand and brushes my wet cheek dry. "Of course, mi vida. Anything you want."

  I want you to leave. Stay. I need you to stay.

He gathers me into his chest. I'm still so small in comparison, and I fold into him like a perfect fit. A pair made for each other, across a thousand different realities, tragedies birthed and killed and birthed and killed. A thousand different first smiles, a thousand different bullets fired. A thousand Miguels on their own. A thousand graves with my name.

Except for this version of Miguel. Except for this version of me.

And he holds me like he'll never get a chance to hold me again. That I'll be gone in the morning, the last of me, my thread cut and tucked away.

He sleeps in his suit, as if leaving to remove it would cause me to disappear, would cause my door to shut on him like how it has since he arrived. He sleeps in the bed that my Miguel used to. I stay awake, caught in his warmth, caught in his gentle cradle.

I circle my wedding ring around my finger. I tap the engagement ring, and the promise ring, too. Years of memories sitting on my fingers, bought and gifted by a man whose heart no longer beats. Whose heart had once beat for me.

When I rest my head against Miguel's chest, I can hear his heart beat.

••🕷️••

"Almost!" Rosalina cries through a wide grin. She opens her mouth for the next sugary cereal projectile for Miguel to toss.

Miguel laughs when Rosalina tries to catch the piece of fruit loop and it hits her square on the forehead. She squeals, hands flying up to catch the fruit loop before it falls to the floor.

He could throw it with perfect aim every time, but this is far funnier.

I watch Miguel as I make our morning coffees. He's lighter, I realise, more bright and happier. He's revitalised. All because of one night where he slept beside me. All because my grief controlled me instead of the other way around, and I fell into the trap of craving his presence.

This morning had been awkward. I woke to him already up, reading one of the novels from my bedside table I hadn't touched in months. The hand that wasn't holding up the book was buried in my hair. He still wore his Spider-Man suit.

I'd shied away from him as soon as I realised where I was and what had happened the night before. His hand held thin air, his eyes stared at me. But then his shock broke into a sad smile and he wished me a good morning.

"So close!" Rosalina's cry brings me back to the present. "My turn, my turn!" She scoops up a fruit loop from her bowl and throws it head-on into Miguel. She shrieks with laughter when he moves swiftly, a little too expertly, to catch it on his tongue.

"Okay, animals," I say with a small smile. I slide Miguel's coffee towards him. "General mama calls a ceasefire."

Rosalina manages one last throw to catch Miguel off guard. He snatches it out of the air before it hits him, and the little girl gasps. He pops the fruit loop into his mouth with a smirk.

I send him a look. Stop encouraging her. He grins back, unabashed.

"Eat up, or you'll be late," I warn Rosalina.

She concedes and begins spooning her breakfast into her mouth. She chows down quickly, finishing in record speed, before scampering upstairs to get changed out of her jammies.

Miguel's still smiling as he stares down at his coffee. I struggle between finding it cute and horrible. She's not even his daughter.

I take the seat where Rosalina sat prior. I sip my coffee. Cars zip by on the road outside.

He watches me as I feign contentment. I'm observed like an animal in a zoo. He tilts his head, and I'm read again. My pages turn.

"Do you want to talk about last night?" he prompts gently.

"Not particularly," I mumble.

"Y/n-"

"Miguel," I cut him off. I finally look him in the eyes, and I silently plead through my own. "I really don't want to right now."

His brows furrow with pity, and I can't bear to look at it. I turn away again. I sip my coffee again.

Lyla pops up out of thin air, making the both of us flinch. She salutes Miguel and her hologram glitches.

"Miguel!" she begins zealously. "I've just heard reports of a break and enter currently in progress."

Miguel sighs. "Thanks, Lyla."

She disappears with a yellow fizzle of the air where she once stood. Miguel turns his attention back to me. I draw my legs up onto the seat and look away, half-hiding behind my coffee.

Whatever weakness I had towards him last night, I no longer have. Miguel wordlessly finishes his coffee and leaves.

But my gaze is drawn to him. I watch him go, equal parts frustrated, confused, and longing.

••🕷️••

Miguel's already home by the time Rosalina and I return from a long day. He's in the kitchen cooking dinner.

"Hey!" Miguel happily greets when Rosalina makes a beeline for his legs. She hugs them tight and refuses to let go, leaving Miguel to shuffle to the stove to stop the mince from burning. "How was your day, papita?"

"It was good!" Rosalina answers, before launching into a minute-by-minute recount of her entire school day.

Mid-way through her ramble, Miguel glances up at where I'm still taking off my jacket before laying it out over the backs of one of the dining chairs. I rise and meet his gaze. He offers a small smile, a hopeful greeting. I manage a wobbly one in response.

Rosalina continues her conversation throughout dinner, which suits me just fine as I have nothing to say. Half of my attention is foggy and lost within the confines of my own mind. Miguel listens raptly, drinking in every word that comes out of her little mouth.

When Rosalina heads upstairs for her bath, Miguel stops me in the middle of clearing away the dishes.

"How was your day?" he asks, and grabs the plates out of my hands. I stare at him questioningly as he slides them into the dishwasher.

"... fine," I answer slowly. In reality, I'd cried in the bathroom during my lunch break. I glance at Miguel in confusion - since when did we do small talk? "How was... yours?"

Miguel turns the dishwasher on and wipes his hands on a tea towel. He slings it over his shoulder. He is the image of domesticity.

"Fine." He begins to fill the sink with hot water and squirts dishwashing liquid into the tap's stream. Foam erupts across the surface. "I stopped a few petty crimes. Nothing too strenuous."

He peeks at me from the side of his eyes. My brows raise.

I cross my arms and dip my head, trying to worm out answers from his expression alone. "What are you trying to accomplish here, O'Hara?"

He hums, low and long. "Nothing. Making conversation."

My brows raise further, doubtful. I can smell this man's deceit a mile away, no matter what universe he originates from. A small, confused grin tugs at my lips.

"Just trying to make you smile." He sends me another look out of the corner of his eyes, amused.

I force the corners of my lips down into a frown. His amused look deepens.

"You're trying to make me talk to you," I correct. I straighten and tighten my arms over my chest. "Get comfortable. Let down my walls."

"Is it working?" Miguel asks. When I have to take a moment to respond, taken aback by the fact that it might actually be working, he smirks. "It's working."

"It's not working," I deny.

"It's definitely working." He scrubs the ceramic dish we used for dinner. "I know you, Mrs. O'Hara."

I scoff. "Okay, Vampire Spider-Man. It's still not working.

Miguel turns his head to me in irritation. "For the last time, I'm not a vampire."

I have to hide another smile. He's just like my Mig - someone so smug and sure, but easy to rile up. It's always been fun to push his buttons. Maybe this was his plan all along.

Fuck. I think it actually worked.

"I guess not," I cave. When Miguel, relieved, turns back to his task, I continue; "spiders don't drink just blood. They drink everything inside. Guts 'n all."

"Ahh, well look at you, smarty pants," Miguel mutters as he scrubs off the stubborn remnants of an oven bake. "Someone knows their arachnid biology."

"One of us has to be the smart one," I say, evoking a snort from him. I think back on what I said and violently grimace away from the man beside me. "Please don't tell me that you drink guts."

Miguel expels a long-suffering sigh and pulls the sink's plug. The soapy water begins to drain, churning down the pipes.

"No," he denies. "Sorry to break it to you, but I'm just a regular blood-drinker."

"Vampire Spider-Man," I mumble.

Miguel closes his eyes in exasperation and pinches the bridge of his nose. He's hanging on by a thread. "I'm not a vampire."

"You literally admitted to drinking blood!" I point at him. I realise I'm smiling again, but this time I can't hide it away.

"I'm not undead, though, am I?" he shoots back. He yanks the towel down from his shoulder and begins to dry the ceramic pan. "And I don't glitter in the sun, either, so don't even think about stripping me."

I stare at him blankly. "Why would a vampire glitter?"

Miguel peeks at me. "... never mind."

  My face twists with confusion before letting it slide. I fill the kettle with water and flick it on. His eyes linger on my actions when I grab two mugs and return to his side, invested now in our small talk.

"You never did get around to telling me about that stuff, though," I remind, and take the dry pan from his hands to put it back in its home. "We got cut short." By me having a mental breakdown. "Why do you drink blood? You obviously eat normal food, too."

Miguel exhales, calmer now that our conversation has turned serious. The kettle begins to billow steam. I retrieve two tea bags.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "Remnants of the spider DNA, I guess. It's just a craving I can't really control without help." He shrugs. "Instinct."

My curiosity piques as I pour out the hot water. "What kind of help?"

"Nanobots," Miguel answers. He takes the cup I offer him and blows on the steam. It curls away from him, creating designs in the space between us. His red eyes turn to me again. "Tiny robots that splice my DNA. They keep me in check."

I raise a brow. "'Check?' 'Splice your DNA?' You're saying words that I know but I can't quite grasp the context."

Miguel huffs through his nose in amusement. "When I got rid of the Rapture in my cells and my genes were spliced at fifty-percent with spider DNA, the machine was still unstable. The spider DNA keeps trying to take over entirely, so I have to keep cutting it back like weeds." He shrugs. "I'm a continuous science experiment."

My tea is forgotten. I blink at him in shock. "What happens if the spider DNA takes over entirely?"

Miguel sends me an empty smile. "I lose myself. I'll be no better than Sims when he came out of that machine."

I suddenly feel extremely shitty for giving him such slack about his blood-drinking. "Fuck. That sucks."

Miguel swirls his tea and watches it spin. "Ah, you get used to it. Freaky becomes the new normal."

"And this splicing, it keeps your from drinking blood?"

Miguel turns his head in a so-so gesture. "More or less. Sometimes I don't get to my serum in time. The urges come on quick."

"Huh." I blow the steam from my tea and try my best to digest this new information without giving myself a headache.

"It did work, by the way."

I look at him. "What?"

"You're comfortable, you're talking to me." He smirks over the rim of his cup. "Your walls are still a little high, but hey-" he unleashes his talons "- that's why I've got these."

I roll my eyes, gaze lingering on his sharp claws with subtle interest. "You're full of it, Dr. O'Hara."

He chuckles, unshaken by my continued refusal. But there's no need for him to be.

'Cause it totally worked.