TW: child trafficking, assault, blood, mention of guns

I'm on holiday overseas so i apologise that updates have slowed right down!

Jessica Drew slams her boot on the ground and kicks the back wheel of her motorbike into a man's face.

He drops like a rock and groans, covering his head with his hands. He writhes on the floor as Jess sits on the seat of her rumbling bike and glares at the carnage from behind her amber-tinted goggles. A circle of twitching bodies lay flush around her.

Satisfied, Jess kicks her bike stand up and rests her elbows on the handlebars. She taps on her Gizmo.

"That's the last of them," she says, and pushes away the reaching hand of a woman with the toe of her boot. She tsks in disgust. "Sick bastards."

Miguel O'Hara's deeper in the warehouse that they'd scouted the ring's location to. This wasn't a multiverse issue - it was the twisted operation born from Rapture addicts, selling kids to fuel their unnatural obsession. These are the kind of people that didn't want help. These are the kind of people that are just as bad as super-powered villains.

"Good," Miguel answers. He's using his talons to slice open the locks on the dog crates the kids had been crammed into. They flinch at each move the large vigilante makes. "Coming your way."

They file out of the cages, moving as a herd of scared children. They send weary looks over their shoulder at the large, imposing figure of Spider-Man and exit towards the large front room where Jess is waiting. He watches them limp away, skinny, scrawny, spiritless, with a heavy weight in his chest.

Miguel falters when he spots one last huddled figure cramped into the back corner of the last cage. A little girl with a tangled brown ponytail and wide, weepy eyes, frightened as a fawn. A little girl with a poorly-wrapped ankle, the bandage made of torn and bloodied pieces of shirt.

His heart stops at once. She looks so much like his Rosalina.

"Hey." Miguel crouches at the entrance and tries to soften his voice into something a little less scary. The girl's already crying, hiccupy and breathless and full of more terror than her little body can hold. "Hey, you're okay, kid. The bad guys can't hurt you anymore."

  She doesn't look like she quite believes him. Miguel can understand - she's faced the horrors of man no-one should ever see, felt the evils that none should ever be inflicted upon. Why would she trust adults, now? Why would she trust anyone ever again?

But still, he carefully stretches his hand into the cage. She slinks into herself and whimpers through her quiet sobs, clutching at her shirt. Her dirty face is only clean where she's cried.

Miguel's gut twists with fury at the sorry sight of her. He can never get over the vileness even unpowered men and women can become. It's an effort to act calm and not drill his fists into the concrete floor. It would only scare her further.

"What's your name, kiddo?" Miguel gently asks. "Can you tell me your name?"

She hesitates for a long, few seconds; contemplative, afraid. "... Sophia," she finally whispers.

"Sophia," Miguel repeats. "You're going home, Sophia."

"I c-" she sniffles loudly between her stifled sobs. "I can't walk. It hurts."

"You won't have to," he promises. "I can carry you, if you like."

  Sophie sniffles as she thinks over his offer. Then, after a few beats of silence, she shuffles forward and cautiously places a tiny hand in his large palm.

  She's skin and bones, as light as a feather in Miguel's arms when he rises, cradling her to his chest. She's younger than Rosalina, but not by much, and the despair that floods through him when he feels her trembling is more potent than what he's felt before in similar situations.

  Being a dad really has changed him. All Miguel wants to do is get these kids to safety and go home to his daughter. His pace to the exit is quicker than it needs to be.

  His hearing picks up the shuffle of a shoe against the dusty ground. His nose catches the scent of sweat, of metal and gunpowder. Miguel turns and shoots a web at the man that's just stepping out from behind a corner of stacked crates, snatching onto his face and yanking him down to knock himself out on his own half-raised gun.

  He buckles to the floor. Sophia yelps and hides her face into Miguel's shoulder. He pats her back soothingly.

  "That was the last one," he reassures. A new line of red web flicks out from his wrist to retrieve the gun, which he then crumples like paper in his palm. It drops to the floor with a heavy clunk. "Muy bueno. You're very brave, Sophia." 

  She weeps into his shoulder. When he strokes her soft hair as he walks down the long hall of empty cages, his heart breaks. It feels like Rosalina's hair. Sophia sounds like her when she cries.

  If it weren't for Jess being here, if it weren't for the kids, Miguel would tear the throats out of every sick individual involved in this operation, be it fangs or talons.

  Jess has already tied up all of the ring members and is talking to a police chief that's arrived on the scene when Miguel enters. Another handful of officers talk to the kids and hand out blankets, bewildered by the vigilante and hero duo that's done their job for them. A police officer reaches for Sophia and, reluctantly, Miguel lets her go.

  She stares at him with glossy, brown eyes from over the officer's shoulder. Her parting gift is a weak wave. He waves back, then touches the handmade pink-daisy bracelet on his wrist.

  Jess nudges Miguel's arm with her shoulder. He tears his gaze away and turns his attention to her. She nods her head to the back exit and begins wheeling her bike away from the crowd, and after another lingering look at the children, he follows. Their work is done; it's up to the police department to reunite the stolen kids with their families.

  The midnight air is brisk. It's a relief on Miguel's face when his mask crawls back. The pitch darkness of the alleyway doesn't hinder his vision, even without the enhancement of his suit.

  They watch the ring members get tossed into the back of a police van from afar, lingering in the exit of the alleyway. It's a relief to see their twisted mugs be put away.

  "Good job," Jess says.

  "Yeah, well, we could've been faster." If they'd been faster, these kids wouldn't have suffered for as long. If they'd been faster, then his wife and daughter might not have been targeted the way they had been that one Saturday evening.

  His fists clench. He really wish he'd torn just one throat out.

  Jess shakes her head with a scoff. She leans against her bike, crosses her arms, and glares up at him.

  "It's a miracle you're still married. You're always so negative," she mutters. Her eyes squint further at his weary countenance as he watches the scene. "And tired. Have you been getting any rest?"

"No," he mutters.

"O'Hara," Jess chastises. "You've got too much on your plate. You need to lessen your load."

"Can't really do that right now."

"I think-"

"Then stop thinking," Miguel snaps at her with a scowl. She raises her brows at his tone. "Leave it, Jess. I don't need your concern."

  "You don't have it," Jess corrects with an unamused frown. "I'm worried about Y/n and Rosa. How are they taking this new, unimproved, overworked version of you? Have they asked for a refund, yet?"

  Miguel doesn't answer. He can't - not with the anxiety that's taken hold of Y/n since she learnt the status of her slowly decomposing reality, not with the way that Rosalina's gone quiet at the sudden tension. Jess sighs.

  "You're trying to stop this reality from fading into nothing, keeping watch over the multiverse, overlooking an entire society of Spider-People, and being Spider-Man here - and being a dad," she reminds, and shakes her head with a mix of awe and the look that she thinks he's the textbook definition of 'stupid.' "It's too much."

  Miguel can't deny it, nor can he hide it from Jess. He's exhausted and it's dragging him down into the dirt to lie six feet under. Jess stands from her bike and places a hand on Miguel's arm.

  "Look, I get it," she says firmly. "I get what you're feeling - that you want to make sure everything works out, that everything's under control, that everyone's safe. It's all just part of being Spider-Man." She steps in front of him to catch his eyes, imploring, demanding. He stares down at her silently. "But you can't be everywhere, Miguel. I know that you like to be in charge and that you're an insane workaholic, but you can ask for help."

Miguel doesn't reply. He watches the kids being herded into a bus to be taken to the station and returned home. Silent, unyielding. A stone guardian once again.

  When he goes home and finds his alternate-dimension girlfriend-wife curled up in their bed, looking so cold, so lonely, murmuring against the demons in her sleep, he sits beside her. She only relaxes when he rests his hand on her forehead.

But he can't relax. His mind spins torrents upon torrents, thoughts upon thoughts. It's an endless fight of noise. Responsibilities versus responsibilities, solutions against solutions, plans fighting plans. Save the world, save the multiverse, make his daughter happy, keep his wife safe. He can't relax.

You can ask for help.

Miguel rests his head against the wall and sighs.

••🕷️••

"Has he even moved from that spot, today?" Peter leans against my desk and stares up at the platform inside the Spider-HQ's station. I follow his gaze to find Miguel.

"Nope," I sigh. "He was there before I arrived."

Beside Peter, Jess hums with thoughtful worry. I can't help but share her unspoken sentiment - or, rather, I feel it worse.

  It's been a month since the brothers dropped the 'atomic misbalance' bomb. A month of Miguel running himself ragged despite the attempts of our circle of friends and I to get him to take a break. He circumvents our worried exclamations like a pro.

Jess and Peter know Miguel. They've known this Miguel longer than I have. They see him, just as Gabriel and Patrick and Ben and Margo and Pav do - they all worry about him. I just see him clearer. I just know him more intimately. He's a book written in a language that only I am fluent in, is one of the two people I've dedicated my life to loving fiercely, and that's why I'm so scared.

They don't see the Miguel I do when he crawls home from patrolling the city only to drag himself into his lab. They don't see the way the bags beneath his eyes darken with each passing day. They don't see the way his smiles have lost their gleam when I bring him dinner that he keeps missing. They don't see the determination slowly seeping from the usually infallible man, or the way his shoulders have fallen, or the way he passes out beneath the weight of sheer exhaustion during the precious minutes he scrapes together to spend with Rosalina.

And it's awful still, as I've grown more aware of the world around me, senses heightened, waiting for the instance where the misbalance begins to actually do the unbalancing, but nothing seems any different. Life carries on the same. My work still gives me new projects with new deadlines. Rosalina still goes to school. The only difference is Miguel.

I barely see him. Rosalina misses him. He's so busy that I can't help but fear he's going to burn out disastrously. Of the glimpses that I do get of him, he always looks so tired. How long can he go on like this before he crashes?

He's a husk of his former self. He reminds me of how I was when I first learnt about my husband; weary, hidden, clinging onto the last traces of resolve because that was the only way to survive. Because if he doesn't cling onto them, then all there is waiting for him is an abyss.

  "He's going to work himself into an early grave," Peter comments, uncharacteristically solemn. And he's right. He's right.

I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin upon them. I don't know how to help - I don't even know if I can help. This is all stuff way out of my pay grade. I'm not a spider-person. I don't know science the way the vast majority of occupants here do, I can barely wrap my head around the concept of the multiverse. All I can do is try to make it easy for him, to be the helpful wife who brings him dinner and reminds him to shower and to take care of the house and to remain silent about how lonely I am.

  And I am lonely. I am so, so lonely. I knew that, eventually, the honeymoon period would end, that the lovesick hormones and the sex-drives-on-speed would eventually slip into something a little more faded - but I expected it to end when we'd have a disagreement about butter belonging in the fridge or pantry or something of similar unimportance.

  Not this. Not this dramatic, this dire.

  And it is so lonely being alone.

But I don't dare complain. Not with the way Miguel looks at me like guilt is stuffing itself down his throat and choking him like a screwed-up bunch of mothballs and the dust from an uncleaned car's dashboard. Not when Gabriel keeps saying 'failed formulas' and 'Miguel' and 'sleep deprivation' in the same sentences to the Spideys that he thinks I don't overhear.

  Peter and Jess eventually leave, sent on a mission wearily ordered by Miguel. I stay at my desk and continue to watch him with an amount of worry that's suffocating me from the inside out. It kills me that there's not a way for me to stop this. It kills me that I can't waltz up to Miguel with a solution to all of his problems and then kiss him silly.

  But what can he do? What can I do? There's nothing to be done about all this, at least nothing within my power. All I can do is wait.

••🕷️••

  It's raining again. It always rains in summer.

  Absentminded, I watch the storm outside the kitchen window and turn my spoon through my tea. It's quiet. It's the middle of the night. I'm tired.

  Rainwater washes down the pane. Lightning flashes, followed by the rolling rumble of thunder. My teaspoon clinks against the ceramic rim of my cup. A towel waits for Miguel on the kitchen table for when he returns from patrol.

  The next clap of thunder is accompanied by the sound of the window behind me opening and closing, the pad of feet dropping onto the tiles of the kitchen floor. I can feel his hesitation.

  I retrieve the milk from the fridge silently. It's good timing, he can have this cup. I'll make myself another.

  "It's late," Miguel says, breaking the silence.

  "I know."

  "You should be asleep."

  I unscrew the bottle top and pour in a small dollop the way he likes it. "Couldn't."

  I turn to him with the cup and place it on the table. Miguel still stands by the window, hovering, expelling guilt like he's a secretious creature. Water drips from him onto the hardwood floor. The sight of him in his suit doesn't give me the usual tingle down my spine, the warm pooling in my gut, the usual thrill of attraction. I'm too tired.

  The dull thunk of the cup being set onto the kitchen table moves Miguel forward. He takes the towel and wraps it around himself and sits down with a weary sigh. I make myself my own tea. He sips.

  "Gracias, cariño," he murmurs quietly. I can feel his gaze lingering on my back, loaded with questions. He can smell mine on me; all the things I want to say, locked behind the prison of my teeth. I didn't expect him to speak first.

  "I'm sorry."

  The spoon pauses in the sugar bowl. I stare at the brown granules.

  "I'm trying," he murmurs. "I'm trying to fix things, I am-"

  Dropping my spoon into the sugar, I move to behind his chair. His apology cuts off when I cup his chin, tilt his head back, and press my lips to his.

  "Why are you apologising, amor?" I quietly hum. "None of this is your fault. Look at you." I sink my lips against his forehead. "You're so tired. It's not your fault that you're trying to fix things. It's not your fault you're busy. I just want you to be okay."

  Miguel closes his weary eyes. We both know he's not okay.

  "... have you considered dropping some of your responsibilities?" I ask.

  His exhale is drawn out, laden with the premonition that he knew this question was coming. I knew it was coming, too. It'd been hanging over my head like rotten mistletoe for the past month. I've grown tired of seeing him like this. It's time for Mrs. O'Hara to put her foot down.

  "I can't," Miguel says, resigned with the defeat that clings to him.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I have to make sure-"

  "Just you?" I challenge, though let my thumbs continue to brush the sharp dip of his cheeks to mollify the firmness in my voice. "Or are you deciding to do all this by yourself?"

  "Gabriel's helping me with the quantum research," Miguel defends.

  "But he's a mechanic, so you're fronting the majority of the project. And what about everything else?"

  Miguel begins to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He's never liked being put on the spot by me. I unravel him in a way no one else can.

  He turns his head away from my hands and plants his elbows onto the table to wipe his face. A small facet of guilt blooms within my chest, but this has all gone too long. I sit on the edge of the table beside Miguel and cross my arms. This is an intervention.

  "The HQ-"

  "Can easily be run by Lyla," I counterpoint. "She's got the capabilities. And there's hundreds of Spideys that can help patrol Nueva York, so, really, Miguel, why-?"

"Because I have to know that it's perfect!" he snaps, standing, towering above me. I turn my chin up and match his gaze. "Because if I can't make sure with absolute certainty that the multiverse won't cave in on itself, then we could risk losing everything - every world, every branch, every Rosalina out there."

  My stance softens. His sharp-tongued panic melts through me like a hot knife through butter.

  I get it, I do. I understand the craving to know everything, to control it all, to make sure things run smoothly. I do it at work, sometimes. I do it with Rosalina and Miguel - knowledge is comfort, it's safety. But we're all human - or partly, in his case - and we all have limits.

  Miguel's taking to his limits with a sledgehammer. 

  "Miguel." I say his name in a low, soft hum and reach up to press my palm to his cheek. He sinks into my touch despite himself. "How can you save everyone if you won't even take care of yourself? Who will save everyone if you burn yourself out?"

  He deflates all at once, slumping his shoulders and turning his eyes down as quickly as he sprung up to defend his stance. I press my chest into his and thread my fingers through his thick, dark hair. His suit's still wet. My clothes slowly dampen. Outside, the rain continues to pour.

"How's Rosita?" Miguel asks. He sits back down onto the seat and pulls me with him, slotting me atop his lap. It's his way of subtly agreeing.

"She misses you," I answer. I trail my nails along his scalp and he sighs. "We both do. But we're okay."

Miguel's only response is a discontent hum.

"Jameson's said that we're moving back into the office next week," I mention, so any time that I do get to spend with you, even if it's been only minutes recently, is going to be even less. But I don't say that aloud.

Miguel leans his head back to fix me with a frown. "You're leaving the HQ?"

"Yeah." I smile ruefully and twist his curls around my fingers, dark as chocolate night. "I might actually start getting my work done without racing to reach my deadlines."

  "I never did the distracting," he defends with a squeeze of my waist. "I was just complicit in them."

My nose huffs in amusement. "And people say you don't have a sense of humour."

"Don't go telling anyone."

I shake my head with a curt smile. "You know I tell Peter everything."

Miguel groans and closes his eyes in halfhearted exasperation. He's probably looking forward to no more Peter-Y/n gang ups. That's one less thing to tire him out.

And he really does look tired. I stare at the flickering of his black lashes brushing his cheeks, the darkness beneath his eyes. I slip my hands down to admire the contours of his face and he turns into my palm, smells the scent of my wrist. Even this weary, even this exhausted, his beauty is haunting.

"I think it's bed time," I whisper. "And I think you need to take tomorrow off. Have a sleep in."

Miguel's eyes peek open, a slit of ruby cut by onyx. "I can't-"

"You can," I say firmly. "And you will."

  Miguel sends me a look like he wants to argue further but knows he'll never win. He accepts it with a long, low sigh and a nod, resigned.

  "I'll take tomorrow off," he agrees.

  "Good." I press my lips to his again, because I really have missed him, and I really have missed kissing him. I slide off his lap and tug on his arms so the massive bulk of a man will stand. He stifles a yawn with a fist. "Let's go to sleep."

  "Amen," Miguel mumbles, and lets me lead him down the hall and up the stairs.

••🕷️••

  After a month of waking alone, it's nice to open my eyes and find myself smooshed deeply into Miguel's chest. It's such bliss that even the way he holds me just a little too tightly doesn't ruin it. I brush my fingers over his slumbering face and am happy to be squeezed breathless.

He only wakes when, twenty minutes later, Rosalina bursts into the room, half-dressed with one arm through the hole of her t-shirt. "Get up! We're late!"

"No, we're not." I push Miguel's lifting head back into the pillow. He makes a sound of complaint. "We're all having the day off."

Rosalina pauses and eyes me suspiciously. "... we are?"

Miguel pulls the pillow over his head. "Take the win, mija," he mumbles.

She doesn't need any more convincing than that.

An hour later, when Miguel convinces me that he physically cannot stay in bed any longer without going insane, we make pancakes for breakfast while the morning summer sun filters through the kitchen windows. He's still tired, his movements slow, but it's a content type of weariness. His smiles come easier when I peek at him.

  Behind us and still dressed in her jammies, Rosalina watches kids dressed for school walk down the street in dubious bewilderment.

"Do you want sugar and lemon or golden syrup?" I ask her before flipping a pancake. It's a satisfying golden-brown and the scent of the cooking batter leaves my mouth watering. Miguel slices up banana and unfreezes the berries with drowsy concentration, sipping the coffee he stole from me.

"Golden syrup," Rosalina slowly answers.

"Good choice," Miguel says distractedly. He glances down at me as I pour out some more batter into the sizzling pan. "Should we go out for dinner tonight? We can see what's on at the movies."

"A family date," I comment with a smile. "I like it."

"What's happened?" Rosalina finally demands to know. She plants her hands on her hips and stares us down. "You guys are acting weird, so something's happened. Did someone die?" Her eyes blow wide. "Is mom pregnant? Am I finally getting a baby sister?"

Miguel spit takes his coffee. I laugh shortly and grab him the hand towel to dry his chin.

"No, papita," I say amusedly. "You're not getting a baby sister."

"Not yet," Miguel murmurs under his breath, so I slap him with the towel instead. "Ay, ¡vaya pues!"

  I send him a dry look and turn back to the stove. "Dad's been so busy recently and we've both missed him, so we're all having a day off to spend together."

  Rosalina likes this idea immediately. She shadows Miguel as he gathers the toppings and helps to carry the lemons. "Can we do this all the time? Every week?"

  "Nice try," Miguel says with a smirk.

  "Once a month?"

  "No."

  Rosalina sighs. "Darn."

  I snicker and lay the last pancake onto the tower beside me. Switching off the stove and grabbing the plate, I place it on the dining table. "Food's up."

  Rosalina drags her chair to sit right beside her dad and steals the pancake he just scooped onto his plate. The unamused look he sends my way leaves me in giggles. She hums happily to herself and makes her super-healthy breakfast creation of golden syrup, berries and icing sugar. Miguel's is just as bad.

  "What do you want to do today, Papita?" I ask.

She thinks for a second while chewing. Miguel spreads more sugar across his pancake, and I send it a flummoxed look. How can someone eat so much crap and still have the body of a Greek God? His metabolism is insane. No fair.

Rosalina hums contemplatively and kicks her feet beneath the table. "I wanna play soccer."

"You never fail to impress me by how much you love kicking a ball around and getting muddy," I say with a smile. I lean closer. "You and me verse dad?"

Rosalina's eyes brighten and she nods enthusiastically. "We'll kick his butt!"

"Heck yeah, we will." But only because he'll let us win. I reach my arm over the table and fist bump my daughter. She does so with a gleeful giggle, totally unaware that we are the only people in the multiverse capable of winning against Miguel. Her naive bliss in the light of the morning sun is sweet.

  Miguel rolls his eyes and pours a sickening amount of golden syrup onto his pancakes.

  After a slow breakfast and taking even longer to get changed, we finally depart for our small, local park. It's a beautiful summer day, so Rosalina carries her game ball and we walk. My hand's entwined with Miguel's. The sidewalk is not quite so busy as it would be during rush hour.

  "Are you okay?" I ask him, quiet so that our kid won't overhear. My finger reaches up to touch his temple. "Not overthinking, I hope."

  Miguel peeks down at me. "Just a little."

  "You better just be overthinking about how Rosita and I are gonna smash you into the dirt."

  The worry lines on Miguel's forehead fades as he chuckles, and I feel myself blossom a little with pride at getting him to smile. "You wish."

  "I'm going to talk to Jess and Peter about divvying out your workload," I say as I swing our hands between us. Miguel grumpily remains silent, his acceptance one of reluctance. "If they can handle the multiverse and Spider-Man stuff, you can focus on your research with Gabe. And, y'know, not work yourself into an early grave."

  "I-"

  "If you're going to say 'I can handle it,' then stop talking."

  Miguel stops talking.

  Rosalina drops the ball to the ground as soon as her sneakers hit the grass of the park. She kicks it hard and gives chase, brimming with energy and giggles.

  I turn to Miguel with my hands on my hips. "I don't want to mother you, Mig, but I will if you don't give me any other out."

  He raises his palms in surrender. "I agreed with you!"

  "I know." I smile curtly. "I'm just driving the point home so you don't go behind my back." I step close and hold his arms to deliver the finishing blow. "Do it for Rosita."

  And how could Miguel refuse something like that? He turns his gaze to the field, where Rosalina's juggling the ball on her knees, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. He'd do anything for her. I should've pulled this card weeks ago.

  I squeeze his arms gratefully. He peeks back at me and I smile dolefully at the utter conflict that twists his expression.

"It'll work out," I say.

Miguel just sighs again and watches Rosalina kick the ball into a bush. She groans and drags her feet to retrieve it.

"I hope so," he mumbles.