Chapter Text
There’s nothing special about the day that he first lost her.
He fixes her breakfast in the morning—eggs and toast and bacon. He cuts her bread into the shape of flowers and hearts because she likes it that way and he likes seeing her smile. He fills her pink mug with orange juice and sets it on the table before he goes to her room to wake her up. He turns on her light, watching as she wriggles over the sheets in irritation.
“You need to get up, mija.”
She sleepily trudges from her bed, stretching and yawning and leaning into his side. He pats her head with a soft chuckle, smiling down at her closed eyes, her lips pouty.
She talks about her upcoming game during breakfast, barely waiting to finish chewing before she’s speaking. He scolds her lightly and she says sorry, papa, and does it again when she gets too excited.
He fixes her hair before she leaves for school, his tongue caught under his teeth, fingers working carefully through silky strands and ribbons.
She’s chipper by the time they make it to the car, her jersey in her bag and her lips pulled into a smile. She leaves with her lunch bag and a kiss to his cheek, waving goodbye when he drops her off.
There’s nothing special about the day his world is ripped from him.
_______
He tries to find her amongst the rubble, clawing at concrete like a desperate animal, breathing so hard that he’s wheezing with it. He throws rebar and cement to the side with a hissing growl, panic mixed with anger as he digs and digs and sees no sign of her.
“Mija? Gabriella?” He shouts, stumbling through the wreckage in an attempt to hear her, hoping that there’s something to hear because he hasn’t accepted any of the alternatives. He feels frenzied, choking on his breath and feeling sick with it, only kept calm because he knows that she needs him right now.
But there’s nothing for several long moments, no answers to his shouts as he calls her name, no sound other than the crumbling of rocks and the frantic shouts of other people in the street. His nose is full with the scent of smoke and gravel, sweat and blood and the smell of fear, and then—
“Papa?” Gabriella’s voice calls out, soft and weak and distressed. He breathes in, catching on the familiarity of her scent, and he runs for it.
“Gabriella!”
He strains to hear her again, ears catching on the rasps of her breaths and her wracking coughs, and he finds her bloodied shoe on the ground next to a large slab of concrete. He drops to his knees beside it, nearly choking on something that’s nearly relief, tentative and all-consuming, like hope.
“Gabriella? Are you under here?”
He hears her sob, a garbled and panicked noise that rattles in her chest, and he feels his entire body wrack with a shudder.
“Oh, mija. I’ll get you out. I’m right here, I’m right here—” He gets his hand under the ledge of it, grunting low in his throat as he heaves it up, ignoring the ache of his body. He hears her gasp, sucking in a heavy breath as he throws the rubble to the side, and he breathes out when he finally sees her—
Her head had been protected, the concrete propped up and leaving a small pocket of space for her to curl up on her side. But her leg is horribly discolored, a deep shade of purple and red, her ankle twisted at an odd angle. He pulls himself closer to her, a hand reaching under her back to pull her into his lap.
He meets the feeling of something hot and wet, and as she unfurls he sees that her arms are wrapped tightly around her stomach. She looks up at him with big, wet eyes, and his mask immediately dissolves.
“I’m here, I’m right here, you’re going to be okay.” He breathes, pulling her into his lap gently, but she still cries out in pain, small hands grasping at her stomach desperately. It makes his chest twist, ribs creaking with something he doesn’t want to name. He doesn’t know how he’s still breathing.
“Oh, I know, I know.” He presses down onto her gut—there’s so much blood that his hand is immediately soaked in it, even through his gloves, impossibly hot and undeniably damning.
“Papa—” She whines, her small hand wrapped around his wrist, the other grasping at his neck. “It—it hurts—”
“Oh, mija, I know. I know, baby. You did good, I—I’ll get you somewhere safe, alright?” He brushes her dark curls from her face, thumbing over her pained tears. “You’re going to be okay, you’re okay.”
He’s lying. He knows he is. Why is he lying to her?
Her bloody hand cups his neck as she gasps, her face scraped and bruised and pushing at his chest for a semblance of comfort.
“Press down on this, okay, baby? I need to pick you up.” He moves her hands over her own stomach, watching blood spill past her small fingers, and he feels sick. Feels like he can’t breathe, like he’s a desperate creature aching for something already slipping from his grasp. He carefully tries to take her into his arms and she cries out, sobbing into his shoulder, her fingers weak and clumsy.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby, I know it hurts.”
He knows there are paramedics in the streets, knows that there are already so many helping the other survivors. He just needs to get to them.
Gabriella whimpers quietly with every hastened step, her head hidden in his chest as she cries. His entire front is soaked in her blood, sticky with heat.
He can hear her heartbeat. Thready and weak and overworked. His nose is flooded with the scent of iron, his head pulsing in pain. Her hands slip over her stomach, weak and tired.
She’s not going to make it.
His lips find her forehead, her skin clammy and over-warm. He knows, he knows, he knows—
He holds her a little tighter, his face pressed into her dark hair, “I love you, mija. I love you so much. You know that, right?”
She makes a small noise, caught between a gurgle and a cough as she nods against his shoulder, breath hitching with a soft cry. He can hear the ring of sirens, flashing light reflecting off of the surrounding buildings. He hears her suck in a short breath, her chest jerking on a whine—
Her hands fall from her stomach.
He stops walking, fingers spasming over her limp body, her face hidden under his chin. He breathes in and it tremors, his legs feeling numb beneath him. His tears dissolve into her dark hair, his throat working around a thick swallow.
“Mija?”
He can’t hear her heartbeat.
He tugs her closer, her head lolling against his neck. His eyes squeeze shut, teeth bared around a strangled sob. He cups her nape, swaying on the spot as his forehead sinks down to her shoulder.
“Oh mija, oh God please, please—”
He sinks to his knees slowly, his own legs unable to hold his weight any longer, shudders wracking through him as he chokes on nothing. He can’t breathe, cradling her body to his chest, his head swimming and his talons catching uncontrollably on her skin. It makes him feel sick, his hands shaking as he jerks them away from her.
Her body slips into the crook of his arm, eyes slitted open.
“Oh, baby girl please don’t do this to me, my baby—” He chokes, pulling her closer as he rocks from side to side, shaky hands curling around her shoulder, cradling her head. He buries his face into her neck, feeling as if his ribs were cracking open, nerves sparking like nails over their raw endings.
He doesn’t remember how long he had stayed there, holding her, sobbing and begging for something when no one was listening.
It hadn’t changed anything.
_______
Miguel hasn’t slept for more than three hours a night in the past week.
The only thing keeping him going is his own physiology, working itself to keep him from keeling over.
He’s throwing himself into work, catching anomalies, making his way through dimension after dimension until he can think of nothing else but what he needs to do. He doesn’t want to think of anything else, doesn’t need to. He’s pushing himself, he knows, but it’s what he needs to stay focused.
Lyla calls him an idiot. Miguel thinks it’s a good thing that he doesn’t give a damn about what she thinks.
Or, it'd be easier not to care if she was the only one on his ass about it.
“You’re behaving like a child.” Jess informs him succinctly after another close scrape, Miguel’s body left in more bandages than skin. She looks at him, a mixture of disapproving and worried—because she’s a good person who cares. He wishes that she didn’t.
“I’m fine.” He grunts, flickering through files, the white gauze on his chest pulling with the movement of his arms. His whole body aches, but he ignores it, the persistent sting sinking somewhere into the back of his mind. “It’s fine.” He repeats when she does nothing other than look at him, unimpressed.
“Who the hell is this helping, Miguel?”
“Everyone.” He snaps, “The entire multiverse. I’m just doing my damn job.”
“You’re working yourself into the ground is what you’re doing.” She says cooly, her gaze flinty, stubborn to a fault and still so obviously fucking concerned. “You’re getting reckless, Miguel. You’re going to get someone hurt, whether it’s yourself or not.”
Miguel’s fingers clench into his palms and he wants nothing more than for her to leave. Or maybe for his talons to spring out, to claw into his skin until he didn’t have to think anymore, focused on nothing but the sting of pain and flesh tearing.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Miguel—”
“I’m not arguing over this.” He says dismissively, looking away from her as his teeth grind together, his jaw working.
Out of the corner of his eye he can see her throw her hands up, frustrated as she gasps in irritation. “I can’t fucking believe you. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
Good.
The thought nearly shocks him, sudden and intense and—he doesn’t want to think about it.
“But fine. Fine. What do I know?” She scoffs, pacing across the floor, walking just a little closer. His nose catches in her scent, woodsy and familiar. “But I do care about you, you know that? Even when you’re the biggest damn asshole in this entire place.”
She sighs, long and tired, as if the fight is slowly leaving her.
“I know you’re better than this.”
Miguel doesn’t look at her, eyes raking over words he can’t truly process, his mind a whirring mess. Eventually, she leaves without another word, scoffing tiredly to herself. He wants to apologize. He knows that he should. She doesn’t deserve to have him act like this towards her. He should go find her again.
He doesn’t.
_______
He’s drifting.
There’s an ache somewhere in his chest, a stinging pain in his spine and head. He breathes out, wet and shuddery.
He sees her face in his dreams often, tan skin lit bronze in the sun, glinting with sweat as she runs up to him. She’s wearing her jersey, her dark hair falling from that meticulous braid she had begged him to do. Her arms wrap around his neck, legs latching on to him as she cheers, hugging him close.
He’s proud of her. He always is. His little girl, his daughter.
And his hands are hot and warm, squelching over her back with blood, red and sticky and there's so, so much—clogging his senses full of copper, her body sliding down his front limply—losing life or dissolving in his arms, but always gone, gone, gone—
There’s fingers brushing over his shoulder and he jerks, swiping out on instinct, claws catching on fabric. He hears the snap of thread, a small yelp as cotton splits under the points of his talons.
“Woah!” He hears a nervous chuckle, a breathless voice accompanied by the near imperceptible sound of feet skittering across the ground. He only catches it because every muscle in his body is locked, listening closely as he breathes in, scenting the room. Miguel blinks, his chest heaving with heavy pants as he tries to remember where he is.
He can’t smell iron—only lotion and baby powder and the cling of something sweet. He sucks in another breath, re-familiarizing himself with a scent that he knows.
It’s just Peter.
“Hey, buddy, didn’t mean to scare you or anything.” Peter smiles, a hand scratching over the back of his head.
His hoodie now sports a large gash on the front, the fabric torn from Miguel’s talons. His brown hair flops haphazardly over his forehead, messy after a long day. He has a small carton in his hand, smelling of rice and something spicy, the scent burning Miguel’s sensitive nose.
Miguel stares at him, eyes fixated on the tear in his clothes. He hadn’t meant to do that.
“Thought you might be hungry.” Peter continues, not even seeming to acknowledge it, placing the carton on his desk. Miguel’s hands flexes, fingers curling into his palm and his talons carefully tucked out of sight.
His jaw feels sore from laying against the hard surface of the table top, a steady ache pulsing behind his brow, his eyes sore from lack of sleep. His bandages feel too tight over his chest, pulling on his ribs, but he should be well into the healing process by now. It’ll heal quickly, and that’s what matters.
“But now I’m starting to think you need to get home.” He says softly, a thinly veiled casual tone that barely hides his concern.
Miguel doesn’t want to deal with him right now.
“I’m busy.” He rasps, flicking through paperwork, his mind still sluggish and still stuck on those damn gashes in Peter’s hoodie. What if he had caught his skin? Ripped him open and left blood splattered across the floor? Peter’s senses are likely the only thing that had stopped him from getting sliced.
Miguel flexes his jaw, teeth clenching together, a slight tremor running through his hands. He can’t even remember what he was doing before he passed out, can’t remember what time it’s supposed to be. His fingers clench until he steadies himself, breathing in slowly, feeling the way it catches in his chest.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Real busy.” Peter mutters, sounding unconvinced, standing closely behind Miguel’s chair and peering over his shoulder. Miguel’s shoulders raise, feeling Peter’s heat when he’s this close, the steady thump of his heart and soft breaths filling his ears.
“Parker, I don’t have the time—”
“You should still eat at least.” Peter huffs, finding a spare chair at Miguel’s side and flopping into it, “I spent money on that, Migs, I’ll be real upset if it goes to waste.”
Peter’s eyes are on him, a small quirk to his mouth as he rests his arm over the back. He’s infuriating. He’s one of the very few people Miguel would ever consider a friend.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Eat your food, Migs.”
Miguel sighs and thumbs the small carton open. He pretends like he can’t see the little triumphant smile that Peter gives him out of the corner of his eye, if only to spare him his own sanity. The rice is spicy, full with bits of peppers and vegetables and chicken. It’s not bad, and his gut tightens with hunger with the first bite, growling like it’s remembered that it’s empty. He can’t remember the last time he cared to eat.
“Find something better to do other than stare, Parker.” Miguel grumbles, pushing his food around before bringing it to his mouth.
Peter makes an innocent whistling sound, spinning around in his chair and tugging out his phone. As he eats he swipes absently through digital files, eyes raking over paragraphs he can barely focus on long enough to read.
Being injured always makes him drowsy, his body expending energy to heal itself. He’s supposed to be resting, recuperating and making up for the expended effort his body takes in keeping him alive at all.
He knows what’s there to meet him behind dark eyelids, and it is nothing peaceful.
Peter is silent other than his breaths and his heartbeat, but the sound is a comfort. Quiet and steady, everpresent, grounding in its tangibility. He finds himself focusing on that more than anything, Peter’s easy-going presence, warm and happier in the recent months since May’s birth.
It’s ironic, nearly, that she had just been born before—before.
He leaves the carton half-finished on the desk, tired and feeling sick to his stomach, unable to manage a full tray of food. It makes him feel irritated, a flash of frustration hot in his chest before it quickly extinguishes. He’s too exhausted to care. He blinks, the lights of the screens making his eyes sting, overused and sensitive.
“Hey.”
Miguel’s head snaps up, finding Peter’s brown eyes looking up at him, leaning forward in his chair like he’s tempted to reach out for him. Miguel carefully turns away, the thought making his throat feel tight.
“You doing alright?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” He rubs a callused palm over his forehead, his other hand rubbing over the bandages on his chest, trying to ease a pain that he can’t reach.
“You should be resting at home, you know?” Peter says, rolling just slightly closer, but not enough to run the chance of them touching. He’s silent for several more moments, glinting eyes flickering towards him before darting away again, “Jess told me about what happened.”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now.” Miguel hisses, fingers tugging through his hair until it stings.
“Hey, alright, alright.” Peter puts his hands up, that smile easing onto his face again, “We don’t have to talk about it. But—just… she’s not the only one who’s worried.”
Of course. Peter had been there the day that it happened. The day he lost her and everything else with the wisps of her body. For the second time.
Miguel hasn’t brought it up since.
“I don’t need to be doted on, Parker.”
“I know—”
“Then stop.” He snaps, teeth bared as rounds on Peter, watching his face drop. Peter’s mouth parts around a quiet breath, lips pressing together as he turns to the side, avoiding his gaze.
“Alright. I—alright.” He sighs, slowly rising to his feet, his hands fiddling awkwardly with the tears in his clothes. It makes Miguel swallow, jaw clenching so hard that it aches.
“Just call me if you need me, okay? I need to get home to MJ and May.” His hand reaches out, hovering just barely over Miguel’s shoulder but he doesn’t follow through. His fingers curl into his palm instead, teeth caught in his bottom lip, and he slips away.
Miguel watches him go, something heavy and suffocating in his chest.