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Miguel has a large mug of coffee held between his hands when there’s a knock at his door.
It isn’t often that he gets visitors, especially not at his own apartment. If he wants to be found, he’s typically hunted down at HQ. That’s where he spends most of his time, after all, and the location of his personal home isn’t just given out freely.
But a recent injury has forced him to take an extended break. He’d bartered for a week off and no more, stubborn as a bull and unwilling to settle for anything longer. But even that one week is something that Lyla has taken to very seriously, if only to fuck with him and nothing more. She’s a pretty shitty house nurse, if he does say so himself.
And he does. Very loudly.
It’s already been three days and he feels like he’s going crazy.
“It’s Peter B. Parker.” Lyla informs him helpfully before he can even ask, his mug being set off to the side as he makes his way to the door. He walks carefully on his bad leg, conscious enough not to irritate old wounds.
“What does he want?” Miguel grumbles, not even bothering to tug on a t-shirt. He’s tired and his bandages are pulling uncomfortably at his skin and he wants to be left alone during the entirety of his house arrest. Or his break as many of the others would call it. He doesn’t particularly feel like he’s resting. He feels more like he’s sitting and stewing in his own thoughts, aching and alone and with nothing to do.
He still doesn’t want visitors.
“He has a baby with him. Aw, and she’s cute.”
A baby.
That makes him pause for just a moment, standing in front of the door, hand resting over the knob. A baby.
Slowly, he tugs it open halfway through another set of rapid knocks.
He’s met with the sight of Peter Benjamin Parker in all his glory—dressed in loose sweatpants and a pink robe, brown eyes glinting in the late morning sun and his hand raised just slightly in the air—
And a baby is attached to his front.
“Migs! Didn’t even think you’d even answer for a minute there.” Peter laughs, his palm resting over a nest of red curls. His eyes dart over Miguel’s bare chest, tracing the lines of white wrappings. “You, uh, healing alright?”
“I thought I told you not to call me that.” He rasps, looking away from the dozing child over Peter’s torso.
“Eh, I ignore a lot of things you say.” Parker shrugs, swaying just slightly forward, fingers curling over one side of the door frame. “Thought I’d stop by to check on you. Mind if I come in?”
Miguel sighs, “You’re not gonna leave until I let you in anyway.”
Peter seems to consider that, lips pursed. “Yeah that sounds about right.”
Miguel lets him in.
It’s not the first time Peter has been to his apartment. It’s been sparingly, but it’s not unheard of. Miguel doesn’t know why he tolerates him so much, but he does. Even when he likely shouldn’t.
“This place is still just as empty as I remember it.” Parker comments, his fingers running through a layer of dust on one of the hallway tables. Miguel spends so little time in his own home that many of its surfaces look nearly untouched.
His most personal belongings are in his bedroom, stuffed in his nightstand or dresser. Photographs that are too painful to look at any longer, scrapbooks that have not been updated in a very long time, old artwork made with young, indelicate hands. Things he does not want to think about.
“Why are you here, Parker?” Miguel says tersely, retrieving his half-empty mug of coffee. He sips at it slowly, peering at Peter over the rim, watching him fumble in that nervous way that he does. He bounces the baby in his arms and draws Miguel’s gaze to her as she blinks into wakefulness, blue eyes bright as she makes a soft sound.
Miguel’s chest feels too tight, the world too small to hold him.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed the new addition.” He huffs, looking anxious and tentative but also bright. Peter Benjamin Parker looks a lot damn happier than Miguel has seen him in a while, his honey eyes creasing with a small smile. He doesn’t know why that satisfies him, just a bit, but it does.
“And this is May Parker. But I like to call her Mayday.” He takes one of her small hands, gently getting her to wave at Miguel.
His fingers tighten over his mug, teeth clenching with the flex of his jaw. He can’t get a single word out, and even if he could, he’s not quite sure what he’d even say.
Peter keeps talking, “And I know you got hurt recently, and I do want you to know that I’m really glad you’re okay. You gave a lot of people a scare, believe it or not.” He snorts, walking closer with that half-genuine half-humorous look that he often wears, “And I knew you’d probably be miserable and locked up at home so—thought I’d stop by and give you a chance to meet her.”
Peter is just a foot away from him now. Miguel can smell shampoo and baby wipes, lotion and something sweet. He can feel how warm Peter runs, emanating a pleasant heat.
“You wanted me to meet your kid?”
Peter shrugs with a smile, answering easily like it’s obvious. “Of course I did.” He gently takes her out of her carrier, settling her in his arms and slowly rocking back and forth.
Her bright blue eyes find Miguel, fingers stuffed in her mouth as she peers at him curiously, gurgling into her fist. Her fair skin is dusted with freckles, red curls already wild around her head, dressed in a Spiderman onesie and wriggling against Peter’s chest.
It makes old memories writhe behind his aching ribs, something twisting in his gut that is familiar in its rot. Guilt and grief and loneliness; companions he’s come to know well, that he’s come to live with. He swallows thickly, setting his mug off to the side. He feels nearly sick.
“You wanna hold her?” Peter asks, snapping Miguel out of his thoughts, looking at him with soft brown eyes, creased at their corners.
Miguel’s hands flex at his sides. “I don’t know, Parker.” He murmurs, “It’s been a while.” The excuse sounds awful, even to his own ears. He wouldn’t forget something like that, not when memories of her flit across his mind unbidden so often. And now, they find him again, the remnants of a small body held in his arms, of babbled words and coos.
Peter, predictably, snorts in amusement. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
He looks at May, at her soft curls and bright eyes. He feels raw, like flayed nerves, skin torn open to expose something vulnerable and pulsing.
“My talons—”
“Miguel.” Peter laughs softly, bouncing Mayday in his arms, “I trust you, alright? And you don’t have to come up with all the bullshit excuses. C’mon.” He holds May out to him carefully, and with one last shaky breath, Miguel takes her into his arms.
It’s been a very long time since he’s had to gentle himself in this way, since he’s had any reason to. But Mayday Parker rests over his chest, blue eyes wide and staring up at him, her small body looking tiny against him. Delicate and breakable and so, so precious.
His teeth sink into the insides of his cheeks, his throat constricting around a thick swallow. Her hands reach up as she babbles, her fingers clenching as she attempts to grab for him. He leans in, allowing her soft hands to pat over his jaw, her mouth spreading in a gummy smile as she giggles.
“Hello.” He whispers, her fingers clumsily pressing over his lips and then his nose before one hand settles in his hair.
He can’t help but sway slowly on his feet, his hands nearly shaking but carefully holding May close. His lips press together tightly, something bubbling in him almost violently, a torrent of something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel but has been fighting its way to the forefront for longer than he can remeber.
Peter was there the day she died. The day he had lost her again.
“Oh, mija.” He breathes and there’s a burn behind his eyes that he can feel building, spilling over before he can even try to fight against it. It’s like a bubble of pressure has popped open in his chest, like a heavy release after nothing but tension and pressure.
When he cries, he’s not loud. It’s not the breaking of a dam so much as the trickles of a stream, easing out of him like relief, like a point that he was inevitably meant to reach. Peter is quiet, leaning against his side with nothing but a whispered murmur.
May’s hands catch on his tears, wiping through the wetness with a small sound before her hands return to herself, curling over his chest. She yawns, settling back into sleep as Miguel looks down at her. Her face smooths out, lashes flickering closed as she settles. He counts the time of her breaths, every steady rise and fall of her tiny chest.
She had been in his arms much like this, that day. The day he lost her with an entire world. And she had been all of his.
Miguel already knows what loss feels like. He knows it like an old dog knows its end is coming, like a permanent emptiness that has settled itself inside of him and made a home. He knew that she was gone, that he had known losing her twice-over. There was no bringing her back. He had already tried, selfish and undeserving and left alone, now.
He’s never getting her back.
May most certainly isn’t her, but that’s okay, he thinks. She doesn’t need to be.
Mayday snores softly in her sleep, twitching in his hold and burying closer. She gets a bit of drool on his chest, curls squashed flat to her face. His tears have trickled to stray droplets, something knocked loose in his chest, breaking apart.
“Yeah, she kinda has that effect on people.” Peter chuckles quietly, head leaning on Miguel’s shoulder. It’s a peace offering, in many ways. Parker doesn’t judge him, gives him the privacy and delicacy of not mentioning it. But he knows.
Miguel hums, his thumb running soothingly over May’s back.
“Thank you.” He says quietly, no louder than a soft rasp.
Parker is silent for a few moments, watching his daughter sleep in Miguel’s arms.
“Don’t mention it, big guy.” He eventually huffs, his knuckles pressing into Miguel’s spine gently. “She’s really warmed up to you already.”
Miguel carefully brushes a burgundy curl from her face.
He’s still living, even when he knows others are not. Sometimes, he forgets that.
Peter reminds him.