#justice for the faraway land

[glitchinginhyperfixis]

not posting this to the tag bc i love the phrase “local village with three waterfalls” but like that one person said the local village and the faraway land arent the same thing. the local village doesnt have three waterfalls. hes saying he wants to leave the local village to find the three waterfalls!

[ahsterism]

tag drop pt. 4: g.enshin (1/3)

[greensagephase]

Nonviolent Communication - Part Ten

Miguel O'Hara x SpideyFemReader

Summary: Miguel continues to recover while trying to figure out how to move on. You take another step forward in your own mourning journey.

Word Count: 23,982

Warnings: I reviewed this three times but I may have missed some errors so apologies in advance; more Spanish terms than usual, I think but translations are provided at the end like always; mostly fluff with a bit of angst but it's necessary angst

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four |

Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight |

Part Nine |Part Ten |Part Eleven|

Part Ten

A little while after your friends leave, Miguel and you lie on your respective beds for the night. You’re already passed out asleep but Miguel is still awake and he finds himself, once again, watching you sleep. He looks away, remembering that Lyla caught him staring the previous night. Yet, there’s something comforting about watching you sleep. Miguel doesn’t understand why but there is. There’s the sound of your breathing; slow, even, and soft. It’s like an invitation to sleep. Like a calling, letting him know that it’s safe for him to do the same.

There’s also the sight of you. You’re once again hugging your pillow and Miguel cannot help but wonder if this is how you always sleep, as this is the third time he’s seen you like this. Watching you sleep, Miguel cannot help but feel ternura, a word in Spanish that translates to “tenderness” or “endearment.” However, he specifically thinks of “ternura” because no term in English does justice to the Spanish translation. The term incites a much deeper feeling than “tenderness” or “endearment” in him. It’s different somehow, even if they translate to the same thing and he suddenly wonders, as he watches you, why he’s even having this chain of thought.

He shakes his head gently, wanting to clear his mind and tries to do so by turning his attention to the windows instead with a soft sigh. The blinds are drawn but he can still see through them. His eyes land on faraway lights from cars, while his ears remain focused on your breathing. His mind shifts back to his thoughts from earlier when your friends were here. On how he’ll try to move forward.

He has time to think about how he’ll do it. He knows it’ll be hard and that it won’t be an overnight change as he’s lived with this mindset for such a long time. It’ll take small steps, and some will be harder to reach than others, but he’ll try. He hasn’t given up in the past when it comes to other things, so Miguel now tries to think of this process in the same way. He won’t give up on it. He won’t give up on moving forward. For them. He smiles faintly, still looking out the windows from the bed, as he remembers his family members telling him they were always around. He looks around the room now, wondering. He remembers Gabriel’s words.

“We’re always with you. Even if you don’t believe it or sense us, we’re always there. In every mission. In every universe. Every day and sleepless night.”

Every sleepless night. Miguel isn’t sleepless tonight. Nor lonely. He looks over at you and for a second, he swears he sees the blanket draped over you move slightly. Miguel blinks and shakes his head once again, thinking he should really go to sleep now. With his eyes on you, he can’t help the thought that comes to his mind suddenly.

“If you’re really around at all times, spare me from losing again. From losing… her.”

And maybe it’s silly but Miguel doesn’t take his thought back. He means it and he hopes that if his family is really here or somewhere out there listening, that they’ve heard his plea. With that, he finally closes his eyes and leans back on the pillows, letting your breathing pull him to sleep.

★★★

The next morning when Miguel wakes up, he finds you awake. You look like you’ve showered already and you’re once again typing into the tablet he’s seen you with this entire weekend. It’s Monday and Miguel suddenly feels like he ought to be in his lab, which he now realizes he’s been away from since Friday night. The thought makes him pause for a few seconds. It’s been so long since he’s spent a weekend out of the lab, and he can’t believe it was due to injuries.

He stretches slightly, wincing when he feels pain in his lower abdomen from the trident wound. You notice and are at his side in the blink of an eye.

“Are you okay?”

Miguel nods, meeting your eyes. “Yes, I just stretched too much. Don’t worry, the pain is subsiding now. I thought it’d be better today.”

“Little by little. Try not to put too much strain, especially on the stitches please,” you reply, watching Miguel with concerned eyes, which he takes notice of.

He instantly feels guilty for making you feel concerned over him, so he gives you a small smile, hoping that it’ll reassure you. It does or at least he believes so because you smile back at him.

“Yes, you’re right. I’m just not used – to this,” Miguel admits and then realizes he’s not used to any of what happened this weekend, and so much happened. There were many realizations. Many firsts. Too many thoughts. All with you by his side; his friend, the one that hardly left his side this entire weekend. The one that found him on that rainy rooftop. The one that gave him the gizmo to keep him from glitching. The one that watched him died and come back to life. The one that fed him, and helped him showered with such care and tenderness. His friend. Miguel’s face suddenly feels very warm. He clears his throat and motions to the tablet that you left behind on the fold out chair. “You’re still working on the report?”

You nod, feeling more relaxed now that you see Miguel is no longer in pain. “Sections two and three are done. I’m almost done with the anomaly section,” you inform him, and he nods, remembering that he wants to ask you if you’d be interested in working with him on the report from now on. He decides to ask later, maybe after breakfast.

“That’s good. I look forward to seeing the complete edition,” he answers with another small grin.

“Hopefully you like it,” you reply with your own grin. “Do you want to get up and walk around a bit? Maybe use the bathroom?”

Miguel nods and so, you help him once again to get to the bathroom. You help him brush his teeth and offer to clean his face, which he hesitantly agrees to again. Once he’s ready, you help him walk to the fold-out chair as he doesn’t want to be in bed anymore.

You offer Miguel breakfast and coffee from the cafeteria, which he accepts. You surprise Miguel with another large coffee cup, making him wonder how you managed to do it again. It’s been weeks since he was able to get his hands on one but you’ve managed to get three in the span of two days. The two of you have breakfast together before Jess and Peter B. show up to inform Miguel about the day’s tasks. He nods and listens intently to them while you stand by the windows, behind Jess and Peter B., listening quietly to the updates. At last, Jess and Peter B. head out, leaving you and Miguel alone again.

You offer Miguel the tablet so he can check on some things while you fix the room. Shortly after, the medical team arrives to check on Miguel. You’re both happy and relieved when they report that his injuries are healing correctly and that he’s in the right direction for a full recovery. He’s doing so well that he’s discharged with the instruction to rest at home for another day or two, at least until he can move his arms without hurting himself. 

So, that’s how you find yourself in Miguel’s penthouse over an hour later after the doctor discharged him. It was an hour later for different reasons. You needed to pick up the items from the bathroom and transport everything Miguel received from spider members to his penthouse. The main reason, however, was that the two of you simply stuck around the infirmary room even when you could’ve left sooner.

As you place your personal hygiene items out on one of the nightstands in Miguel’s guest room now, you can’t help but think how it felt like Miguel didn’t want to leave the infirmary room. You wonder if maybe he had the same thought you had as you were packing up. You were picking up his personal hygiene items from the bathroom and suddenly realized it was time to leave the place that became somewhat of a home over the weekend. The two of you were there the entire time on your own with the exception of two or so hours, even with other spider members in the building. 

It was a room in which a lot happened, some of which you wish to not think about while there are other things that make you smile. Exhaustion, fear, helplessness, and other emotions you felt in the early hours on Saturday morning were replaced by the afternoon. Happiness and relief were felt when he woke up at last in the afternoon. There was a bit of humor from the horrible hospital food and Miguel’s grumpiness. There was comfort in seeing him awake and talking, and in his interest in the movies you watched together in the dimly lit room while it rained. There was vulnerability, tenderness, caring… You ate together. Talked. Slept. The two of you shared this one room and in a weird sense, it felt like it was your own little world away from everyone and everything. And perhaps Miguel felt like that, too.

Maybe that’s why he stalled. Maybe that’s why there was relief, gratitude, and something else in his eyes when you walked up to him and told him, “We can head to your penthouse if you’re ready now.”

And unknowingly, you’re correct. Miguel didn’t want to leave the infirmary room because he thought it meant going home to an empty penthouse. It meant your return to your universe. He felt selfish for stalling and for wishing that you’d stop packing but then you walked up to him and the way you looked at him when you told him the two of you could head out made him realize you had no plans on leaving his side yet. At last, he nodded and the two of you left the infirmary room to go to his penthouse. 

You finish putting away your items on the nightstand. You’re unsure of tomorrow but you’ll be spending the night today. With your hands on your hips, you look around the room. You remember vague details of the place from Saturday morning when you came looking for Miguel, hoping you’d find him here and that everything was fine. You sigh as you remember those moments so vividly, how you were rushing from room to room. You clear your head and focus on the bedroom instead. It matches the neutral theme the entire penthouse is decorated with. The room is organized and clean, which makes you wonder if Miguel cleans the place himself or if he has someone clean it, considering he hardly spends time here. Either way, you notice there’s no dust on the furniture.

Your gaze falls on a bookshelf, catching your attention. You walk to it and read some of the books’ titles, noticing some of them are specifically about genetics. You smile softly, remembering from somewhere that Miguel is a geneticist. It’s been a very long time since you learned that and you can’t even remember who mentioned it to you. Your eyes move to another shelf with more books though these are on technology. You notice a few of the titles are specifically about inventions and repairs. You hum, wondering but retreat from the bookshelf and walk to one of the windows in the bedroom.

You stand in front of it and look out before a strange sensation washes over you as you’re met with a beautiful sight of Nueva York. Tall buildings in Nueva York’s futuristic architecture and flying cars in the distance meet your gaze. You chase the sensation, wondering what exactly it is. It feels like you’ve been here before somehow, looking out of this very window but you know you haven’t. You chuckle to yourself and shake your head, knowing it’s been a crazy weekend and you’re probably just tired. You sigh softly as you stare out the window for a few seconds longer before you head out of the guest room.

You walk down the stairs, catching Miguel’s eyes from the living room. He sits on the couch closest to the stairs, so he looks up as soon as he hears your steps. The sight of you walking down the stairs makes him pause as he realizes it’s been a long time since anyone has been on the second floor. He doesn’t even know that this is your third time over this single weekend since he’s unaware that you came looking for him on Saturday morning.

You reach the bottom of the stairs at last and give him a smile. “Sorry if I took a while. I got a little distracted,” you admit.

Miguel raises his eyebrows softly, curious. “You didn’t, don’t worry about it. I hope you find everything to your liking. There are clean towels in the bathroom and other essentials you may need. If you need something, please let me know.”

“Everything is great, thank you,” you answer as you take a seat on the other couch, across from him.

Miguel nods. “I’m glad to hear that. I want to make sure your stay is comfortable,” Miguel says softly. “So, please let me know if there’s something you need.” You give Miguel a reassuring smile and nod before he adds, ”You said you got distracted?”

“The view. It’s so lovely,” you say with a smile and Miguel nods, knowing what you mean.

The view from the penthouse was one of the reasons he decided to move here in the first place back when he thought he’d spend a lot of time here. He did to some degree but he eventually spent less and less time after Gabriel passed away. As he sees your smile and enthusiasm about the view, it makes Miguel realize it’s been so long since he’s admired it. He honestly forgot about it. Before he gets a chance to respond, you look down at your gizmo.

“It’s almost lunch time. I was thinking – I’m kind of over cafeteria food. No offense, it’s great but would you like something homemade?” you ask slowly.

Miguel nods softly, a small grin on his face. “I would but – you don’t mind?”

You stand up from the couch, fixing your top. “I don’t mind. It might take me a minute to get acquainted with your appliances, but I got this. Do you have anything specific in mind?”

“Anything you make will be more than great to me,” Miguel says softly. “Really, I’ll have whatever you make. You’ve done so much and now this, too…”

“You’ve done this for me, too,” you interject quietly walking over to the console table between the two couches. “Besides, I think we could really use a homemade meal,” you add with a chuckle.

Miguel gives you a small grin. “I agree… Thank you. If we need to order groceries, let me know so I can order them.”

His last sentence makes Miguel pause. He holds your gaze, but you don’t seem to mind it, or even notice it. You smile and nod.

“Don’t worry about it. I have groceries at home that I can bring if needed, alright? You just sit here and relax, I’ll take care of the rest. And here are – all these remotes,” you say with a frown as you pick up multiple remotes. “If you want to watch TV in the meantime. I think – yeah, this one looks like it.”

You walk over to Miguel, who’s still thinking about his comment on the groceries, and place the remote in his hand. 

“Yeah, that’s the one. Thank you, Y/N,” Miguel responds at last, giving you a nod before you walk away to the kitchen.

He watches you before he looks down at the remote. He shakes his head, wondering why he’s stuck up on his comment. He turns on the TV but nothing catches his attention, so instead, he slowly looks around his living room from his seat.

The fact that he’s sitting there is strange to him. He can’t remember the last time he sat in his living room. It was some time after Gabriellas’s universe collapsed in the first week after his return. He couldn’t sleep because he was plagued by nightmares of Gabriella calling out to him in fear before she vanished from his arms forever. Yeah, that sounds about right to Miguel. He remembers coming to the living room and sitting here sometimes, in the darkness because he couldn’t stand being in his room. When sitting didn’t work anymore, he’d pace; sometimes forgetting for how long. He paced and paced, something he still does at HQ when he needs a break from the screens, trying to hold back the tears – trying to hold back from screaming in anger, grief, and loss in the dead of night, alone in this empty penthouse.

He remembers looking around on those nights. He barely visited the penthouse during his time in Gabriella’s universe. He had no reason to. It wasn’t his home anymore. It didn’t feel like home anymore. He remembers how foreign, cold, and lonely it felt when he came back. There was no warmth. No sign of family. There were no toys in the living room or pink glitter notebooks on the coffee table with crayons and colored pencils scattered about with the promise that they’d be used again the following day by their owner after homework was completed. There was nothing. It was an empty shell of a place he once hoped he could make a home of, and he was suddenly back because the place that had been his home, no longer existed. Just this.

He couldn’t bear it on top of his recurring nightmares. It was so much easier to immerse himself in work to avoid his thoughts and emotions. It was so much easier to avoid sleep, too, even though he often felt like he was stuck in his nightmares in plain daylight.

And so, that’s why he hardly spends any time here. He only shows up in the morning around six each day to shower and until recently, he’s been staying once a week to sleep thanks to you. Miguel leans back on the couch now as he remembers something from his dream. He scoffs silently as he thinks of Gabriel telling him to sleep and teasing him about gray hairs, which he’s sure he must have by now though he hasn’t noticed them.

“Gabrielito,” Miguel whispers with a small smile, shaking his head. “Trataré. Te lo juro.”

It’s another item on a long list of things Miguel will work on, little by little, but he will try. He’s already made up his mind. He will.

Miguel brings himself back to this moment. The TV is on and he can hear you in the kitchen cooking, yet another strange thing – for someone to be using the kitchen. He can’t help but focus on it. From the sound of cooking utensils and the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers; such mundane yet homey sounds.

Shortly after, Miguel hears your steps. The penthouse has a lovely scent from your cooking and when he looks up, he finds you carrying a plate with food for him. He feels both grateful and guilty at the sight. You’ve done so much for him and spent your weekend not only away from home but your entire universe to look after him. He’s glad the other spider members have kept watch over it while you’ve been here at least but there’s still guilt that you’ve been away for too long.

You don’t mind though. You haven’t even thought about how this is the first time you’ve been away from your apartment in a while, including your universe and you’ve no idea Miguel is thinking about this either, as his face reveals nothing about the matter. He offers you a small smile and thanks you, once again, for everything before you help him. You feel satisfaction when Miguel finishes everything with a delighted look on his face, a far different reaction from when he ate the steamed carrot from the infirmary.

Once he’s done eating, you eat, too. You clean the kitchen afterward and wonder what you’ll make for dinner as you’re still not in the mood for cafeteria or takeout food. On top of that, the way Miguel enjoyed the food lets you know he, too, prefers something homemade. You mentally go through all your groceries from back home and think about what you can cook. You remember a specific Mexican dish you enjoy and wonder if he’d like to eat that. It’s easy to cook but delicious and filling, so you ask Miguel how he feels about it when you finish cleaning the kitchen. 

“Hey, I was thinking about dinner. How do you feel about flautas?”

Miguel meets your gaze with a bit of a smile. It almost looks like he’s trying not to smile. He nods. “Flautas sound great. I can help you if you want,” he offers, with a glint in his eyes.

“You can give me advice from one of the stools.” 

“Just advice?” 

“And conversation, if you’d like. Nothing else though, as you still can’t lift your arms too much,” you say as you take a seat across from him on the other couch. 

Miguel at last gives you a small smile. “Advice and conversation it is then,” he replies softly, amused by your refusal to let him do more to help with dinner. 

You give him a small smile before you grab the tablet Ben Reilly gave you over the weekend. You’re not even surprised by the fact that it still has battery after how much you’ve used it considering all devices in Miguel’s universe have better battery life. At the sight of the tablet, Miguel remembers his pending question for you regarding the reports. 

“Working on the report?” 

“Yes, I’m just editing it now. It’ll be ready for Jess to cover tomorrow for the meetings.” 

Miguel nods, thinking about what he’s about to talk to you about. It’s one of the few things on his mind right now. “I wanted to ask you…” 

You look up, wondering if he’s in any discomfort you haven’t noticed yet, though Miguel looks fine. His natural color has fully returned now, and his energy is higher. He’s on the right track in his recovery. Still, your eyes quickly take in his appearance, finding nothing wrong. You relax again but wonder what’s on his mind.

“I noticed you seem to like working on the report and I was wondering if you’d like to work on them from here on now – with me,” Miguel says, meeting your eyes. “And Lyla,” he adds, remembering her just now.

You hold Miguel’s gaze, processing his offer. You weren’t expecting him to say that, so there’s a bit of surprise on your face, which is noted by Miguel. A few seconds later, you nod with a smile. 

“Yeah – I’d like to. Thank you.” 

Miguel nods, giving you a small smile. “Great. And once I’m back – hopefully by Wednesday – we can talk about when to start the system training for you and Peter. We could start this week if the two of you are available.” 

Still smiling, you nod. “That sounds great. I’ll be available. As long as there’s no emergency, I’m clear.” 

Miguel nods, feeling relieved and happy that you’ve agreed. “Great – It’s – It’ll be great having you on the team – for the reports,” he says, feeling a little bit flustered. “Later this week we can discuss how we’ll approach it.” 

You continue to smile and nod. “That sounds wonderful. I look forward to it! Thank you again,” you reply softly, noticing Miguel’s reaction. The significance of this doesn’t elude you. You know Miguel hardly asks for help or lets others collaborate with him but he’s invited you to work with him on the reports now and then there’s the system training, too. You look down at the tablet once Miguel nods at your reply, not wanting to make him uncomfortable as you understand these sort of situations are not easy for him. Still, you think about it and what it could mean. 

Miguel O’Hara, founder and leader of the Spider Society, has asked if you want to help with the reports from here on now. On top of that, he’s open to teaching selective members, you being one of the first two approved members, how the society’s network system works. 

You can’t help but wonder if the events of this weekend have impacted the man sitting across from you more than you thought. That maybe, he found himself at a crossroads and he has chosen a different path. You imagine that coming face to face with death will do that to someone. You sigh silently as you begin editing the report, hoping. 

Once you’re done, you show the completed report to Miguel, who looks pleased with your work. With Miguel’s approval, you send it to Jess for tomorrow’s meeting. 

The two of you spend the rest of the day in the living room. You remember that you didn’t finish the film series the two of you started watching over the weekend, so you resume where you left off, taking walking breaks with Miguel since his body finds relief in stretching since he’s not used to sitting and laying down as much. This time when you start watching the third movie, the one that neither of you could understand until you realized it was the third installment, the two of you finally understand what’s happening.

By the end of the fourth movie, you look over at Miguel and find him sleeping. He’s laying on the couch with his head propped on pillows you retrieved from his bedroom earlier since you helped him lie down in the last walking break. 

The fifth movie starts playing and you leave it on, not wanting to disturb Miguel’s sleep with sudden silence. You look at the tablet to check the time halfway through, realizing you should probably go and collect all the ingredients you’ll be needing for dinner since you’ll have to travel to your universe. You look over at Miguel again, who’s been asleep the entire time, and feel relief that he’s resting.

You recall what Jess said to Peter B. and you before Miguel woke up on Saturday. She mentioned there was a chance Miguel would try and wave the situation off like nothing. That he’d probably try to jump back to work right away. You were worried he was going to try, especially when he started talking about scheduled meetings and the unfinished report shortly after waking up on Saturday. Yet, Miguel hasn’t pushed himself to go back to work nor argued with you about resting or taking it easy.

Instead, Miguel has allowed himself to be taken care of. You know it hasn’t been easy and there have been times that his embarrassment was visible, like the first time you helped him eat or when you wiped his mouth clean. You remember the slight tint on his cheeks and the aversion of his gaze. No, this weekend wasn’t easy for Miguel at all for obvious reasons but also because of the amount of trust and vulnerability he had to show.

Yet, he wanted you to stay. You know that. In his in-and-out state of mind after he was resuscitated, he asked you to stay. You smile sadly now. It was only in that vulnerable moment that his mind wasn’t protected by his usual boundaries, that he was able to say that out loud. Not only did he want you to stay but he also trusted you with his care. So much happened this weekend but at least it wasn’t all bad. There was some good, too. You feel as though a lot was said even if it wasn’t said out loud. It feels like another step forward.

You continue to watch Miguel. The sight of him sleeping brings you comfort as he looks comfy and peaceful. Your gaze moves to his chest for a few seconds, watching the movement intently. His chest rises and falls evenly; a sign that he’s alive and well. It feels as though you’ve spent the majority of the weekend doing this; making sure he’s there and that this isn’t some dream you’ve thrown yourself into to escape the bitter reality that you’ve lost someone once again but thankfully, this isn’t a dream. 

Still, your mind leads you to two brief thoughts. The first is about how you watched Miguel die and how that makes him the second close person in your life that you’ve seen pass away. Except the two situations you’ve witnessed ended differently with one of them making it. That leads to your second thought on how Peter’s death anniversary was only a few days ago and if something had happened with Miguel – it would’ve been just days apart. 

The thought alone fills you with a heavy feeling. You’ve known you care about Miguel for a long time now, so it’s not a surprise but as you sit there and reflect, you realize just how much you care about him. It suddenly hits you all at once and you don’t even want to think where you would be right now. You’re just now fully moving forward and if things had turned out differently with Miguel – you know you would’ve been thrown right back to square one.

But you’re not in that scenario. You’re here and Miguel’s alive, sleeping across from you safely with that same peaceful and boyish look on his face that makes you smile but also wonder if this is the first time Miguel has slept this much consecutively in a while. Even when you were first recruited into the Spider Society, it wasn’t hard to pick up on the founder’s habits, especially when other members talked about it. You learned quickly that he worked day and night, which meant he probably didn’t sleep much.

And so, you can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since Miguel has rested like this. You don’t know but with his sudden acceptance to let people help him more at HQ, you hope he’ll also start to sleep better.

With one last glance, you head to the kitchen. You check what Miguel has already and then make a quick trip to your universe to gather other items, including more clothes for yourself, before you return to Miguel’s penthouse. You check on him once you return, finding Miguel still sleeping before you head back to the kitchen and start working on dinner.

You check on Miguel regularly as you work on dinner, making sure he’s alright. All throughout, he sleeps peacefully and it’s not until your third or fourth round that you find him waking up. He yawns softly before he looks up at you.

“I’m sorry. It seems I fell asleep at some point,” he apologizes, pulling the blanket down softly.

“Don’t worry. It’s good that you’re resting,” you answer walking closer to him. “I’m almost done with dinner in case you’re hungry.”

He nods. “I can smell it. It smells – amazing,” he says softly, meaning it. “Thank you again. I really appreciate it,” he adds quietly, and you nod.

“Always.” You clear your throat quietly. “Do you want to get up and stretch?”

Miguel nods. “Yes, please. And I did say I’d give you advice and conversation – maybe I’m not too late.”

You chuckle as you pull the blanket from him, placing it to the side before you help him up. He winces slightly as most of his pain is now focused on the trident wound. You’re careful with him as you lead him to the kitchen and help him take a seat. You make sure he’s comfortable before you walk to the stove to check on the food. 

Miguel settles on the chair, the pain subsiding slowly. He silently hopes that by tomorrow it’ll be better so he can start moving his arms more. He looks around the kitchen, the scent of the food filling his nostrils even more now that he’s at the heart of the cooking. He spots sour cream, fresh cheese, green salsa, and cut cabbage, which looks prepared with lime juice. It seems that you have all the toppings for the flautas ready. 

You carefully make more flautas by rolling tortillas with the filling and putting toothpicks through them so they’ll hold while they cook in the pan with hot oil. Miguel’s eyes land on you as you add the first batch. 

He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s still waking up or if it’s something else but he can’t help but think how the penthouse feels different right now. It’s as if you’ve brought a warmness to his penthouse. A homey feeling that makes this place feel less lonely, cold, and empty.

You turn around and walk to his fridge to retrieve a pitcher before grabbing ice on a scoop from the freezer. You place both things in front of Miguel and grab two glasses, making Miguel notice that you’ve found your way around his kitchen perfectly. 

“I made some agua de jamaica. Would you like some?” you offer. 

“Agua de jamaica…? Yes, please. Thank you,” he says with a bit of surprise. “I haven’t had any in – God, I don’t know. Years, I think,” he admits as he watches you pour some for him after adding ice. Once done, you carefully slide the glass to him across the counter. 

Suddenly, the irony of this moment doesn’t elude either of you. Months ago, Miguel did the same for you at your apartment with a different drink under different circumstances. Miguel meets your eyes and all you can do is hold each other’s gazes as the two of you silently think of the same thing. At last, you smile softly, earning yourself a soft grin from Miguel. 

“I’ll get you a straw, hold on. I think I saw some reusable ones somewhere,” you mutter as you turn around to search. Miguel is about to tell you where they’re located but you find them right away. You walk around the counter to him, sliding the straw into the glass before you grab it and hold it up for him to drink, making sure to hold the straw steady for him. He leans forward and tries it. 

Miguel almost sighs at the wonderful taste. It’s not too bitter nor too sweet; it’s perfect. Miguel sips quietly, drinking half of the glass in one go as he’s taken back to the days when he used to drink this frequently. Seeing him almost finish the glass makes you happy, though you mask it to avoid making Miguel uncomfortable. At last, he releases the straw and leans back. 

“It’s really good,” Miguel says quietly. “You just reminded me how long it’s been since I’ve enjoyed an agua fresca, specifically this one. It’s one of my favorites,” Miguel shares. “Thank you.” 

You put the glass down on the counter and nod with a small smile. “I’m glad you liked it. I don’t know why but I remembered I had some hibiscus leaves at home and I thought it would be perfect with the flautas.” 

“Flautas and agua de Jamaica –” Miguel pauses, wanting to tell you that you’re spoiling him with such a meal. He looks down, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as he debates telling you his thoughts. “You’re spoiling me,” he admits at last, quietly. 

Your smile grows as you hear his words. “You haven’t tried the flautas yet. Maybe let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You might not even like them,” you say with a chuckle before you walk to the stove to flip them. 

Miguel grins, watching you. “I doubt they’ll be anything but amazing. I mean… It smells great and you have salsa,” he says eyeing the green salsa, hoping it’s spicy. 

“I think I made it too spicy but hopefully you like it,” you say as you continue to flip the first batch of flautas.

Miguel remains quiet but after a few seconds he responds with an amused tone. “I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it.” 

You hum in response as you prepare a container to put the flautas in once they’re done cooking, before setting it aside. It catches Miguel’s eyes. He doesn’t even remember where it came from or where it was stored, which makes him realize just how acquainted you’ve become with his kitchen, much like he did with yours so many months ago. Miguel thinks about that day and how he fixed some of the things in your kitchen while you slept. For a few seconds, he wonders if they’re still working fine before his thoughts shift to another pending question for you.

He’s been searching for the perfect time to ask... What were you doing at HQ so late when you discovered something was wrong? He wonders if you needed something – maybe someone to talk to. Maybe you were sleepless and you thought of him. And of course, the one time you may have needed him, he wasn’t there for you because his insistence to go alone on solo night missions got him in trouble for once. He’s been wondering ever since Jess and Lyla mentioned you being the one that found out he was in trouble, and right now seems like a good time. The two of you are in a good mood and there’s no one else, so that means no interruptions. 

“Y/N… May I ask you a question?” he asks. 

You finish checking on the food and place the tongs away before turning around to face him. He has a very serious look on his face; one that worries you. You approach the counter and nod. 

“Sure… What do you want to ask me?” 

Miguel’s eyes meet yours. “What were you doing at HQ so late on Friday? Or, rather Saturday morning, I suppose,” he says quietly. 

You hold his gaze for a few seconds before you look at the glasses on the counter. You suspected that at one point he was going to ask, you just didn’t expect him to ask so soon. You thought you’d have more time because hell, you haven’t had time to really think about it. You hoped you’d have more time so you could explain everything properly, especially after you told Jess what happened. Jess may have thought that she fooled you but you didn’t fail to notice that she wanted to say more on the matter. There was also the way she looked at you afterward. It made you feel as though what happened was something major and really strange. 

Almost like nothing close to it has ever happened before and if it has, it’s rare. You can’t help but worry. If Jess held back and found the situation odd or as something shocking, then you wonder what Miguel’s reaction will be. You don’t want to alarm him, to make him feel like – You don’t even know how because you haven’t had time to properly think about it but now Miguel is asking, and he thinks you were at HQ for some other reason and that you just happened to discover something was wrong when in reality he was the reason you were there at all.  

But – you won’t lie. So, you sigh quietly and grab your glass with agua de jamaica, taking a long drink before you set the glass back down. You check on the flautas over your shoulder; they look fine. You do this in the span of a few seconds, knowing that you can’t and shouldn’t prolong answering Miguel’s question or then, it’ll make it seem like you don’t want to tell him and he may find the events even more uncomfortable or weird. You look up at him, once again feeling the irony that you’re in his kitchen cooking and looking after him the way he did for you so long ago.

You offer Miguel a smile and shake your head at last.

“It wasn’t like that,” you say, meeting his gaze. Still smiling softly, you continue. “You want to know how we found you?” 

Miguel nods, though he wants to correct you. There was no “we,” just you. You were the one that found him on the rooftop. The one that discovered something was wrong by going into his lab for some unknown reason.

“I’m just – curious,” he replies, and you nod.

“Yeah, I understand. I’d like to know, too,” you say quietly and pause for a few seconds before you start. “It was three in the morning and I was at home sleeping.”

Miguel’s eyebrows furrow, confused, yet he doesn’t interrupt you. He notices the way you’re being careful with your words, as if you fear that the wrong word will set him off.

“Out of nowhere,” you pause. “I woke up. My spidey senses were going off and – I quickly got up to check my two-way radio.” You look away for a second at the counter. “I was certain it was something in my city, you know? But for once, my city was fine, and nothing came from the radio.” You look up at him again. “I suited up and I went out to check regardless because my senses kept going off. I looked around my city and there was… nothing. Everything was fine in my universe, at least. So, I decided to go to, you know, other universes like Hobie’s, Miles’s, Gwen’s… I did a quick check to figure out what was happening but each universe was fine. There was no emergency and yet,” you pause and shrug slightly. “My senses were still warning me. I traveled to multiple universes in the span of two minutes, I think, trying to figure out what was happening until I finally realized I should tell you because maybe it had something to do with the multiverse.”

You quickly check the flautas again, looking behind your shoulder. You don’t want to end up letting the food burn or worse, cause a fire in his home. You face Miguel again when you see the flautas look okay. Miguel continues to watch you, hanging onto every word you say. He notices that you find this hard to talk about and he slowly begins to understand why the more you share what happened.  

“So, I went to HQ and um – I called for Lyla so that she could let you know that I was there but she didn’t respond like she normally does. I tried again and once I saw that she wasn’t responding I just – I felt that something wasn’t right. So, I decided to go into your lab and figured that I’d just apologize for intruding later but when I did – your lab was empty. The screens were red, and you – you were nowhere to be found.”

You look down at the counter and sigh silently. “And so – I reached out to Margo and you know – she never goes to bed at a reasonable time. She always goes to sleep so late and – anyway, I for once hoped that she didn’t listen to our encouragement on fixing her sleeping schedule. Thankfully she didn’t because she immediately showed up and started working on the system once I told her that it wasn’t working and that – oh yes, I was trying to reach you through your gizmo but it said you were offline.” 

You look up at Miguel, who still hasn’t taken his eyes off you as he listens to your recollection of the night. He watches you with both guilt and ache because he can see that talking about it is hard for you. It’s obvious to Miguel with how you’re pausing and looking away from his eyes.  Then, there’s the fact that despite everything, you still thought about apologizing for going into the lab if you had found him there, which just makes Miguel want to smile and tell you that you don’t need to ask or notify him anymore; that you haven’t had the need to do so in a really long time but he just hasn’t told you yet because of what it would mean and because he has a feeling that you’ll continue to do it regardless because you’re always so respectful. 

But for now, he wants to stop you, so that you don’t have to continue thinking about that night, yet you carry on. “We realized something wasn’t right with your offline status, so while she started fixing the system… I actually came here to look for you,” you say quietly, holding his gaze. “I hoped you’d be here.”

Miguel holds your gaze, feeling like someone is squeezing his heart with your last statement. You were hoping he was here, safe.

You give him a sad smile.

“I checked every room and you weren’t here. I went back to HQ, knowing that something was definitely wrong. It was confirmed when Margo got Lyla back and she told us very briefly what happened, so – I headed to Earth-42 and soon, we had a whole search team looking through the city until we found you…” you trail off.

“You found me,” Miguel says. “I remember… It was just you before everyone else arrived.”

You hold his gaze and nod. Miguel’s mind is whirling with thoughts about everything you’ve said.

“Your spidey senses… They warned you about me,” Miguel states, not as a question but as a fact. 

“I don’t know how that’s even possible,” you admit. “But the good thing is we found you and we brought you back home.”

Miguel nods but he still wants to correct you. It was you that found him. You alone. You somehow also knew what building to check, and he has a strong feeling that it’s related to the first mission you joined him in but that isn’t the most important part of this. It’s the fact that your spidey senses were tipped off across the multiverse - for him, who doesn’t even possess that ability. Yet, somehow across the vast multiverse, you sensed his situation. 

As he continues to hold your gaze, Miguel remembers you were the last person he thought about before his consciousness first slipped. From that point on, he was in and out of it but suddenly you were there, kneeling by his side talking to him and shielding his face from the cold rain with your own mask; slipping your gizmo into his wrist to protect him from glitching. All because your spidey senses went off… For him.

He doesn’t understand how it’s impossible. He thinks about it, going through multiple explanations as he possibly can in the moment but one thought keeps popping up. It feels like it’s the only one that holds despite having no scientific evidence. 

There’s a bond between the two of you. 

A connection that’s strong enough to travel across the multiverse. It both worries and comforts Miguel. There’s that fear - that fear that he’ll lose you, too - and this only adds to it. How will he ever go on if that ever happens when such connection exists? And yet, there’s comfort from it, too. To know that even in your deep and peaceful sleep, away in your own universe, you sensed his danger because of this connection. And that very same bond allowed you to find him, to save him.  

Miguel’s gaze softens. “Thank you,” he says quietly with a heavy tone, as if moved by your words, and he is. He has a lot to thank you for and wishes he could do and say more. He wishes he could find a way to show you how thankful he is for everything - for you. 

Smiling, you nod slowly. “Always…” you quietly answer in Miguel’s kitchen, feeling glad that you’ve told him. It’s out now. You were worried Miguel would react negatively but instead he’s thanking you and there’s a look on his face - like he’s thinking of something else - like he knows something that you don’t. You want to ask but despite everything, you remain the same as always. You don’t push his boundaries. 

Suddenly, you remember the food. “Oh, shoot,” you say and quickly walk to the stove, sighing in relief when you see the flautas are intact. “They’re good!” You quickly take them out, placing them on the container you prepared earlier. Miguel smiles at you as you do this. 

You add a new batch to the pan before you walk back to the counter, feeling the need to change the conversation now so you pour yourself more agua de jamaica. You take a sip and nod. 

“I forgot how good this is,” you say quietly, placing the glass down and looking up at Miguel, who has been unable to look away from you. 

He’s determined to do this. He’s thought about it so many times now but suddenly he feels a stronger push to seek this journey. This journey that felt so unreachable even in his dreams because they were always plagued by nightmares but now - as he sits across from you with everything that’s happened this weekend in his mind - he feels as though he can reach over and graze that journey - that possibility - with his fingertips. 

It’s there like it’s never been there before, and hell, Miguel is going to reach for it. He wants to. For his family. For you. For him. 

“It’s so refreshing,” Miguel replies, feeling overwhelmed with everything going on in his mind but he still eyes his own glass, which you notice. 

“You want more?”

Miguel nods and so you help him take another sip. You finish cooking the last batch of flautas and fix two plates. It doesn’t occur to you until you’re ready to help Miguel eat that flautas, much like empanadas, are finger food. So you find yourself helping him eat much like you did that day, holding a flauta from one end as he bites from the other one. You also forgot how messy flautas can be with all the toppings, so you find yourself cleaning his mouth more than you did with the empanadas. 

“I’m so sorry, I completely forgot utensils can’t be used to eat this or how messy eating flautas can be sometimes,” you apologize quietly as you gently wipe the corner of his mouth but Miguel shakes his head slightly, trying not to move much. 

“It’s alright. I didn’t think about it either when you suggested them. I guess we were both in need of a homemade meal. So much that we forgot to think ahead,” Miguel replies once you withdraw your hand, sounding amused. “It’s so worth it though. These are some of the best flautas I’ve ever had. Thank you again for this amazing meal.”

You put the napkin down and chuckle. “Always, and yes. I was a bit tired of cafeteria food. I was so relieved Jess and her husband sent us homemade food yesterday. I just missed it,” you answer. “And I thought it’d be better for you, too, as part of your recovery.”

You take a bite from one of your own flautas now, for once eating at the same time since Miguel asked. He hasn’t liked the fact that you’ve been eating after him, with your food growing cold. On top of that, this makes it feel more like you’re actually eating a meal together. You finish eating and take a quick sip of your drink before offering Miguel his own glass. He quietly accepts it and drinks as you hold the glass for him. 

The two of you sit side by side on the island chairs, facing each other. Miguel is slightly slouched to accommodate you for his height, making it easier for you to bring the food to his mouth. As you do so, you can feel Miguel’s warmth radiating off him, especially on your legs, since they’re slightly pressed against his so you can reach him but it doesn’t seem to bother Miguel. 

Once you’re both done eating, you clean up the kitchen to make sure it’s back to the way it was: spotless. The two of you talk quietly as you clean, and you have to decline Miguel’s help more than twice because he insists he should do something. You finish cleaning by wiping down the last counter, noticing the time on the stove’s clock when you look up. It’s still early but Miguel still needs a shower and his wounds to be checked on. 

“Whenever you want, we can head upstairs so you can take a shower and I can look at your wounds.”

“We should probably do that now before it gets too late. I don’t want to keep you up and I’d like for you to finally rest on a proper bed, which reminds me, I’m sorry you had to sleep on that thing,” Miguel mutters, sounding upset. 

“Don’t worry about it! It was actually comfortable,” you reply with a smile as you stand across from him. 

“I don’t know how but you did look comfortable.”

You shrug. “It was comfortable, really. Don’t worry about it or about keeping me up but you - you should rest properly. Resting on the couch is not the same as resting on a bed and I bet you’ll feel far more comfortable in your own bed, especially after a shower,” you say. 

Miguel’s head tilts to the right. “Alright, it does sound better than the hospital bed.”

You chuckle. “Well, whenever you’re ready”

Miguel tells you he’s ready and with that, you help him up the stairs and into his bathroom. Like the previous day, you fix the shower head so his wounds are not directly hit by the water and leave towels within reach for him. Thankfully, Miguel’s bathroom is large and spacious, and even has a built-in bench that’ll help you wash his upper body. You leave him to wash his lower body and head downstairs to quickly make some canelita. Since you remembered the day Miguel went to your apartment for the first time months ago, you thought about it, too, and now you feel like it’d be something nice to end the day with. Maybe it’ll even help Miguel relax before he goes to sleep. You put water and cinnamon sticks into a pot before you put it on the stove to boil. You head back upstairs and prepare everything you’ll need to take care of Miguel’s wounds. You also prepare his bed, thinking it’ll be so much more comfortable and spacious than the hospital’s with his king size bed. 

You head back downstairs to check on the canelita, surprised to see it’s already boiling. You add more water to it before returning upstairs to check on Miguel. You know it’ll be a while before he’s ready since you asked him to take his time to avoid hurting himself accidentally. You walk to one of the windows to look out for a few minutes before you return downstairs to check on the canelita. You turn it off when you see it’s ready and get two mugs out before going back upstairs. 

You enter Miguel’s bedroom just as he calls your name, ready for your help. 

You help Miguel wash his torso like the day before using the built in bench to do so. You notice Miguel seems far more relaxed, especially because the two of you make conversation as you repeat the same process from yesterday. You start from his shoulders until you finally reach his lower abdomen with your careful and gentle touch all throughout. You wash his arms and then his back before you eventually start on his hair.

Miguel sits sideways on the bench with his head thrown back to give you easier access. Your fingers glide through his hair as you lather the shampoo into his scalp. His eyes are closed, not only because you asked him to avoid getting any shampoo in them but also because he’s once again overwhelmed by the pleasant sensation of your fingers. He thought it’d be easier today but he finds himself clutching the towel around his waist once again. Internally, he’s just glad that the two of you are conversing so he can focus on that and avoid embarrassing himself with any accidental noises escaping from him. 

You finish by rinsing his hair out and drying the excess water with a towel, taking the chance to dry his neck and shoulders, too, since water made its way to those areas. You clean his face with lukewarm water and reusable cotton pads, telling him you’ll clean it again after he brushes his teeth.  

As you do so, you can’t help yourself and once again, take in every detail of Miguel’s face. You're so lost in concentration that you don’t notice Miguel’s own eyes doing the same with your face; observing everything from the color of your eyes to your eyelashes to the bridge of your nose and lips. His gaze grazes every inch of your face. You smile a bit when you notice some stubble on Miguel, which he notes. 

“What is it?” he asks softly. 

“Just noticed you have some stubble.”

“Oh, yes. Maybe tomorrow I can move my arms more and take care of it,” he says as you glide the cotton pad over his cheek. 

You nod. “I’m sure tomorrow you’ll be able to move more. Just try not to push it, okay? And if you still can’t reach your face, I can do it if you trust me,” you say quietly as you move to the other cheek, which makes Miguel smile faintly. 

“After all your help, it would be silly not to trust you with a razor to my face.”

You chuckle. “I guess that’s fair. I can help you tomorrow then. Alright, done.” You back away slowly and put the cotton pads away. “Do you want sweatpants and a jacket to sleep in?”

“I think I can go without the jacket tonight,” Miguel answers, straightening up gently before meeting your gaze. “The place won’t be as cold as the infirmary room.” 

“As long as you’re comfortable, it’s your choice. Let me get your clothes then.” You quickly collect the clothes for Miguel before returning to the bathroom with them. You place the sweatpants on the counter and hold on to his boxers to help him start dressing. 

The two of you succeed again by sticking to the same method from yesterday and in minutes, Miguel is dressed, ready for you to take care of his wounds. The process takes about fifteen minutes while the two of you talk about how much better his wounds look. You also notice he doesn’t wince as much as he did the day before. You lean back when you’re done, giving Miguel, who is sitting at the edge of his bed, more space. You slide the office chair you brought from his office back, taking a look at the injuries from afar. 

“Was that alright? Any discomfort?” you ask, as you put the supplies away. 

“None at all,” Miguel answers. “Thank you.”

You nod. “Do you want anything else to eat or drink? While you were showering I made some canelita. Would you like some?”

Miguel looks at you with surprise. “Really? I… You’ve done so much already, you shouldn’t have,” Miguel says softly, looking away in embarrassment. He can’t help but think about the fact that you cooked twice today on top of helping him shower and move around, and yet you’re still going out of your way to make him even more comfortable.

“I remembered it earlier and thought it would be nice. It’s not a big deal, Miguel. You know it’s not hard to make, so don’t worry about it, okay?” you say gently, trying to reassure him. “Now, would you like some? I think it’d be nice to drink before bed.”

Miguel finally looks back at you with a soft sigh. He nods and smiles faintly. “I can’t say no to canelita, so yes, I’d love some, please. And thank you, again,” he says, still smiling faintly, which makes you smile in return. 

“Great! I’ll go get you some then. I’ll be right back.”

With that, you head downstairs and get two mugs of canelita on top of a straw before you head back upstairs. You find Miguel still sitting at the edge of his bed when you enter the bedroom. He seems to be looking towards the window but at the sound of your footsteps, he turns to face you. You place your mug on the window ledge so you can cool Miguel’s by stirring the straw around gently as you stare out the window. 

“I’m trying to cool it for you,” you say softly, still looking out. You can’t help but feel mesmerized by Nueva York’s beautiful sight at night. You’ve spent several days here but you’re truly taking it all in now that everything is much calmer regarding Miguel’s health.

“What are you thinking about?” Miguel asks, noticing the fascinated look on your face. 

“The view.”

Miguel nods, still looking at you and recalls you talking about the view earlier. He looks out the window, too; trying to see what you see. 

“You know… Sometimes, I get so wrapped up with what we do that I take this for granted,” you suddenly say as you turn to him, still trying to cool off the canelita for him. 

Miguel meets your gaze, surprised.

“You know what I mean? I’ve the chance to see flying cars and use this amazing technology.” You motion to the gizmo on your wrist. “I’ve visited so many universes. Work with so many versions of us. It’s just really amazing we can do this. To have each other...” you trail off, thinking about all your friends, including Miguel. You can’t help but think about the possibility of none of this happening. It could’ve very easily never been possible and there would be no Spider Society. All of you would’ve gone on never knowing about the existence of the multiverse or of each other. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m suddenly thinking about this. It’s all just so incredible. And it’s all possible thanks to you,” you quietly add, smiling. 

Miguel holds your gaze and gives you a soft smile. No one has ever thanked him for this, and it’s not like he’s expecting anyone to or even asking to be thanked. It feels nice but more importantly, your words make him pause. He’s been so busy that he’s never truly stopped and thought about how incredible it truly is. “It really is, isn’t it?” he asks quietly as he thinks about it more. He’s so used to the technology and always keeps himself busy, making it easy to forget and acknowledge how amazing it is. It just makes him realize how he, too, takes for granted many things in his universe. 

Miguel begins to make the attempt to get up, making you place the cup on the ledge quickly. “Hold on, Miguel. I’ll help you,” you say as you stand by his side. 

You help him up with ease but he winces slightly and pauses for a few seconds. His arm is around your waist as he lets the pain die down before he fully stands up, letting go of you slowly. 

“I’m starting to feel less and less pain,” he says and you nod, stepping away a little to give him space. He towers over you as he finds his balance, finding it easier than earlier. He nods and starts walking on his own. His steps are more determined than they’ve been the entire weekend, which is wonderful to see. You give him space but remain ready to help if needed, knowing that this is a great sign for Miguel’s recovery. He reaches the window and stands partially in front of it, as if leaving space for you. 

You walk closer and stand by him with plenty of space between the two of you. Miguel looks up at the sky, watching constellations. He can’t recall the last time he looked up at the night sky to see the stars, which fills Miguel with a sudden sadness. He composes himself and tries a different perspective, a less sadder one. He’s looking and appreciating it now and that’s what matters, right? He subtly looks down at you, noticing your gaze on the city before his eyes shift to the same view. He tries to see the place he grew up in through your eyes. He looks at the modern architecture, the flying cars, and the train to the moon, which he hasn’t been on since he was a teenager. He looks at it all with a new perspective - your perspective - and he’s filled with a sense of awe, realizing it is amazing.

After a few more seconds of silence, you offer him the canelita again. 

“I should sit down again or you won’t be able to reach me,” Miguel says as he starts to move but you make him pause. 

“I think I can lift myself for this,” you offer. “If you wish to stay like this, I can do it.” 

“What if you get burned?”

“I won’t. I’m sure it has cooled off by now.”

Miguel looks down at you and then nods. “But be careful… Please.”

You nod and grab his mug but before you do anything else, you put some of the liquid on your palm using the straw to make sure the liquid is suitable to drink. Satisfied, you walk closer and shoot a web to the ceiling before you slowly lift yourself to an appropriate height. 

“Just wanted to make sure it’s actually cooler now. Don’t want you burning your mouth through the straw,” you say as you hold the cup securely in your hand and bring it close to his mouth. With your finger, you keep the straw from moving as he leans closer to take a drink. You look out the window for a few seconds, as if giving Miguel privacy because of the close distance between the two of you now. A few seconds later, you face him again just as he steps back, nodding. 

“Very soothing,” he says quietly, looking at you as a soft smile appears on his face. “I’ll probably fall asleep very soon with this and the shower.”

“That was the plan,” you say with a chuckle. “You ought to rest. It’ll speed up the recovery.”

Miguel nods with that soft smile still on his face before the two of you continue to look at the city through his bedroom window, drinking canelita. Your gaze takes in everything about the city, and Miguel continues to look at it your way, realizing he’s taken this for granted even more than you, and that maybe he ought to stop and admire it more often. 

Miguel smiles faintly at you about thirty minutes later. He’s on his bed now and you’re fixing the covers over his body. Your fingers brush past his bare skin as you do so, and you subtly but quickly step back once you’re done though Miguel doesn’t seem to mind. 

“If you need anything, just let me know, okay?” you say, looking down at him with a soft smile. 

Miguel nods, looking at the gizmo on his nightstand. It dawned on you moments after you told Miguel he ought to rest that you’d be in different rooms tonight, which means that if he needs anything, you won’t be able to hear him. After telling him, you suggested you could sleep on the floor but of course, Miguel immediately rejected that idea. 

“You’re not sleeping on the floor, Y/N,” he quickly said with a stern tone followed by what you could only describe as a low growl. 

So, that idea was instantly scrapped until Miguel remembered he had an extra gizmo in the penthouse. He keeps all of them at HQ under tight security for obvious reasons but he’s always kept an extra one here, just in case, which is now sitting on his nightstand and will help him communicate with you if he needs anything. 

“I will, don’t worry. Thank you,” he says, still thinking about your suggestion. He wants to shake his head in disbelief at you. There’s no way in hell he would’ve allowed that. Ever. 

“Alright. I’m off then. Good night,” you say softly before you quickly retrieve the mugs from the window’s ledge. 

“Good night,” Miguel replies, eyes on you. 

You’re about to exit the room when he softly calls your name. You pause and turn around. Light from outside illuminates parts of his room, which makes it easier for you to see him. His eyes meet yours with a relaxed and soft look on his face. 

“I just wanted to tell you - thank you. For everything,” Miguel says in the darkness.

You smile softly, not failing to hear the way he emphasizes the last word. “Always, Miguel… Good night,” you whisper. 

“Good night,” Miguel whispers back before you pull the door after you exit, leaving it ajar. 

With your retreating steps, Miguel lays on the bed and stares at the ceiling now. He suddenly has a sensation wash over him. The one that lets you know that you'll remember every detail of a specific event or moment for years to come, no matter how much time goes by. Miguel has that sensation now. He’ll remember this entire weekend, this moment, for the rest of his life. 

He hums faintly, looking up at the ceiling before he closes his eyes, ready to fall asleep. Yet, he can’t, even though he’s tired and willing. It feels like twenty minutes pass by and Miguel is still awake. He’s perfectly comfortable on the bed. He’s tired and sleepy but he cannot fall asleep. With his eyes still closed, he sighs and starts thinking about the previous nights and how easy it was to fall asleep even though the infirmary room wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world; the room was very cold and the bed wasn’t nearly as comfortable as his own is. His bedroom is definitely far more comfortable but… It’s missing something that the infirmary room had, or rather someone. 

Miguel’s eyes snap open with that thought. 

“Mierda,” Miguel whispers as he realizes. 

You’re not in the room sleeping nearby, letting your breathing call him to sleep. He lays there for a few minutes as the realization sinks in. He didn’t realize how much the sound of your breathing while you slept helped him the last few nights. He sighs softly and closes his eyes, thinking about something. Maybe if he just…

He feels like an idiot for trying but he does it anyway and surprisingly, his brain has no difficulty. He recalls the sound of your breathing from the previous night by memory, perfectly. 

And it seems to work for tonight because Miguel succeeds and falls asleep soon after. 

★★★

Miguel moves around his kitchen with ease as he cooks. It’s Saturday, exactly one week since he woke up in the infirmary room. He can move his arms freely now and he’s been walking normally since Wednesday. His less serious injuries are fully healed while the trident wound has a day or two left before it's completely healed. Thankfully, Miguel feels better and more like himself, at least physically. 

It’s strange. It’s late in the afternoon on a Saturday, and he’s home instead of at HQ. He went in this morning to work on something but now he’s back and he has plans to stay the rest of the day here. If it goes his way, of course. 

Miguel pulls out a fresh lettuce from a delivery bag. He ordered groceries earlier to prepare dinner, finding it easier than going out to shop. He opens it and begins to pull some of the layers off before carefully washing the leaves. He cuts them into strips and when he’s done, he places it on a container, adding water to keep it fresh. He feels a little nervous but at the same time, he really wants to do it. It’s the least he can do after everything. He checks the meat he has on the stove, seeing that it’s halfway done. He stirs it before he leans back on the counter, looking around his penthouse as he thinks. 

He finds it hard to believe that only a few days ago you were staying here. You stayed a total of two nights and you somehow made the place feel different. Now, Miguel can’t seem to find that feeling. He grew so used to hearing your footsteps and drawers opening in the kitchen in such a short amount of time. Your presence has made Miguel realize that he misses having someone around like when he and Gabriel lived here together. His young brother made the place feel homier, much the same way you did. It didn’t feel empty, cold, or foreign.

He sighs, thinking about how he needs to find a way to make this place better because he hates how he feels when he’s back.

He remembers the first evening without you here. The penthouse was quiet and empty. He stared out the windows of the living room for a few minutes. It felt wrong. He walked upstairs and that feeling remained. He stopped in front of the guest room, or rather Gabriel’s old room, knowing it was empty. Yet, he pushed the door open and stepped in. There was no sign of your stay and Miguel found himself thinking it was very like you to leave the room the way you found it, seeing as you’re always so organized and tidy. Yet, it bothered him because it made it feel like you hadn’t stayed at all. Like it had been some kind of dream. 

He walked further into Gabriel’s old room, pushing his other feelings away. He doesn’t like to go in there much as it still pains him when he thinks of the days they used to live together before he moved out to the next floor. There are some belongings of Gabriel left though; some of his books on repairing. At the sight of them, Miguel picked one up before he sat down on the bed. He started flipping the pages, finding his brother’s messy writing on the margins with notes and measurements. It was then that his nose picked up on it. The only sign that you had been there at all was your scent. 

Miguel ignored it as he continued to try and decipher Gabriel’s handwriting. He laid on the bed, resting his head on the pillows as he held the book up trying to figure out what a specific portion of text said. Suddenly, your scent was awakened by his movement, filling his nostrils and he found himself breathing deeply. He found comfort in it before he started to think he was being weird. He left the room pretty soon after, closing the door after himself and forgetting about it until later that night when he found himself in bed, once again unable to sleep. 

He tried playing your breathing in his head. It helped the previous two nights perfectly but suddenly it wasn’t working. He was tired and willing to go to sleep unlike so many nights but yet he couldn’t reach it. He got up, ready to pace like always but ended up in Gabriel’s room instead. He stood before the bed for a while with a thought on his mind but he knew it was too much. Yet, he also knew it was two in the morning and nothing was working. So he did it, thinking it didn’t hurt to try. He pulled the covers and got in bed. 

He laid there, eyes closed as your scent engulfed him like cloud formations, and the memory of your breathing playing in his head. He woke up the next day with Lyla peppering him with questions about why he was sleeping in Gabriel’s room and poking fun at him because she had to wake him up. He got in the shower, wondering. Was he in such a bad state that he needed to hear someone’s breathing and their scent to sleep?

He also questioned how he was going to sleep later on. It seemed that simply recalling the sound of your breathing wasn’t enough anymore. The only reason he had slept the previous night was because of your scent. So now, not only does he have to figure out how to make his home better but also find a solution to his sleeping problem. Your scent is still present in Gabriel’s room but he knows that within a few days, it’ll be gone. He’s been thinking about buying candles or something of the sort. Otherwise, he might find himself unable to sleep when he’s now trying. 

Miguel shakes his head and remembers to check the meat. He stirs the food carefully, remembering how much you liked this dish on Christmas Eve, which is why he’s making it. He’s spent the rest of the week getting back to work, figuring out what was done and how it was done but he’s also been thinking about how to thank you properly. He thanked you that first night you stayed over and again the following day, and then once more on Wednesday morning. He had his movement back and there was no need for you to stay another night away from your universe. The two of you knew it. You had breakfast together one last time in his kitchen and then you were there, standing with your travel bag packed and ready to go and the sight of it made - Miguel stops. He doesn’t want to think of that moment because thinking about it includes admitting how he felt when he saw you with your travel bag in hand. He felt a wave of something rush over him. Sadness.

As soon as he realized what he was feeling, he felt appalled. He’s already on edge with admitting out loud that you’re his friend and suddenly he was feeling sadness that you were leaving and he wondered, if your departure alone made him feel like that - what would he feel if something ever happened to you? 

Miguel knows he’s grown fond of you. He’s grown attached to you. Perhaps too much, considering your scent and the sound of your breathing are the only two things that have helped sleep so far. 

“Definitely too much,” Miguel mutters to himself with a sigh. 

He looks at the clock to check the time. He’ll be sending you a message soon to ask if he can drop by your place. He plans on inviting you for dinner and surprising you with burritos de tinga, as you seemed to really enjoy them on Christmas Eve but now he wonders if he should’ve asked you sooner. For all he knows, you may have plans with your other friends or on your own. He decides he can cook another day for you as a way to thank you, if that’s the case. He just wants to do this as a way to show you his gratitude, even when he knows nothing he ever does or says will ever fully be enough to show his appreciation and gratitude to you - for you.

He sends his message ten minutes later before he adds sliced onions to the meat. Your reply arrives about two minutes later, telling him you’re home and that he can drop by. He lets you know it'll take about ten minutes, the amount of time it’ll take to finish cooking. Once he’s done, he places the lid on the pan to keep it warm, expecting to be back soon. 

He looks around briefly, making sure everything is ready before he opens a portal and travels to your dimension. In a matter of seconds, he steps out into your living room as small objects float in midair. His eyes take in the scene before him until they land on you. 

You’re sitting in the middle of your living room’s floor, leaning over your console table with a paintbrush in your hand and multiple blank picture frames laid out on it. The living room is… an organized mess. You look up at him just as the floating objects fall back into place and smile. Miguel blinks, the sight branded to his mind. 

“Please excuse the mess,” you say as you put down the paintbrush.

Miguel scans your face carefully, noticing paint on your cheek. He smiles back at you, finding the sight amusing before he looks around your apartment. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says softly.

Your walls are empty of decorations. Your console table is covered up to protect it from the paint. Your old rug is rolled up and propped against a wall next to another one still in its new wrapping. There’s a large unopened box with a picture of a bookcase and an extra couch wrapped in new protective material while your older one is partially covered. 

You’re redecorating your apartment. 

“I seem to have come at the wrong time,” Miguel says as he returns his gaze to you. 

You shake your head and get up, stretching slightly. Your arm pops, and you wince quietly before you give him a smile. “Don’t worry, it’s never a bad time. I’m just - redecorating,” you say as you look around briefly before returning your gaze to him. “May I get you something to drink? Thankfully my kitchen area is functional,” you say with a chuckle as you walk towards him, motioning to him to take a seat on one of the two chairs on your kitchen island. 

Miguel follows you, facing your kitchen now, which yes, appears to be spared from the redecorating. He watches as you walk into your kitchen and wash your hands carefully as he reaches the counter. He lays a hand on it just as his eyes flicker to the side where he finds an open laptop. He accidentally reads the multiple tabs you have open, all regarding storage units in your city. He quickly looks away, not wanting to invade your privacy. 

“Thank you but I’m alright,” Miguel replies as his gaze finds you again. 

You turn around and nod, leaning on your counter. “You sure?” you ask softly and stretch your shoulders again, feeling tension after painting pictures frames for a while since you decided to give them a new look instead of buying new ones. 

Miguel nods with a little smile. “Yes, I’m sure. Thank you though. I’m actually here because well -” Miguel pauses and straightens up. “I wanted to thank you again for everything and I know, you’re going to say I already did,” Miguel says once he sees you about to interject. “I know but I still want to do something to show you my immense gratitude. I cooked dinner and I was wondering if you’d like to join me tonight,” Miguel says quietly. 

You tilt your head slightly and smile at him. “That sounds wonderful, though you don’t need to do anything to show your gratitude, Miguel. You know why I did it,” you reply gently. 

“I know,” Miguel says, fully knowing why. He swallows, not knowing what gives him the sudden push to say the next words. “Then… You know why I’m doing this.”

His words take you by surprise, making you take a few seconds to acknowledge them, which in other circumstances they wouldn’t have left you feeling startled. With anyone else you’d smile, acknowledge them, and move on; maybe even throw in some banter because the friendship is constantly acknowledged verbally but the words didn’t come from just anyone. Those words are not as easy to say for Miguel as they are for you. You also know this is the closest you’ll get to hearing Miguel admit out loud he considers you a friend, too, before he directly admits it one day. You finally nod and smile softly, trying to keep it casual because you know this isn’t easy for Miguel and the last thing you want to do is make it a big deal in front of him, even though it is. 

“So, what did you cook?” you ask instead. 

Miguel gives you a soft smile, feeling relieved that you took his words well. “Burritos de tinga. I’ve made agua de jamaica, too.”

“Tinga?” you ask carefully with excitement, remembering how amazing his cooking was back on Christmas Eve. He nods, noticing a bit of a glimmer in your eyes. You chuckle and look around your apartment. It’s a mess. You nod. “I think I could use a break from looking at this mess. And burritos de tinga sound like the perfect way to forget about it for a little bit.” 

With a chuckle, Miguel nods and opens a portal. “I finished cooking a few minutes ago, so it’s just a matter of heating the tortillas.” 

Miguel tilts his head towards the portal, as if motioning to it. With a nod, you step out of your kitchen area just as Miguel moves aside to let you in first. The two of you find yourselves back in Miguel’s penthouse in seconds. You sigh in relief as you’re met with organization and tidiness, stepping aside in Miguel’s living room to let him lead the way. 

Miguel steps out, motioning for you to follow him to his kitchen and dining area. You look around a bit, feeling strange to be back so soon already but quickly put it aside as the lovely scent of food fills your nostrils. Your stomach growls in response, making Miguel look behind his shoulder with an amused look in his eyes. You don’t even try to hide it. 

“I was very close to ordering takeout,” you say as you reach the chairs.

“It's a good thing I messaged you at that time then,” Miguel says as he walks around the kitchen island to the fridge to take out the tortillas. “Go ahead and take a seat. I’ll start heating the tortillas.” 

You nod and sit on the second chair, leaving the one at the edge for him. You sigh softly and relax into the chair, just now realizing how exhausted you are even as a spider person. “Yes, it’s a good thing. This is a million times better than whatever I was going to get,” you say and chuckle as Miguel turns on the stove and puts a pan to heat the tortillas. He chuckles as he heads back to the fridge to retrieve a pitcher, the same one you used a few days ago. 

He grabs two glasses and ice and pours you some agua de jamaica, sliding it across the counter for you. “How long have you been working on it?” he asks as his eyes find the spot of paint on your cheek again. He doesn’t say anything about it and pours himself a drink, amused. 

You drink the contents of the glass, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are. You lift a finger, motioning to Miguel to give you a second as you drink more before finally setting the glass down. Miguel eyes it and motions to the pitcher as he takes a drink, too. You nod. 

“Yes, please,” you reply before he pours you more. “I started on Thursday morning with breaks in between and decided to try and finish it today, so I woke up extra early. I’m kind of hoping to finish it tonight but I don’t know if that’s going to happen.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow and nods. “You must be exhausted.” He also can’t help but wonder how you got the new couch into your apartment, considering you’re several floors up. 

“A little bit. I think I’ll feel good to go once I eat something. Thank you by the way,” you say softly, smiling. “You didn’t have to but I appreciate it.” 

Miguel nods with a soft smile before he turns around to check the pan. His hand hovers over the pan to feel the heat, and feeling satisfied with it, he places the first two tortillas. 

You look down at your refilled glass and drink some more before you lean back on the seat, feeling your back relax after being hunched over your table for who knows how long. You’re trying really hard not to think about Miguel’s indirect way of saying you’re his friend, so you decide to think of something else, like your apartment and the current mess it’s in. You wonder if you should keep going once you return home or if you should leave it for tomorrow but the idea of leaving the living room a mess another night bothers you. 

The place is a mess but you need to do it. You’ve put it off for four years now, keeping the apartment the same way it was while Peter was alive to cope with the fact that everything and everyone was moving forward while you were stuck in time; refusing to believe everything was over in the blink of an eye. Outside your apartment, people lived their lives. Flowers bloomed and died. Hot and humid days turned into cold and rainy ones with the promise of snow. Everything was moving forward and your apartment was the only place where you could pretend, even for just a few hours, that everything was the same.

You could pretend that Peter would come in through the door any minute from a quick run to the grocery store or from work. Or maybe he came back from collecting the mail, holding another package with new Spider-Woman merch to add to his collection even though you told him repeatedly he didn’t have to buy anything to show his support. He always did anyway and you could never get on to him. How could you? All he wanted to do was support you like he always did and of course, it was always a sight to see him wearing Spider-Woman merch. You smile sadly at your glass, and sigh silently.

So, you kept the apartment the same. You cleaned and tidied up the place regularly but things remained the same. You had the same furniture and kept it in the same place as if nothing had ever happened. You were okay with that, as it was one of your coping mechanisms until last Friday when you looked around, realizing that your apartment has remained untouched by time. 

But, everything and everyone has moved forward, and so have you. 

It hit you suddenly on Thursday, the first morning you woke up back at your place. You spent almost a whole week away but you didn’t think much of it. You woke up, brushed your teeth, and made your bed after leaving it unmade in the early hours of Saturday when your spidey senses were going off. You never imagined that you wouldn’t come back to it until days later. 

You finished making your bed before heading out of the room to get some breakfast but ended up pausing at the doorway, suddenly struck by everything. You were away for so long that the apartment smelled the way a place often does when you spend time away. You slowly walked to the middle of your living room and stood there, looking at everything as if you had stepped into someone else’s home and in a way, you had.

You stepped into the home of another version of you. A version of you that doesn’t exist anymore. You turned around and looked, finding remnants of a woman’s life that no longer exists. 

You stared at your wall with photographs for minutes as it laid out the reality for you. You were staring at pictures with people - once friends - that you now know nothing about. In fact, it reminded you of the time that you saved one of your old friends and their child when they were almost struck by a car. You remember being shocked to see your friend holding on to what appeared to be a two year old. You were so surprised you were only able to nod in response as they thanked you profusely before you swung away. 

Your memory only fueled your realization that the people on those photos were - are - different people now, and so are you. You looked around your space again, realizing the apartment was no longer an accurate representation of who you are or where you’re at in life - so you started the process. You took down the picture frames and removed the photos from a different life long gone with Peter, leaving you with empty picture frames to fill with photos of this new life. As you did that, you saw the rest of the apartment for the first time through a different perspective. You saw the beat up rug, the way that the bookcase’s shelves are dented in the middle from so many years of holding books, and your couch that has seen better days among other things that highlighted the truth.

As the morning sun streamed into your apartment, you saw a new vision for the space that you love and hold dear to your heart. Yes, it could use some improvement and the kitchen is especially a testament to that, as it has had some things here and there in the past, some of which Miguel fixed the first time he was there. You could move somewhere else, having the means to do so but you love it. You’ve loved it from the first moment you laid eyes on it when there was an opening to rent. You knew it was going to be the perfect place to start out before you and Peter eventually moved out, especially with early talks about a family one day but that isn’t in the works now. That’s in the past. Those were the plans of a woman who shared them with her partner. 

Now, you need new plans, even if they don’t fully include Peter. Not in the way you wish, at least. You’re not moving out and don’t plan to even though you’ve been in the same apartment for over five years and it could use some improvement; even when you don’t recognize your neighbors since the previous ones are long gone. 

No, you’re staying and changing your space to honor your current self, starting with the living room before you move to other areas of the apartment, slowly but surely. 

You look up at Miguel just as he slides a plate with burritos to you, your thinking face not going unnoticed by him but he doesn’t ask. He guesses it’s related to the current state of your apartment. You offer him a smile, letting go of your thoughts and focusing on this moment.

“Thank you,” you say and he nods before he walks around and sits next to you. 

He offers you the toppings and refills your glass from which you’ve been drinking from this whole time, making it your third glass. You thank him again and add the toppings to your plate.

The two of you start eating in silence for a few minutes, simply enjoying the food and each other’s company. Miguel is internally happy to see you enjoy the dish once again, as he notices your looks of delight with each bite. The more you eat and relax, the more you start thinking maybe you ought to stop for today and continue tomorrow. 

Miguel cleans his mouth gently and finally breaks the silence as you take a drink from your glass. 

“Would you like more?” he asks and you immediately shake your head. 

“Thank you but no, my hunger has been satisfied. And so has my thirst,” you joke as you motion to your glass, already halfway empty. “Thank you. This is amazing, truly.”

Miguel nods and takes a drink from his own glass, with a soft smile on his face. He’s glad his dinner plan lined up perfectly with today so you could have a good dinner after a long day of redecorating. He places the glass down, suddenly remembering the multiple tabs on your laptop with storage unit searches and your old couch that’s currently partially covered, leading Miguel to piece together that you’re storing it. He thinks of his own furniture, or rather furniture that belonged to Gabriel and his mom, which is all stored away in the next two floors.

“I’m happy that you enjoyed it,” Miguel says nodding to you. “It’s a good thing I planned it for today. A good homemade meal is always great after a long day like yours.”

You grin and nod. “Yes, it is. Except dinner wasn’t only ‘good.’ It was amazing.”

Miguel chuckles quietly and leans back on his chair, making his towering height over you even while sitting, more apparent. “Thank you. I’m really glad you think so,” he answers, looking down at you. His eyes very briefly pass over the paint on your cheek again before his gaze meets yours, still thinking about the furniture and the searches on your laptop. “So, you got a new couch.”

“I did… I think it’s time,” you answer quietly with a small smile, turning your gaze to your glass. You hold it in your hand, twisting it carefully as thoughts of your apartment return. You look up at him again. “I’ve had the same couch - since Peter and I moved in,” you add softly. 

Miguel nods, silently realizing how long you’ve had the couch then. He knows it’s been four years now since Peter’s death since you mentioned it the day of, on top of the years you’ve had it since you bought it. That means the couch has been in your possession for over four years. Yet, it looks like you’re still going to store it anyway. As if reading his thoughts, you tell him about it. 

“Peter and I bought it when we first moved in together. A lot of the furniture was bought then, actually. We were fresh out of college and kind of broke,” you say and laugh quietly. “But we really wanted to move in together and we planned financially for months until we found that apartment. It was perfect for us to start out.” You shake your head slightly, recalling those days. “Anyway, we furnished the place and it’s been the same since. I refused to change it after his death… I just couldn’t,” you whisper, looking back at your glass. 

Miguel closes his hand into a fist, fighting the urge to reach out and comfort you physically. The comment about your apartment being the perfect place to start out for you and Peter makes him remember something. He’s taken back to the first day he showed up at your apartment to check on you. As he was fixing a loose cabinet, he wondered why you lived there when it looked like you had a bad landlord. He remembers thinking you deserve to live somewhere nicer, which is why he asked if you were struggling with money when you mentioned the rent is good. 

He wondered to himself if that was the case as it is for many spider members who find it difficult to keep an everyday job with the duties of a superhero, which is why there’s a program within the Spider Society to help those members out. He instantly regretted asking though, when he saw the way you froze in place after that; your eyes teared up as you glanced at the photo of Peter and you had this faraway look on your face until you said that it didn’t matter as you were out a lot anyway. That was his cue to drop the subject. He knew from that point on that the apartment was important to you but he didn’t realize just how much. 

You clear your throat and smile up at him, oblivious to Miguel’s thoughts and his clenched fist. 

“But - after spending some days away, I went back and it just hit me that I need a change, you know? It’s lovely and it’s served its time but it doesn’t represent me fully anymore, my apartment, I mean. So, I decided to redecorate and that includes a new couch but…” you trail off, thinking about your old couch. It’s not in the best condition anymore but you still can’t find it in yourself to throw it out like nothing. “I don’t want to throw out my old one. Peter and I spent a lot of our evenings there and - I don’t know. I know it’s stupid-” you start but Miguel interrupts you. 

“It’s not stupid,” he says in a serious but reassuring tone as he turns his body more to you, leading to your legs brushing each other’s now. “It’s perfectly normal. I have stored furniture, too,” Miguel shares, wanting to comfort you at least this way. You look up at him then, surprised but at the same time comforted by his words, so he decides to add more. “Gabriel used to live here. The other room was actually his. We lived together for a while until he decided to get his own space. He did a lot of repairs on tech pieces and didn’t want to clutter here,” Miguel says looking around before he looks back at you. “So, he bought the next floor and moved out. After some things happened - my mom also moved to this building. She bought the next floor when it became available, wanting to live closer to us. They didn’t live in their own apartments for long though,” Miguel pauses, thinking about how his mom passed away a year later after she moved in. Gabriel followed suit a little while after her. “I inherited their possessions and - their apartments are still like they left them, for the most part,” Miguel whispers. “I know it’s not easy to let go of items.” 

He can’t help but think about Gabriella and his wife. If he could’ve kept their belongings, he would’ve. The only thing he has left is Gabriella’s acoustic guitar that he brought to Nueva York a few days before their universe collapsed. He was going to tune it for Gabi but he never got to it. Now, it’s the only physical item he has left of her, so he keeps it safe downstairs in one of the bedrooms, only retrieving it when necessary like on Dia de los Muertos to offer it to Gabi. 

You nod softly, feeling comforted by his words and also touched that he has shared yet something else with you. You lay your hands on your lap. “Thank you, that really - that really makes me feel better,” you reply quietly, giving him a relieved smile. “I appreciate it.” 

Miguel nods, at last relaxing his fist as he sees your smile. “Always,” he answers quietly before he remembers the searches on your laptop again. His eyebrows furrow a bit. “I didn’t mean to intrude but I saw the searches on your laptop when you offered me something to drink. You’re putting it in a storage unit?” 

You nod. “Yes.” You sigh deeply, remembering your search. Your sigh sounds tired to Miguel. He’s been unable to stop thinking about it and he realizes now it’s because he’s been worrying about your belongings. “I’ve been looking for storage units but they all have mixed reviews. I’m going to visit each place and see which one is better this upcoming week to compare.”

Miguel nods. “Yeah, that sounds like the best idea to avoid any damage to your belongings.” 

You nod before you take another drink of agua de jamaica. 

Miguel looks down at his own glass, thinking. “You know…” he starts, making you turn to him slightly. He looks at the remnants of his drink. The ice has melted quite a lot, diluting the agua de jamaica into a light maroon color now. “No one goes downstairs but me. I clean both floors twice a month to make sure they remain clean. If you want…” he says and turns to you. “If you want, you can store your furniture there. It’d be safer.”

You start shaking your head as soon as he’s done talking. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you but I can’t possibly accept that,” you decline politely.

Miguel’s eyebrows furrow slightly. “You’d have access to it at all times. You don’t have to let me know if you decide to come in and check on it. It’ll be safe here, probably more so than in most storage units,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t mind.”

You shake your head. “That’s too much, Miguel. It’ll be cluttering your space. Thank you but no. I appreciate the thought, though.”

Miguel shrugs, still looking down at you. “No one lives there. I hardly go down there except to clean. It won’t be an inconvenience to anyone. Seriously,” Miguel says. “Just think about it. All the furniture downstairs has been stored for years and it’s intact. I’d hate for something to happen to your belongings,” he says softly, genuinely concerned when he can tell how much the couch alone means to you. 

You sigh softly, thinking about it and Miguel wonders why you’re being so stubborn about this. It’s a simple offer. 

“Are you worried something is going to happen to them here?” he asks you. 

“No, of course not. I’m pretty sure they’d probably be safer here than in most storage units but -” you pause. “I don’t know.”

Miguel shakes his head in amusement. “I won’t let anything happen to your furniture and you can come in any time you want. I’ll show you how to access the floor and everything. Really, it’s not an inconvenience, Y/N.”

You sigh again thinking for a few seconds until you nod slowly. “Are you sure, though?” you ask, making Miguel tilt his head to the side with a soft grin. 

“I’m sure. C’mon, I’ll show you the space so you can see it’s clean,” he says standing up. “I’ll clear this up later, don’t worry about it,” he says when he notices you pick up your plate, taking it from your hand gently and putting it back on the counter. 

He motions for you to follow him, walking the opposite way of the living room. You follow him, thinking about how you haven’t seen the entrance to his penthouse, or a laundry room for that matter now that you think about it. Miguel comes close to the wall and he opens a door that you hadn’t even noticed before with ease. He turns around to let you in first. “Sleek doors,” he says, noticing your confusion. “They’re meant to blend in with the walls to give the space a sleeker look.” 

You nod and thank him as you step into a hallway that leads to another room. You spot three doors in the hallway, actually noticing them this time even though they’re sleek doors, too. 

“Laundry room,” Miguel says, motioning to the first door on the right. “A bathroom for guests,” he says, pointing to the second door. “And another office,” he says for the single door on the left. You follow him down the hallway, stepping out into another living room, smaller than the other one but still larger than your own apartment. “A living room for guests, while the other one is for family and friends,” Miguel explains. 

“It’s lovely,” you reply genuinely because even though this is supposed to be smaller and perhaps less personal, it’s still a very beautiful living room that leads to a grand entrance. You keep following Miguel as he leads you out of his penthouse, stepping out into his private entry before you enter an elevator and reach the next floor. 

The two of you step out of the elevator with Miguel continuing to lead the way to the apartment’s front door. He reaches out and presses his finger to a screen on the wall, which scans his entire hand before the door unlocks. He opens it and lets you in first. You slowly walk down a hallway that opens up to the entire apartment, which is impressive and luxurious. You see furniture, or rather the shapes of it, as everything is covered just like Miguel said. Blinds cover the windows completely, keeping the sunlight out. Everything looks organized and clean, even the picture frames on the wall, which your eyes very briefly scan, noticing Miguel is in some of them with Gabriel. You look away out of respect and focus on the apartment itself. 

Miguel stands behind you, giving you time to look around before he does the same. His eyes land on the photos on the wall. He thought about taking them down but never got to it and he eventually thought about how Gabriel wouldn’t like it either, especially when Miguel still has the apartment in his possession. So, he just left them up. You turn around to face him and nod. 

“The blinds keep the sunlight out and the temperature is right to avoid any damage. Everything has a protective sheet, as you can see,” Miguel says, looking away from the photos. “No one else comes here except for me.”

You nod again. This is much better than any of the photos you saw from actual storage units, of course. You look around again ready to ask about the payment, noticing that Miguel is looking at another photo. 

“What do you think?” he asks gently. “I think it’s better than a storage unit and you don’t have to worry about paying,” he says, giving you a glance. “I know you were just about to ask.” 

You smile and laugh.”You can read minds, too?”

“I saw it on your face,” Miguel answers with a shrug, smiling softly before he turns his attention back to the photo. It’s of Gabriel and him. In fact, a majority of the photos in the apartment are of them. A few have their mother, too, though there’s no sign of the father.  

You stand a few feet away from Miguel in silence, not wanting to intrude. He seems lost in thought with his unwavering gaze on the photo, and how could he not when Gabriel has been on his mind all week. Miguel’s loved ones are always present in his mind but that’s especially true after what happened a week ago. 

“He was better than me with the decoration,” Miguel mutters, still looking at the photo. “He and my mom got on to me about it. They were the ones that decorated the penthouse after I went a few months without doing anything to it. Gabriel on the other hand… He had all these photos hung up three days after moving in.”

You nod, though Miguel isn’t facing you. You look at the photo from where you are, noticing that the O’Hara brothers look to be in their teens and even then, Miguel towered over Gabriel.

Miguel shakes his head softly. He feels like a lot has changed since the last time he was here and it wasn’t that long ago. Now, he’s here again with you, and that makes you the first person that’s visited this apartment in years besides himself. If Gabriel is really out there, with the rest of his family, he wonders what they think of this fact and of you. He suddenly remembers his dream and how they kept telling him you were calling him. He recalls the way they seemed delighted about it, and he takes that as a sign that if they’re out there - or here, who knows - they must be happy about this, too. 

Miguel sighs softly and turns around to face you at last with a gentle smile. “I’m sorry, I was thinking about - my family,” he says, wondering when he’ll tell you about his dream because it’s no longer about whether or not he will. Not anymore. 

“Don’t apologize. I understand,” you answer, smiling. 

“You know - they would’ve really liked you,” he quietly says, which catches you by surprise.

“I - Thank you. I wish I could’ve met them,” you reply, and he nods, wishing, too.

“Me, too,” he answers in a hushed tone. He clears his throat softly. “So… What do you think?” he says motioning to the apartment. 

“Yes,” you say, nodding, feeling a bit embarrassed to accept his offer. “If it’s not too much… I’d really appreciate it.” 

Miguel nods. “It’s not an inconvenience. Believe me. Do you want to bring it right now? I can help you, if you want,” he offers, even though he knows you might want to do it on your own. 

“You’re already doing me a big favor… I don’t want to bother you with one more thing.” 

“You wouldn’t be bothering me, Y/N. It’s not an inconvenience. Please…”

Please let me help you, Miguel wants to say but the words don’t come out, so instead he holds your gaze and hopes you can see it in his eyes; that he wishes to help you, if only you let him. 

You nod slowly, eyes softening at the sight. “Alright… Thank you. I guess I could use some help, since I’m moving it across the multiverse.” 

Miguel nods, amused but glad that you’ve accepted his help. “I’ve never transported furniture through the multiverse, so this will be a first for the two of us.”

You laugh, even though you feel like you’re overstepping by bringing your couch here but in the end, Miguel and you successfully move your couch from your universe to his. As soon as you step back into Nueva York, Miguel carries it on his own like it weighs nothing. He places it near a wall once you tell him he can put it anywhere after he asks if you have a preference. He retrieves a protective sheet before turning around to face you.  

“Thank you so much,” you say genuinely, feeling bittersweet to see your couch in another space. You smile fondly at it, forgetting for a second that Miguel is in the room with you, and of course, he notices the look on your face. 

“I’ll wait outside,” he says quietly but you shake your head. 

“No, it’s okay. It’s - It’s just a couch,” you say softly but you know it’s not true. It was once the couch that completed an old vision for your apartment. One that included Peter. It was the couch you spent your evenings on, reading your books before he asked you to dance with him to his favorite songs. It was also the couch on which you sat with Peter’s head on your lap as your fingers played with his hair after a long day from work to ease his stress. 

Miguel walks to you and offers the protective sheet, knowing you must do it. He walks around you and stands a few feet away to give you space. You walk over to your couch, letting the protective sheet unfold. You don’t give your couch a “goodbye” but rather a silent “bye” as you know it’s not the last time you’ll see it. You smile fondly at it before you drape the protective sheet over it, covering it fully. You step back, letting your eyes trace the familiar outline of it and sigh. It’s time. One more step forward. You feel a tear roll down your face and wipe it away discreetly, thinking about how Peter would be proud of you for taking this step. You smile at the thought of him, sweet Peter. You nod softly and turn around to face Miguel, still smiling.  

Even from afar, he can see the trace of a tear on your cheek, softening his expression. He’s relieved you’re not crying because he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle seeing you in such a vulnerable state. The thought alone… devastates him. 

Yet, you smile at him and nod. “Thank you,” you say softly, almost a whisper. “I really appreciate it.”

Miguel nods back. “Always,” he replies in the same tone, smiling softly. 

The two of you head out of the apartment shortly after, stopping outside the front door so Miguel can add your fingerprint to the system. The process takes only a couple of seconds before you head back to his penthouse where Miguel offers you a coffee as a way to comfort you. You accept, still thinking about your couch while Miguel prepares a special kind of coffee. Café de olla. The two of you sit side by side once it’s ready, drinking it slowly and enjoying the rich scent and flavor. You smile up at him. 

“Thank you for the great coffee. And for dinner, on top of letting me store my couch here,” you say, just thanking him over and over again, making Miguel chuckle quietly. 

He looks down at you, remembering the paint on your face. He gets up without saying anything and retrieves a towel to run under warm water before he returns to you. You watch him with curiosity, wondering what he’s doing. He takes a seat and turns to you. 

“I meant to tell you earlier,” he says, holding the towel. “You have some - paint here,” he says as he slowly lifts the towel to your face, as if unsure of what he's about to do but he ends up going for it. He gently cleans the paint off your face and you chuckle quietly. 

“All this time and you didn’t tell me?” you ask, feigning disbelief. 

Miguel withdraws the towel once the paint is gone. “It wasn’t that noticeable, don’t worry.”

You shake your head at him, smiling. “I don’t believe that but I’ll let it slide because of this amazing coffee.”

Miguel puts the towel down on the counter, amused. He looks at the time and realizes how much later it is. It seems that each time the two of you are together, time flies by. He takes a sip of the coffee, thinking. 

“Are you still going to work on your apartment or are you calling it a day?” he asks, genuinely wanting to know if you’re going to keep working. 

You shrug. “I feel kind of tired - but I think I may work on less strenuous things.”

“Like what?” Miguel asks curiously. 

“I have some new art to hang up and I’m going to choose new photos.”

Miguel nods, making him look around his own place. It’s been the same for years. He’s about to tell you that when Lyla appears. 

“Hello, you two! Smile!” she says, catching the two of you by surprise. 

You look over at Lyla as she displays a photo of you and Miguel, just taken. 

“Lyla,” Miguel says. 

“What? I’m just taking a picture to add to my file.”

That makes you and Miguel raise your eyebrows. 

“File?” you ask. 

“Oh - Uh, did I say file? I’m so tired from work I misspoke,” Lyla says shrugging and laughing nervously. 

“You said file,” Miguel says, narrowing his eyes as he has no knowledge of this file. 

“Okay, so I may have some photos of you guys and like - of the rest of the members.”

“What kind of photos?” Miguel asks.

“Normal photos, Miguel. I’m not a creep.”

“May we see them?” you ask. 

Lyla crosses her arms over her chest, thinking. “Fine, since you asked so nicely and you’re one of my top five favorite spider members. I’ll do a slideshow for you,” Lyla says with a grin before she does exactly that. 

The two of you watch as Lyla starts displaying different photos specifically of you and Miguel with Lyla making appearances sometimes. Some appear to have been taken on rooftops in other universes from when you and Miguel go off to the tallest buildings. Other photos show the two of you talking before meetings with your coffee cups making appearances, too. There’s one from Christmas Eve with the two of you leaning over the windows watching the holographic Christmas light show and another one of Miguel showing you how to design an ornament. The last photos of the slideshow are from the last few days at the infirmary room, which includes a picture of the moment Miguel made a face after he ate the horrible carrot. It makes Lyla giggle but she quickly shuts up when she sees Miguel glaring at her for a few seconds. He notices you covering your mouth as if stifling a laugh. He shakes his head in both amusement and disbelief.

“I can’t believe I ate that,” he says. “You didn’t believe me when I said it was going to be bad.”

“In my defense, I thought it’d be better since it’s Nueva York.”

Miguel scoffs playfully. “Yeah, well… It’s no wonder why the no outside food rule is disregarded, to be honest.”

You chuckle before the two of you return your attention to the slideshow. There’s a photo of the two of you watching one of the movies from last Saturday. Another one of the two of you sleeping which makes you and Miguel raise your eyebrows at Lyla. She shrugs. 

“Accidental photo, my bad. At least I got good angles of you.”

Miguel rolls his eyes remembering how she called him a creep for watching you sleep but here she was, with a photo of the two of you sleeping. 

Then, there are a few photos of when your friends showed up. The rest are from the two days you spent here, like you cooking and Miguel sleeping in the living room. At last, the final one is the one Lyla took just moments ago, though there are a few more that Lyla doesn’t display.

You nod slowly and turn to Miguel, who meets your eyes. You think about it for a few seconds, gaining the courage to ask him. 

“May I have a copy of some of these?” Miguel raises an eyebrow and you quickly explain yourself. “Not the ones of you sleeping or us sleeping but you know - like the one from Christmas Eve or when everyone showed up? I’d love to add a few to my wall, if you don’t  mind.”

Miguel nods, amused. “Yes, of course. Just tell Lyla which ones you want and I’ll get them for you. Let me put this stuff away while you tell her,” he says, motioning to the toppings from dinner. 

You quickly tell Lyla which ones, which leads Miguel to go to his office. He comes back a minute later with a flash drive. He hands it to you. “They’re all there,” he says and you thank him as the two of you return to your seats to finish drinking your coffee. 

“Wait… Are you guys drinking coffee? Miguel, you should probably not drink that considering you’ve been struggling to sleep the last two - three nights,” Lyla says, raising an eyebrow. 

You turn to face him, raising an eyebrow of your own. “You’ve been struggling to sleep?” you ask softly, your tone laced with worry. 

Miguel wants to glare at Lyla, who shrugs but he finds himself unable to as he meets your gaze. “It’s alright. Sometimes it happens,” he says. 

“It wasn’t happening lately until the last three nights,” Lyla adds, gaining herself Miguel’s gaze.

“Lyla,” Miguel warns her gently but with a hint of authority.

“I’m just saying - I don’t think Y/N would mind - if you just ask her,” Lyla says nonchalantly, somehow knowing the current solution to his sleep problems.

“Ask me what?” you ask Miguel curiously. 

“It’s nothing, Y/N. Lyla appears to have a bug, probably from the system failure from last weekend,” he answers but you’re not convinced. 

“If I can help you somehow… Please let me know,” you say but Miguel shakes his head.

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing. I just - It happens sometimes,” Miguel says, trying to convince you it’s nothing so the conversation can be dropped. He’s not about to tell you the truth. He can’t. It’s too much. 

“Miguel - it’s really not that big of a deal. Y/N probably wouldn’t min-” Lyla starts. 

“Lyla, deactivate,” Miguel says evenly, making Lyla disappear instantly. 

You sit there, holding your cup of coffee staring at nothing now. You turn slightly to Miguel, giving him a small but reassuring smile. You can tell he really doesn’t want to talk about it, so you bring the cup of coffee to your lips and drink quietly. Miguel sighs next to you, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m sorry you had to see - and hear me - like that,” Miguel says quietly. 

“It’s alright. Don’t worry about it,” you answer, putting your cup down on the counter but still holding it. “Lyla can really push buttons, sometimes.”

“More than sometimes,” Miguel grumbles but now he feels horrible for the way he reacted in front of you. It’s nothing compared to the ways he’s reacted in the past, he knows that but it bothers him that you’ve seen a different side of him now, or at least a glimpse. “I can’t talk about it.”

You nod slowly. “I understand. You don’t have to,” you answer without judgment, though you wish he’d tell you about it, especially if you can help him somehow. 

Neither of you say anything for a minute or two. You continue to drink your coffee silently, trying to give Miguel some time to come back from this moment. Meanwhile, he’s internally fighting with himself. He’s embarrassed to tell you but now there’s also the need to explain it anyway, so you understand why he reacted the way he did towards Lyla. He sighs silently and runs a hand through his hair, wishing Lyla hadn’t said anything. At last, he picks up his own cup of coffee and drinks before he sighs again. He is trying, isn’t he? He said he will. 

“I’ve avoided sleep since Gabriella’s…” Miguel starts, his voice almost a whisper. 

You look up at him and start shaking your head slightly, wanting to tell him that he doesn’t have to explain anything; that he doesn’t have to give any explanations to anyone, not even you but Miguel shakes his head gently, knowing what you want to say. “I should… You said talking about it helps, right?” he asks softly. “On Christmas Eve, you said it helps to talk about it.”

You pause, remembering you said that many months ago while sitting on the same chair. You nod slowly but say nothing. Miguel nods back, meeting your eyes. 

“I’ve avoided sleep since then because of - nightmares,” he continues. “It was easier to not sleep. To keep working. I’ve only been sleeping when my body is extremely exhausted. I take naps,” he reveals, breaking your heart with each word that leaves his lips because that means that he truly doesn’t sleep that much. Then there’s the nightmares part and you can only imagine what they involve if they started after what happened with Gabriella’s universe. You feel your hand itch to reach over and hold his. You want to comfort him for his lack of sleep, for the nightmares, for his vulnerability right now, and for the fact that it seems that he’s trying to sleep these days but hasn’t been able to. You feel incredibly sad as his revelation confirms your suspicions that this past week has been the first time Miguel has slept well in a long time, and it breaks you even more to know it was because of his injuries and not a good reason. You yearn to reach out and comfort him but you hold back, resting your hand on your thigh instead and keeping it there.

“I’ve been living like this since then and - I’ve tried to sleep this week. To recover. It was working but not anymore, even when I want to,” Miguel says so quietly, still holding your gaze. 

You nod, wishing you could do something even if it’s just offering advice but you’ve never been in his shoes. You lost Peter but you didn’t have nightmares about it. You dreamt of him often after his death but they were always pleasant dreams, which have decreased over the years. 

Miguel looks away before he continues. “Something has been helping me recently.”

You clear your throat softly. “What is it? We can get it so you can rest properly, Miguel,” you offer, noticing Miguel’s fist clenched softly. 

“I don’t know how to say this.”

You sit still, not sure if you should encourage him or just remain quiet and give him time to speak. You want to respect his boundaries. You want to give him space. Yet, you also want him to sleep well, especially now that he’s admitted that he’s trying and no longer avoiding sleeping. It makes you wonder again if last weekend’s event has impacted him more than you thought. 

“Your breathing,” Miguel mutters at last, almost making you miss it. You keep still, trying not to show your surprise once his words register. “The sound of your breathing when you sleep - and your scent. It’s been helping me sleep,” Miguel quietly admits at last with a tone that lets you know he’s ashamed of it. 

You sit there for about a second or two, not thinking about it for too long because you don’t want your silence to be mistaken as a negative reaction, so you smile and look at him, searching his face. There’s a slight tint to his cheeks and he’s avoiding your gaze. 

“Well, then… I’m sure with the gizmo Lyla can record my breathing when I sleep, right?” you ask gently. “Tonight, we can do a live feed and record it in the process,” you offer, making Miguel turn his head to you in surprise. Here you are, offering to have your sleep be recorded so he can use it and sleep himself. 

“Y/N… No, that’s too much. I’m just trying to explain this mess Lyla made,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not too much, Miguel. If it’s going to help you sleep, it’s not. I don’t mind,” you answer and give him a reassuring smile. “And my scent,” you pause, thinking. “Do you think a sweatshirt would help? I wear one to sleep all the time because I get cold during the night. I can give you one each week so it’s fresh. We can rotate,” you offer, thinking about it and nodding to yourself as this seems the best course of action. “I’ll bring you the one I’ve been using the last couple of nights.”

Miguel shakes his head. “I don’t want you to feel-”

“I don’t,” you counter. “I want to help. I want you to sleep well, and if this helps, let’s do it. I don’t mind. If it works, you’ll let me know by accepting the new sweatshirt each week. No words need to be exchanged. If it stops working, you’ll let me know by declining the sweatshirt. We’ll find another method then, okay?” you ask softly. 

Seeing the tender look on your face and hearing your reassuring words, Miguel nods slowly. “Thank you,” he hesitantly answers, feeling embarrassed. 

You smile at him kindly. “Always.”

He gives you a soft, almost shy smile and you know this is too much for the founder and commander of the Spider Society, so you try to ease the situation for him to make him feel comfortable again. 

“This coffee is really good,” you say as your attempt to lighten up the mood. You want to bring back the carefree Miguel from earlier. 

Miguel hums. “It’s even better with a piece of pan dulce,” he says looking at his own coffee. “Gabriel and I used to make this kind of coffee on Saturdays when we had more time,” he shares. Sometimes they took turns making it and they’d always bring a cup to each other wherever they were in the penthouse. Even when Gabriel moved to his own floor, the tradition carried on. Miguel can’t help himself from thinking that Gabriel is probably happy he’s made some again, which happens to be on a Saturday. He can almost hear him telling him to make it a thing again, even if Gabriel isn’t here anymore. He looks over at you suddenly, his embarrassment subsiding now thanks to your change of conversation, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Miguel. He’s noticed the way you always try to make hard situations for him better and he appreciates it. So much. It encourages him even more to embrace this new journey. “If you’re not too busy next Saturday, I could make more and buy pan dulce.”

You nod slowly, smiling. “That sounds great.” You pause, thinking. “And since you cooked today, I can cook something then. I promise my living room will look presentable again.”

Miguel hides it well but he’s surprised at the subtle invitation for dinner. He nods slowly and chuckles. “Very well. And I’m sure it will.” 

You nod and smile before you look at the time, wondering where the time has gone, sharing Miguel’s feeling from earlier. Time flies when you’re in each other’s presence. You finish your coffee and motion to the kitchen as it still needs to be cleaned.

“Do you want help picking up your kitchen?” you ask but Miguel quickly shakes his head. 

“I can take care of it but thank you though,” he responds softly. 

“Well, I should probably head home now. It’s getting pretty late and you still need rest. Your wounds doing good?” you ask as you get up at last.

“Yes. The smaller ones are closed up. It’s just the trident wound now,” Miguel answers standing up, too, as his hand brushes past the hem of his shirt since he’s wearing normal clothes today. He wants to show you the progress but he’s not sure about randomly pulling up his shirt to show you. He ends up doing it anyway, deciding that you’ve seen him in far less appropriate ways since he’s certain that you unfortunately caught glimpses of certain parts of his body when you helped him get dressed. The two of you tried your best but only so much could be covered at some points, which makes Miguel’s face feel suddenly hot but he ignores it as he shows you. 

Your eyes fall on his tan and bare skin. There’s hardly any sign of injuries, except for the trident wound, which is still in the process of healing. You nod, satisfied that he’s almost fully recovered before looking up at him, not wanting to stare for too long at his well defined body. 

“I’m happy to see that you’re recovering well. I’m sure the trident wound will heal completely in a few days.” 

“I think so, too,” Miguel says, letting go of his shirt. “I also want to thank you for helping me with my injuries. I know it was probably - Some people don’t do well seeing injuries like that. Yet, I still asked you even with a medical team available,” he says with a sigh. “It really meant a lot to me as you know that I can’t… You know,” he says softly, referring to his boundary regarding physical touch. “Thank you for putting up with me.”

You shake your head. “I wanted to help you, Miguel. I wasn’t ‘putting up’ with you. My only worry was I wasn’t going to do it properly and I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

Miguel chuckles quietly. “I felt no pain with you and I’m certain my less serious injuries are fully healed because of you. So, thank you, again, for everything, Y/N.”

And when he emphasizes “everything” once again, Miguel now includes his sleeping situation and the fact that you’ve unselfishly offered to help him again. 

You smile brightly at him. “Always… So, let me get you the sweatshirt,” you say as you start clicking on your gizmo. 

“I’ll go with you, if that’s okay. That way you can stay home already and not make multiple trips. It’s the least I can do,” Miguel says quietly and you nod slowly. 

“Just ignore the mess,” you chuckle and Miguel raises an eyebrow, playfully. 

“Even your mess is organized,” he comments, which makes you laugh as you pick up the flash drive from earlier, making sure to hold on to it. 

You head to the living room with Miguel behind, remembering that the multidimensional portals make nearby objects float so you want to avoid the kitchen. You open the portal and motion to Miguel to follow you. You step into your living room and quickly go to turn on a light since you forgot to leave one on before you left. 

You place the flash drive next to your laptop, telling Miguel to give you a second before entering your bedroom to retrieve the sweatshirt. Miguel looks around your apartment while he waits, feeling embarrassed that he’s actually doing this. He tries to let it go and focuses on the current state of your living room instead, noticing the new bookcase you have yet to put together and a few other boxes he didn’t notice earlier. He thinks of something just as you step out of your bedroom holding a sweatshirt with a smile. 

“Here we go. Next Saturday, we exchange,” you say, still smiling as he hesitantly accepts it. 

Miguel holds it gently, feeling the softness of the fabric. He nods while looking down at you. “Thank you. Next Saturday then…” he says and you nod. 

“Next Saturday after dinner.”

“Alright, sounds good,” Miguel quietly responds. “I’ll go ahead and head out. You must be tired from working on your apartment all day. Rest well.”

“You, too. I’ll tell Lyla about-” you start. 

“Don’t worry, I got it under cover,” Lyla says, appearing suddenly, surprising you because she’s supposed to be deactivated. A thought Miguel voices out loud. “I have my ways of coming back,” she replies with a shrug. 

You shake your head in amusement. “Alright. Well, it seems like Lyla knows what to do. Good night, Miguel,” you say softly. 

“Good night, Y/N,” Miguel answers. He looks at Lyla and gives her a warning look. “Behave Lyla.”

“I always do,” she responds, which earns her a scoff. 

Miguel gives you a soft smile and a nod as he’s about to enter the portal to head home but he stops. Still holding your sweatshirt, he turns sideways.

“Before I head home… Would you like some help?” 

You slightly raise an eyebrow. “Help?”

Miguel nods and motions to your living room. “You know - With your apartment.”

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, thinking. You spent the majority of your mourning journey on your own and thought it’d end the same way. You had every intention of doing this on your own, too. You thought you needed to. And yet, as you look at Miguel, you realize that just because you started this transition in your life alone, doesn’t mean you must end it the same way. 

You smile. “How do you feel about putting a bookcase together?”

Miguel looks over at the bookcase’s box before he returns his gaze to you, smiling softly. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

You chuckle and you’re about to tell him you were joking about the bookcase and that you’d appreciate help hanging up new wall decorations but before you can speak, Miguel beats you to it. “I can drop by tomorrow. Just let me know what time would be best for you,” he says, sincerely. 

You nod slowly. “Midday? Lunch on me,” you say softly and Miguel nods. 

“Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow then… Goodnight,” he says. 

“Goodnight! Thank you, by the way.”

“Always,” Miguel replies. With one last nod and a small smile, he heads out holding your sweatshirt in his hand. 

You stand there and watch the floating objects fall to the ground as the portal closes after him.

Before you jump in the shower, you quickly set the photos from the flash drive to print since you have the supplies. Thirty minutes later you’re placing all the photos you’ll be using in the now dry picture frames. You hang them on your wall and try different variations for a few minutes. You take a step back at last, happy with the last variation. There are now other pictures of Peter, some of which were some of the last photos you took of him like the one where he’s showing off his “Spider-Woman’s #1 Fan” t-shirt. It was one of the last things he bought before he passed away.

The rest of the photos are of your new friends. You spot the one Pav took of the time Hobie, Pav, and you went to get ice cream at Hobie’s universe, which was quite the experience. Then there’s one where everyone went to Gwen’s universe to eat bagels from her favorite bagel place among others that even includes the Morales family. Your gaze shifts to the ones of Miguel and you.

You asked for the pictures from Christmas Eve, a few from the two of you on rooftops, and the one from today before they land on the last one. You didn’t ask for it but it was in the flash drive. You smile as your eyes scan the photo of Miguel making a face after eating the steamed carrot while you stand next to him, watching him. You were surprised to see it in the pile of printed photos when you got out of the shower and wondered if it was a mistake but then you thought about it and realized Miguel wouldn’t make a simple mistake like that. Right? 

And the truth is no, it wasn’t a mistake. Miguel added it because he saw you found it amusing. So now it’s on your wall, next to a picture of Peter and you. You yawn softly and smile before you turn around to look at your apartment. There’s the empty spot from your old couch ready to be filled with the new one and even though you have the urge to clean the area and go ahead and place it, you decide to leave it for tomorrow.

You do your night routine, put your gizmo back on so Lyla can do her thing, and get in bed, falling asleep almost immediately. 

Back in Nueva York, Miguel lays on his bed a little while after cleaning the kitchen. He stares at the ceiling, thinking. Your sweatshirt is on the other side of the bed, over the pillows. A few minutes later, Lyla appears and tells him she’s about to play the live feed from your gizmo. He sighs in disbelief when she disappears, unable to believe this is happening but his thoughts stop when he hears your slow and even breathing. He closes his eyes, feeling the effect almost immediately. He hesitantly reaches for your sweatshirt and pulls it closer, letting your scent surround him. 

It’s only a matter of minutes before Miguel falls asleep to the sound of your live breathing and scent. He falls into a deep slumber, unknowingly seeking to be closer to your sweatshirt in his sleep. He fulfills his quest by pressing the soft fabric to his face. 

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*Translation for italicized Spanish words:* Really love getting to include more Mexican/Latin details ❤️

-Ternura - endearing, tenderness; I've been thinking about this for such a long time because of Miguel lol I can't think of another word in English that has the same feeling "ternura" does. I don't know if it's just me or if other Spanish-speakers can relate

-"Trataré. Te lo juro." - "I will try. I swear."

-Flautas - literally translates to "flute" haha but it's a deep fried tortilla with filling and topped with different toppings.

-Agua de jamaica - Hibiscus tea (I drink this every day lol)

-Agua Fresca - translates to "fresh water"; there are different flavors like horchata water

-Canelita - cinnamon tea

-Mierda - shit

-Burritos de Tinga - translates to "Tinga burritos"; Latin dish made out of meat (pork, chicken) in sauce with onions, chiles chipotle and tomatoes. Can be eaten on tostadas or in burritos (my experience)

-Dia de los Muertos - Day of the Dead

-Café de olla - coffee made in a pot

-Pan Dulce - sweet bread (it's that time of the year, iykyk)

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Hi, guys! First, I hope you enjoyed this new update! Second, I want to apologize for updating almost a month later. I'm so sorry! This part took me a while to write and there were some sections I wasn't initially happy with, so I took extra time to work on them. Then, I got sick lol I was hoping to update sooner but that kind of threw off my plans. I was even hoping to do a Halloween special for the story (short drabble) but life happens.

I'm actually thinking about doing a Thanksgiving one now. I know not everyone celebrates but I don't know, it would be kind of cute and just a short drabble connected to the storyline, not an official part if that makes sense. Just something to read on Thanksgiving related to Miguel x reader and the other spider members! ☺️ if you're interested in getting tagged for that (if all goes well and I actually get to write it), please let me know. Or, you can always just look for it on my masterlist, of course!

Also, I wanted to say a huge THANK YOU for all the support part 9 received!!! Like, for real, thank you SO MUCH!! I think it's the part that's had the most support right after I posted it (besides part 1) regarding reblogs, comments, and asks. It meant a lot to me as several days went into that part specifically because of how long it was, so I really appreciate it and I'm just really happy that so many of you enjoyed it. ❤️🥹

I think that's all I have to say! Thank you again for the amazing support and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I hope you're all having a wonderful start to November, which just makes me wonder where did this year went?! I swear it was just February and now we're here lol but anyway, have a great start to November and take care of yourselves!!

P.S. Please check out the amazing fanart that has been created for Nonviolent Communication! It can be found in my masterlist! Thank you to the amazing talented artists for your support, it means so, so much to me!!! ❤️

-Alondra

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Tag list:

@loverlorn @saturnknows @d1lf-loverrr @eddiestitmiguelsbigdick @freehentai @arithestrawberry @scaleniusrm @haradasaya @spidermanismyfav @bitchykittenconnoisseur @thecraziestcrayon @obi-mom-kenobi @natsury-kazuki @coraline750 @edgycatx @safixiovi @sunnyx07 @nxrdamp @rorel1a @oceanstar19 @happishark @carmilla01 @somebodyelsethanyouthink @adora-but-ginger @angie2274 @vampi-amora @tired-writer04 @plzfeedmebread @shadow-pancake9 @tynakub @faretheeoscar @giulscomix @luvstuffies @coffeeauthorvibing @lauraolar14 @bl0osclues @pinkiemme @lil-cinn @mashiromochi @loveletterfrommwah @muzansucker @theleftkittycollection @kikookii @www-interludeshadow-com @holographicang3l @aisyakirmann @bucky-to-my-barnes @geraskier-thots @l3laze @yujyujj @taylorsmakingfuckingmacandcheese @damhanallagorm @heyohalie @kaliuea @moonsua1 @darksidescorner

[gojuo]

what are your thoughts on the theory that Aegon killed himself with poison?

100% am a proponent of it and actually have been trying to push the agenda as canon since S1 :ppp bc F&B-canon is obviously that Corlys and Larys poisoned him, there's really no way to spin it as something else in the book HOWEVER the tragedy of all the Targtowers and Aegon's tragedy as the big bro of the family and as Alicent's first and last son is sooooo much more emotional and poetic to me if he decided to commit suicide rather than getting murdered. There is something so beautiful and heartbreaking to me about how all of the Targtowers died alone and separated from each other (this is why them loving each other actually like in the book is so important to me and why Condal making the changes he's made pisses me off beyond belief).

The two youngest brothers die fighting to defend their big brother and the two oldest who are married to each other commit suicide... There is just something so delicious about that like... Aemond seeks to redeem himself by defeating Daemon for his big brother because his actions have caused the chain of events that ended up in Jaehaerys' death and he is overwhelmed by guilt for it, thinking he could set things right by killing the killer, completely unable to face his family anymore, and eventually dies trying, and Daeron carves a path of war and vengeance through the Reach in order to return to King's Landing and save his family, consumed by guilt over not being able to save Maelor, his big brother's baby, who was on his way to him yet he dies in the process, not having reunited with his family in years.... And then you have the two oldest siblings who are married to each other against their will and are the only two people in the world to understand what the other is going through... What ache is, what grief is, what it did to them... They are the only ones to understand the other. Then King's Landing falls and Helaena is all alone in the world, separated from her entire family in a lonely castle. Her sons are dead, her girl is missing, her mother is in the dungeons, her brothers are all gone and she is alone in King's Landing. The pain and the loss and the loneliness is too much to bear, it hurts too much to live, so she decides to kill herself in the end. And then Aegon, who has been alone and separated from the entire world and his entire family on a lonely island for six months returns to King's Landing, to both of his sons slaughtered, his girl faraway, his mother a shadow, his dragon gone, his sister dead, and his brothers dead. They all died for him and the crown their mother put upon his head. He's returned but only to an empty house. He is all alone in King's Landing. He is more ghost than person at this point. The pain and the loss and the loneliness is too much to bear, it hurts too much to live, so he decides to kill himself in the end.

And that is Alicent's tragedy. That's her humbling, her karmic justice, her comeuppance. The two children she forced the crown upon in order to save them from their inevitable fate make the decision to end their lives. She's lost almost everyone by this point already, Gwayne, Otto, Criston, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Helaena, Aemond and Daeron, they are all gone but Aegon, her first baby, remains. Her last hope and her last love. And even that isn't enough because the loss is too great for him to swallow. So in the end, he leaves her too. By choice. That is her punishment.

To me, this is parallels, this is connections, this is themes and tragedy and satisfying character conclusions. THIS IS CINEMA.

[starsworldd]

venus in houses pt 2. !

a reminder to go listen to my song domino 1 (iamsagsssssss) out on all platforms!!

venus in 7th:

✵ people pleasers to say the least. these people usually have a good reputation amongst others and love to make friends and connections wherever they go. because venus is also in its domicile here, these people may have a natural knack for fashion, decorating, and anything artistic <3. these people are very friendly and make people feel special and loved. you may make friends/romantic relationships with taurus/libra placements.

venus in 8th:

✵ these people usually get money/possessions from their partners. these people are very alluring and may like to wear black a lot of the time. relationships (of all kinds) may be a source of self-transformation for the individual and may have a close circle of people that they intimately bond with (unless otherwise aspected). these people may find an easier time with rebirth/upheaval. this placement definitely radiates siren energy!

venus in 9th:

✵ natives with this placement may make a lot of friends or in college. they could date partners or be friends with people of different backgrounds ethnic or just overall a very different person to the individual. friends and/or partners could help the native expand themselves in some way, help them to find purpose, or give them access to opportunities. this placement could love traveling and philosophy. could be passionate about religion as well.

venus in 10th:

✵ this placement could mean that the native is well-liked in public. may receive positive attention online, and could be associated with having a certain aesthetic. partners and friends of this placement could help them boost their status, or motivate them to achieve their goals. this person’s calling in life could involve the arts/fashion in some way or making connections with others. this person’s career can be a source of comfort and pleasure for the person.

venus in 11th:

✵ this indicates someone who may be popular. people with this placement love meeting other communities and may know many different types of people and communities. this is someone who may be passionate about social justice and activism as well. they may find that their friends could become their romantic partners as well. this could also indicate someone who is good at manifesting their desires!! definitely someone who may be popular on social media on a bigger scale too.

venus in 12th:

✵ very artistic placement, artistic imagination. these people may have found throughout their life that they’ve struggled with self-esteem and/or friends/romance. these people may find their friends/romantic partners from faraway lands. people with this placement struggle to just how loved they are. this person’s love has no bounds. you may find that you’re involved in hidden love affairs, and/or there’s some sort of sacrifice needed on your part for friends/romantic partners.

thanks for reading hope you enjoyed :>

[myriadeyed]

Sometimes people try to tell me where I came from. “Here,” they say, and point at a map, Up there, or over here, Some place I have never been. “This is the place you left behind." “Some wonderful day you will return.” “This is your faraway home.” You don’t know a damn thing about what soil wove my DNA, But you pretend to.

Sometimes people try to tell me “Then you must have come from nowhere.” Well, I certainly came from nowhere on the map. But you’re wrong. I came from love. I came from grief. I am descended from manifest secrecy and unspoken pride. My home is song even when there is no need for any. My origin is questions and answers that are more questions. My mother tongue is philosophy, my mother land is revolt And a resolution to survive. I came from mercy, justice, humility, And justice, and justice, and the need to pursue it. Which means I also came from solidarity Because I see in you the love and the grief I see in me. I came from kehillah, Which means community, so in a way, Also means strength.

You have left your place of origin, To wonder about distant relatives in Italy or A vacation, maybe, to France one day. No, you have left behind your place of origin, but I, I carry mine with me wherever I go.

[stilemawillow]

The Austere Land of You [Eren | Eldian! Reader]

The first moment he laid eyes on you he knew, with such odd certainty, it scared him...

You walked into the hospital room with a familiar air of confidence he had seen before, across a vast ocean in the eyes of his treasured comrades as they charged into battle. That bravery was uncanny for a female of your stature and age, a mere teenager who knew not of true cruelty and the wicked ways of fate. When you arrived at his bedside, however, he caught a glimpse of the Eldian armband and corrected himself for the mistake. Your shoulders were tense and the impassive look of neutrality on your face reminded him of his Corporal as you stood at the foot of his bed, youthfulness shadowed by years of painful experience. Looking closer, he noted the lilac crescents etched deep into the skin beneath your eyes - harsh and cold - so unlike your gentle features it made him scowl. A nurse shouldn't have such eyes.

"The head nurse told me you have amnesia. Do you happen to remember your name?"

"Kruger."

"And how do you want me to address you?"

"... Eren."

"I'm (Y/N) (L/N). We're going to be seeing each other often during your stay."

Your smile was warm but it didn't reach your eyes. Eren nodded in understanding and you asked him if there was something he wanted. A few things came to mind but he was sure you wouldn't be able to acquire them for him. Freedom and justice were abstract concepts he had to procure for himself and others - not earn. You couldn't just fish them from the pocket of your apron, as much as it would've pleased him for that to have been possible. Though most patients were sleeping at this time and you were unoccupied, Eren denied craving anything particular, to which you left the hospital room, only to come back a minute later with a glass of water and another one of those empty smiles he would soon come to dislike. Eren uttered a word of gratitude but never took the water from your hold, forcing you to leave it on the small stool by his bed with a statement that you were going to be just outside and that he should call if he needed anything. He stopped you in your tracks with a question.

"Do you know any fairy tales?"

"One or two. But they're vague and end happily."

"It's what I was hoping for. Better than the morbid atmosphere here."

"A pensive person like you doesn't look like the type to enjoy fairy tales."

"And a weird nurse like you doesn't look like the type to know any, but here we are."

Your chuckle was sweet and quiet, like the faraway crash of the ocean waves or the flap of a bird's wings as it sang. Your short-lived smile failed to reach your eyes once more, proving your immunity to evanescent happiness and amusement. You took a seat on the stool after handing him the water, letting his teal hues observe the purple bruises your dress's long sleeves had failed to hide completely. They adorned your frail wrist's whole breadth, peeking up at him like a dirty secret from under a clean white cuff. Being an Eldian in these ends wasn't an ideal place in the hierarchy because it put you at the very bottom, a step beneath the Marleyan cattle and even their house pets. You were treated worse than dogs just because Marley thought you were devils. Eren had sworn he would change that, but would he get the chance to see your stoic countenance as you nursed his wounds after he succeeded or would he be too late?

"What about a loveless fairy tale?"

"You're a victim of one. It's called reality."

"And you have the audacity to call me pensive."

"I apologise. I've never been on good terms with love."

The following days you'd bring him his meals and engage him in conversations when he seemed in the mood. You endured a beating to bring him a fairy tale book and he took notice of it (the sickening bruises of attempted strangulation and the split lip the attackers gave you were hard to miss), questioning the weird selflessness of somebody who seemed so detached. Feigning idiocy, Eren asked you to read to him and for a week straight you sat on that small stool by his bed, reading with your low melodic voice and briefly pausing every time an empty smile graced your fatigued visage as a result of a commentary on his side. Eren caught you looking at him during those days, mostly when he'd been eyeing your bruises a bit too much. Insecurity wasn't present in your orbs and you never addressed the action, throwing not a single reprimand at his astute hues. The teal in them lacked visible sympathy.

"Could you please fix my pillow?"

"You know you're perfectly capable of doing that yourself, Mr. Kruger."

"Eren."

"Young master."

His chuckle was something you found extremely motivating, beautiful and pleasant to listen to - albeit hoarse and seldom existent. Over the course of this blossoming friendship of yours, you'd heard it no more than three times and each of them had been late into the night after he'd called you in for something stupid - his back was itchy, he'd had a nightmare or he just felt uncomfortable lying awake in a room where death hung from the ceiling like a dreaded reminder of what awaited some of its inhabitants. You'd come padding into the room, a glass of water in your grasp and a disapproving scowl twisting your features, but one look at the unkempt soldier and his apologetic hues would be more than enough to make the reproach prodding at the tip of your tongue slide to the back of your throat in shame.

Careful not to wake somebody, you leaned over and fixed his pillow prior to asking if it was better, to which you received a negative answer and an instruction to adjust the other side as well. You grumbled under your nose in mild dissatisfaction before doing as you were told, which was quite similar to the act of you caging the poor male to the bed. Stunned by the proximity you shared, your brain malfunctioned and forgot why you'd gotten into that position in the first place. The man under you seemed unfazed and it was then you noticed, in the pale moonlight coming from the window with his long hair away from his face for once, that Eren Kruger was very far from being a mister - in fact he was probably no more than three years older than you. His eyes twinkled in the face of your supposed composure - an act that came apart completely when the wounded soldier lifted a big hand to tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

You snapped out of your daze and averted your gaze even though you silently longed to admire the colour scheme of his hues some more. Days if they would be given to you. The teal and the turquoise, and those little specks of emerald wandering the depths of his orbs. They could be golden in the sunlight, you speculated dreamily prior to asking if he was comfortable now. He seemed reluctant to voice an answer and when it came it was hardly related to your question at all, keeping you there, shamefully towering over him as the other patients spun in their restless slumber. Eren observed your visage - oddly feminine and vulnerable following the abrupt breach of your defences - with latent curiosity. At that moment he could call you beautiful but he chose not to. It would further add to the brush of colour across your cheeks and earn him one of your infamous glares. But that wasn't what he feared. Because the following night you might not answer when he called and he found that idea infuriatingly unpleasant.

"Nurse."

"Yes, Eren?"

"May I take you out after I leave the hospital?"

"Take me out?"

"To see the ocean."

It was the first time Eren heard sincere laughter leave your lips - it made your eyes light up as the sound rolled off your tongue and rooted him in place, thoughtful and just as hopeful. If he took you to the shore, maybe he could send you across the ocean to Mikasa and Armin and protect you, keep you safe from everything that would happen. If you agreed you'd stay out of harm's way and it would put his mind to rest. When your laughter died down the brown-haired male was still admiring the beamish glimmer in your orbs, thus why he almost missed your small nod. Eyes widening in evident excitement, Eren parted his lips with the intent to speak but his vocal cords went mute when you leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, light as a feather and gentle despite the frown you constantly armed yourself with.

Reflexes taking over, the tan male put a hand on the back of your neck when you were about to part from him and properly aligned your lips for a second kiss. Your surprise was clear but there was no fight in your body. Your tense shoulders relaxed and you tangled your hard-working fingers in his chocolate locks as he grabbed your waist, pulling you closer. You sighed in contentment when Eren's teeth nibbled on your bottom lip, demanding a less chaste kiss you were eager to give. His diminutive growl vibrated against your mouth when you tugged on his hair and he slowly broke the kiss prior to taking your wrist in his hold. Careful not to press the bruises that kept reappearing, the male locked gazes with you and placed a butterfly kiss atop each violet smear visible. The hitch of your breath was loud as you slowly moved back, burning with that happy embarrassment that distinguished a lover's playful gesture from the shameful act of a stranger. Thankfully, a majority of the patients were having their afternoon naps and the rest didn't seem to have paid any attention to you.

Eren let go of your wrist, fingers lingering as he wondered whether to speak or not. His temper would probably get the best of him so he decided he'd keep quiet and wait for your words instead, but you couldn't meet his gaze, having sat back on the small stool by his bed. Your fingertips kept brushing over your lips in a repetitive trance-like motion that seemed to push a number of indecent thoughts to the surface of his mind. He stood up after shaking them off, alarming your dazed self. You handed him his crutch, straight posture hinting at the fact you were waiting for him to start walking so you could follow unless told otherwise. A light huff blew past his lips as he stepped forward and a glance back at your visage was all he needed to see the emotional teenager you rarely let out. A shy smile had graced your gentle features and, though it took him by surprise, he inwardly conceded that smile would've made his fifteen-year-old self fall in love in a heartbeat.

"Will you be watching the Tybur festival?"

"I'll be spying on it from the window."

"What window?"

"My home's window. The stage's going be set up mere feet from it."

"I'd opt for a walk to avoid listening to the nonsense if I were you."

"A walk?"

"But not in the vicinity. Propaganda travels far. So go further."

Out of the hospital and out of your life, or so Eren had secretly hoped as he finally put his carefully thought-out plan into action some days later. He uttered a final inward prayer prior to transforming and it was the last coherent thought you occupied in his mind for the following few minutes until his gaze caught sight of your form a few streets away, watching the fight with a horrified expression that, for the umpteenth time, didn't manage to reach your cold eyes. You watched his titan form, with its bleeding jaw and broken teeth, and the sheen in its big eyes and you knew. You watched it (this despicable monster you were supposed to hate on sight - him) clutch Willy Tybur's sister and gnaw at the crystal surrounding her with chilling composure, but the moment the Jaw Titan attempted to attack him from the back your eyes widened in concern and your lips parted though you realised he wouldn't hear you. Eren turned, slamming the attacker into the nearby building after the Corporal had disabled his onslaught and he knew a little something of his own. Something he'd known since the beginning.

He was in and done for.

...

The last time his orbs settled on your figure he also knew, in a way even better than before...

Weeks of worry and nightmares had left their imprint on your gentle features. Eren would never understand the worry had been for him. He'd never know the sleepless nights and the faded tear stains had been for him. And while those facts might forever stay out of his reach he knew another thing - where to find you at all times. So he walked into the hospital with his two functioning legs, no facial hair and that determined though emotionless gaze that seemed to make him more humane, knowing you'd be there, tending to somebody else's needs like you'd tended to his. Your first reaction to seeing him step into the room was something he'd always remember - a tired frown deepening in realisation as the ice in a pair of cold eyes cracked and tumbled down sunken cheeks.

"I thought you wouldn't come back."

"I thought you wouldn't talk to me."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"I really don't. I don't know."

You didn't have much time with him and it wasn't something you needed to hear in order to understand. You told your current patient to lie back down and try to rest as you left the building, silently walking after the tense brunet. He stopped at the exit and you stepped back, fearfully glancing up at him as he turned to face you. He noticed the sunken cheeks and the deepened lilac crescents, and the crease in the middle of your forehead as you knitted your eyebrows at him, but didn't address them. He stood there, fervently observing and memorising every part of you his orbs had access to and inwardly hating himself for thinking you no less beautiful than all other times he'd had the honour to lay eyes upon your visage. Then he saw the first tear. Quick to comfort you, Eren moved forth and cupped your cheek so gingerly it seemed to make you cry even harder.

"... it's Jaeger. Eren Jaeger."

"Which of my names do you favour more?"

"The real one. It has a certain ring to it."

"I've come to learn it sounds better when you say it."

A wavering smile kissed your lips as you met his bright gaze, twitching fingers relinquishing their hold on your white dress and instead hesitantly ghosting over the male's strong jawline, clenched in self-restraint. Eren visibly leaned into their warm touch with a small gulp as your tears gradually ceased cascading over your moist skin. A wishful breath slipped past the cage of your punctured lungs as the male stepped forth, cupping your face with both his hands and pressing a loving kiss to your forehead - desperate and burning with equal parts of pain and want. Your hands dropped to his chest and one happened to rest over his heart - hammering so loudly against his ribcage that it started sounding like human speech to you. Eren pressed your foreheads together and you cursed this whole situation before looking into his eyes, so emotional and in so much pain it made your windpipe constrict. Only if you could do something to help him.

"I never understood the look in your eyes."

"I know. But I understood the look in yours, Eren. I still do."

"Tell me what it means then. I seem to have a hard time deciphering it on my own."

Eren expected a snarky retort. He expected slight reproach and some motherly scolding, some true statements and a little bit of explanation. Maybe the smile you'd crack would reach your eyes in that endearing manner that always made his heart skip a beat or maybe you'd caress his face with your warm fingers as you spoke in a soft voice of how oblivious he was, how oblivious he'd always been. For you he was. But he was also unprepared for what you truly did. He was unprepared for the kiss, for the abrupt tug at the collar of his white shirt, unprepared for how good your hot lips felt against his own and the blissful feeling it filled his whole body with. The following minutes could be described using a few words - simple and prosaic but appropriate as could be.

Inexperienced: applicable to both of you, its existence didn't stop you from wrapping your arms around his neck as he lifted you off the ground effortlessly. Sloppy: the sound of lips smacking and teeth grazing didn't alert any nurse or patient in the building, you were in a world of your own as his hands creased your uniform and yours made a mess of his hair. Passionate: hardly anything a pair of teenagers could stray from, you felt your heartbeat speed up as Eren held you close - so close you felt every breath leaving his body so it could mix with yours. Desperate: fate, fights and rules didn't matter when he could feel you against himself, so warm and alive, so beautiful and tired, so lovable and loving, you were melting in his arms and he was intoxicated by the fresh smell of flowers in your hair and the sweet taste of tea on your lips, so smitten it was borderline ridiculous.

"I want to keep you safe."

"Lock me away then, Eren Jaeger. And come back for me when you win."

The look in his eyes was quite eloquent as to what he had in mind. He would do just that. He'd come back for you and you'd welcome him into your embrace as a victor - a monster so engrossed in protecting humanity it had neglected its own. He'd lock gazes with your austere hues and you'd smile one of those empty smiles of yours, and as you'd lean in to kiss his dry lips it would fill with that type of unhidden adolescent love Eren denied ever having witnessed. His bloodied hands would hold your small figure and you'd smile for him - a smile that could encompass all the stars in the sky and all the freedom in the world. You'd be free to do whatever you wanted, no longer labelled as devils and beaten like street mutts. The fantasy was vivid and beautiful, almost as beautiful as you. Eren felt your hands squeeze his. Your pants were fanning his face, bodies standing close as he left the imprint of his desperate need for you all over, kissing where tears had fallen, smiles been seldom shown and eyebrows knitted. Everywhere he could reach.

"I'll be back in a bit then."

It was useless to ask you to wait for him because he knew you would, even if he told you he wouldn't come back for weeks. Eren watched you glide down your white dress as his hands worked on his hair - combing it with his fingers and tying it with the small rubber band that had stayed in your hold after you'd tangled your digits in his locks. You spied the action out of the corner of your eye, with a worried expression that differed from your neutral frown only because you didn't normally furrow your brows that intensively. Your pout was visible as Eren exhaled a shaky breath, determination to leave wavering at the sight of your watery eyes. But you encouraged him, stepping closer and letting one of those empty smiles kiss your lips. The genuine one you'd leave for his safe return, along with the tears streaming down your face. You tip-toed to kiss him one last time, lips lingering as your eyelids fell closed and he revelled in the sound of your wistful sigh. Your gazes locked and you both knew two vastly different things which came down to one and the same statement, echoing in the hospital's hallway. It was the final verdict of your unrealistic wishes.

He'd fight fate itself if it meant this wouldn't be the last time you kissed him.

[midnightshard06]

Flufftober Day 16

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50489362/chapters/128583955

Summary: Silver had been having issues with nightmares for some time. Shadow manages to help with that in a rather unexpected way.

Pairing: Shadow the Hedgehog/Silver the Hedgehog

Warnings: Nightmares? (idk if that needs to be a warning but just in case)

Word Count: ~700 words

@flufftober

Silver found it hard to sleep a lot of the time. He would be plagued by odd dreams that almost felt like memories, but he knew they hadn’t happened. Well maybe they had, he was a time traveler after all and weird things could happen. Whatever they were though they made it hard to sleep. For a while Silver suffered through the nightmares alone, certainly not getting enough sleep most nights. His friends had started to worry but he did his best to reassure them he was fine. He didn’t wanna worry them, plus what could they even do to help?

Things changed when he started dating Shadow. Not right away of course. There was a very awkward period where the two hedgehogs tried to figure out what worked between them. Eventually though with a lot of work it all settled out and the two moved in together. Silver remembered the day the move had been made official well. Rouge had tearfully waved goodbye to Shadow, sighing dramatically and making some comment about how she couldn’t believe he’d managed to land someone before her. Shadow had looked her straight in the eyes and told her to just work it out with Knuckles already. Her face was one Silver would never forget.

Once the two were moved in together it became impossible to hide his nightmare problem from Shadow. It had already been hard before and Silver really hated worrying his partner, but now he’d be forced to tell someone else about it. Shadow hadn’t interrogated him, but instead did his best to gently coax the information out of Silver. He caved and told Shadow about the nightmares. Shadow had hummed and pulled him into a hug, but didn’t bring it up again. 

The next time Silver was suffering from nightmares Shadow pulled him closer and much to Silver’s surprise began to sing. Silver didn’t recognize the song, but it was a soft melody that had him relaxing against his will. He found it wasn’t so hard to fall asleep and stay asleep after that.

This kept happening. Each time Silver would be having trouble with nightmares Shadow would pull him close and sing that song. It worked every time and Silver was so grateful for Shadow. At some point he asked what the song was. Shadow had shrugged, a faraway look in his eyes, before saying he wasn’t sure but it was something Maria had sung to him on the ARK when he had trouble sleeping. Silver immediately felt honored that Shadow had decided he was worth sharing something so personal too. 

Eventually the nightmares got less and less frequent. They didn’t go away completely but they became much less of an issue. Silver thanked Shadow, but the hedgehog just waved it off saying that it was no issue. Silver made sure that Shadow remembered his gratitude though.

One night things were different. Silver was starting to drift off to sleep when he felt Shadow start to move. He sleepily opened his eyes and looked over at his partner. Shadow was starting to curl in on himself and shake. Once Silver processed what was happening he felt awake. He sat up in their shared bed. Shadow’s quills were raised so Silver didn’t try to touch him as much as he wanted to. It was clear that Shadow was having some sort of nightmare; Silver had been through enough of his own to recognize that.

He was at a loss of what to do, but he couldn’t just sit there and let Shadow suffer. Then he had an idea. While there was no way he could do it the same justice Shadow gave it, maybe it would help. He started to softly sing the same song Shadow would sing to him. It was hesitant at first but slowly he got more confident as Shadow seemed to relax some. Once he deemed it safe Silver put a hand on Shadow and started to gently run it through his quills. 

As he got to the end of the song he snaked his arms around Shadow, pulling him close like the other hedgehog would do to him. As Shadow’s breathing evened out Silver smiled into his back, glad that he was able to finally return the favor.

[celiafall]

Any lore of Li?

Yeah! It’s confusing at the start but you will understand it I hope! (It’s a lot!)

In a realm faraway existed a maiden far in the heavens whom was beloved by many mortals and the other maidens. One day she disobeyed the Jade Emperor and was exiled and almost executed, she felt betrayed by all of the lies she had been feed but also scared by her situation, she planned a way to escape and after a while of acting weak and scared she made her move and escaped, she were lost in the mortal realm and fell in love with the mortals, man or woman, animal or not, weak or strong. She felt the most happiness and love she had ever felt and got more and more confident and maybe a bit of an ego but she knew to stay humble.

One day she met other people that were almost like her, she felt that these two other people who planned to overthrow the Jade Emperor and bring justice for all was someone she could trust and they became friends and after that she met their other friends or sworn brothers as they told her, she asked what each of their names were, and they answered, they asked for the Maiden’s name, which she answered, her name was Mèng, nothing more nothing less just Mèng.

They were together and had fun together, she felt at peace and safe being with people she trusted wouldn’t stab her in her back, finally the time arrived to overthrow the Jade Emperor, Mèng distracted most of the warriors far away from the others, Mèng knew she couldn’t defeat them but it was a sacrifice she was willing to take if it meant victory.

She felt scared but confident, strong but weak at the same time. She fought and fought until she felt one last stinging pain and never woke up again. Mèng’s soul was trapped in the land of the dead and it was like this for centuries, she only felt calmness no other feeling that calmness and peace, everything felt so quiet and everything seemed so dark.

One day she felt a pull in her soul and felt a strong sense of warmth and rage sipping into her soul, she saw a flame so powerful yet beautiful that it felt like her soul was burning, she made a sacrifice to give life to a new life and fused her soul with the flame until it was burned into nothing.

The Samadhi fire began to take form of a weasel not that old, the form was completely and the new weasel finally felt for the first time. The weasel was confused, no memories, no knowledge of the world around it and no name of its own. It suddenly felt a gentle push on its back like something was leading it into safe arms. It followed after some resistance and walked miles on miles until it met with a so familiar yet so unfamiliar face. The male didn’t look happy but after some time let it follow suit. The weasel was given the name “Li” and was lead to a place where the sky met the stars and where the light met a flame so bright yet so faint.

The man walked around the realm with the child following, the eyes on the child was nothing less than distrust and suspicion but that didn’t matter, since they would be gone soon enough.

After some time the child would soon find themselves being trained and taken care of by the man almost like a strange family. Good things always comes to an end though, the child stumbles back into the mortal realm and was treated like a monster, maybe because of the six arms or tails or maybe because of the antlers that grew in size at unexpected times but either way the child fled to somewhere safe.

The child felt humiliated and angry so they hid their antlers and their spare arms to look more “normal”, but after some weeks they found themselves trapped inside a volcano, it was hard to see but it felt safe to rest in. The child felt it was harder to keep their form without it being burned and ripped apart by the Samadhi fire, the child split its form in two and now there was another person, another weasel…another Li, the first one fell into a complete slumber of power while the second went out to write the world of right and wrong.

After centuries upon centuries the first one awoke to its body being completely healed and felt stronger. The child went out and explored the world. they soon found a strange pig man that took them in.

Hope you like it * w * You can give feedback!

[mx-lamour]

10 - Animal

“You will have to be convincing,” Strahd said. He retrieved a small amulet on a chain from his pocket and held it out to Alek. “With this, they should be unable to detect what you really are.”

Alek took the chain and draped it around the back of his neck, to work the small clasp where he could still see it. He pulled the amulet around and lightly tugged the front of his shirt, so that the gem would fall into the open slit and lay hidden against his chest. “A handsome devil?” he suggested, knowing full well what Strahd had meant.

“A ghoul,” Strahd agreed flatly.

“You didn’t call me here just to give me jewelry, though. What else is there?”

“As I told you, I sensed another interloper pass through the Mists. I want you to greet them. Gain their trust. They might be willing to part with more information about themselves and how they came to be here.”

Alek nodded. “And you think this will really do the trick?”

“It is working now. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were an ordinary man.”

A look passed between them, in which they both remembered Strahd’s appetite for human blood. If he did not know better, Alek might seem a bit… appetizing.

“How would you have me do it?” Alek wondered. “Local folk are not exactly friendly these days. If I approach the outsiders, that alone might seem suspicious.”

“I thought of that,” Strahd said. His eyes passed over Alek head-to-toe. With his lean stature and fair coloring, the man hardly looked the part of a Barovian local—because, in truth, he was not. Strahd told him as much. “That could be enough to put them at ease. However, I have an idea that might make them come to you, if they are anything like past adventuring types.” Thieves, he meant, but ones who rationalized their raids with an erratic sense of vigilante justice, the morality and particulars of which often seemed to be decided on a whim.

Alek would meet them on the road, Strahd explained, where they would catch him in a vicious battle, beset by wolves. A wry grin crept onto Alek’s face with the telling. With any luck, the adventurers would leap into the fray to save him, and then, with little prompting, they would probably absorb Alek into their rank, themselves. They would want a companion who knew the lay of the land—especially if that companion had also proved himself a fine enough swordsman.

“Buy them a drink,” Strahd said. “Tell them you have come from a faraway land and were trapped here by the Mists.”

Alek chuckled. “It would not be a lie.”

“Precisely.”

“So, you’ll set your pups on me,” he prompted. “That won’t be an enticing prospect for them.” The wolves did not exactly enjoy Alek’s ghoulish scent. He was an unnatural predator, and they seemed to be acutely aware of the fact. They often shrank back, whining in his presence. It took a lot of coaxing to settle them down when Strahd wasn’t there to soothe their minds from within. It was sufficient protection against such an errant wolf attack. Only those few which Strahd kept in the castle like dogs seemed to tolerate Alek; the rest were frightened of him.

“That is why I will be there with them,” Strahd said. With that, his form began to shift. The ability had been unsettling to Alek in the early years of their entrapment—but so had everything. Witnessing these contortions of magic had become almost second-nature to him since then. He watched as Strahd’s face drew into a long canine muzzle and he dropped to all fours, his clothes transforming into the thick black fur which now covered his body from nose to tail.

The wolf-Strahd shivered, as if shaking off either rain or dust from his pelt. Alek was sorely tempted to reach out and stroke the silky fur, but he refrained. Strahd’s lips pulled back, baring a gruesome set of strong, sharp teeth. He snarled gently at Alek.

“I see,” Alek said in good humor, noting the aggressive posture. He drew his sword from its scabbard. Shifting his feet into an easy fighting stance, Alek reached his arm out to tap the tip of his blade against the dry courtyard grass, then lifted it again into a ready position. His eyes narrowed. “Come on, then.”

The dark beast slowly circled him, a thunderous low growl in his throat. He dipped forward with one paw every so often, snapping at Alek with powerful jaws, searching for an opening. Alek shifted his stance with impeccable footwork, swordpoint held steadily between them. It was a dance they were well acquainted with, though usually when they sparred like this, Strahd was armed the same as Alek, advancing on his own two feet.

Strahd lunged at Alek's leg. Alek stepped back with a twist, slapping the flat of his blade against Strahd's flank with practiced control. They did this maneuver several times. Strahd attempted to find new ways to throw Alek off-balance, to varying degrees of success. Then he stalked out of melee range. Alek sank further into the bend of his knees.

Strahd lifted his head, and a baleful howl issued from deep within his chest. It seemed to reverberate off the facets of Mount Ghakis itself, pricking up the hair on Alek's arms, making an echo chamber of his ribs, all his senses sharply piqued.

Some of the echoes were the answering call of other wolves. Alek's off hand went to his dagger.

The sleek black animal in the courtyard met his gaze again, a flash of red light in his eyes. Alek could imagine Strahd's subtle smirk on the wolfish face.

“So that was just foreplay, was it?”

A castle door burst open behind him. Three of Strahd's favorite dogs leapt out and charged across the lawn.

It was a completely different game, one careful opponent versus three hairy berserkers. Alek tried to avoid doing them any great harm—it would only serve as something Strahd might hold against him later, if he felt the urge—but the wolves failed to show him the same courtesy. They scratched and snapped at him. The exertion was enough to kick Alek’s dormant lungs into order, churning air like a bellows to feed the fire in his limbs while he dodged and blocked and carefully parried.

Then others came.

A hunting party of seven or more wolves streamed in through the gate and descended on Alek. He tried to hold his own, but they swarmed him. One took a running jump and barreled into his chest, knocking him to the ground. In a fleeting moment of terror, he thought Strahd would allow them to rip him apart.

Instead, having finally felled their prey, the wolves ceased their ferocious act. They clambered over Alek, crowding him with clumsy paws and lolling tongues, nuzzling his injuries and bowing playfully, wagging their tails. It was nearly as dangerous; ten large dogs could still trample him.

Alek heard Strahd laughing beyond them. When he approached, standing tall in his man form again, clapping lazily for the performance, the pack parted to let him through. He took one look at Alek's scrapes, the row of claw marks on his forehead oozing blue-black gore—the illusion made the blood seem fresh and red, but Strahd and his wolves could still smell the difference—and attempted to stifle the rich sound.

“You did quite well,” Strahd said by way of apology, offering his hand.

“Thanks.”

Strahd caught the spark in Alek's pale eyes a half-second too late—It was the spark of opportunity. Alek grabbed his hand and pulled hard.

Strahd sprawled bodily on top of him.

It was Alek's turn to laugh. Amid the surrounding pack of wolves, he locked an arm around Strahd's neck and caught a pointed ear between his teeth. He was forced to let it go only because Strahd's hand had trapped his hair against the ground.

“Alek,” Strahd chastised him.

Alek grinned, still catching his breath. He let his head fall back against the grass. “Got me riled up,” he retorted. “Did you mean for them to kill me?”

“Are you dead?”

Alek snorted. “I know a way that you could make up for it.”

“You enjoyed yourself.”

“That's no excuse.” His eyes roamed over Strahd's face, settling softly on his mouth.

Strahd had become more… amorous, after the change. Whether it was the enhanced power in his body overall, or the often lonely quiet of the castle, or some combination of things, Alek couldn't be sure—maybe Strahd had always been this way, and it was just that he had not allowed himself to act on base desires. Whatever the case, Alek liked it. This part of it. It was a good look for Strahd, he thought, this kind of freedom.

Strahd leaned down obligingly and kissed him.

A wolf near their heads whined and yipped abruptly. Others joined it.

“I'm not going to eat him,” Alek objected, attempting to shoo them away.

“I assumed that was your intent,” Strahd purred, his lips ghosting over Alek's jaw.

“Not the way they seem to think.”

Strahd hummed absently in response. He snapped his fingers and their ears pricked up. Within their minds, almost as though the thoughts were their own, the wolves became aware of praise, that they had been successful in their hunt and would not perish, but that Strahd as their leader would have first pick of their prey. The wolves quieted and settled down onto the lawn around the men to wait their turn for supper.

They would not be taking part in this particular feast, however.

* * * [Ao3 Collection] [prompt list by @syrips]

[eco-lite]

Hello and welcome to my unedited notes while reading volume 1 of Jeweler Richard:

“The Pink Sapphire of Justice”

* Nakata Seigi, king amongst unreliable narrators. Your attraction to Richard is very clear, my guy.

* Not Richard falling asleep on the train next to Seigi. You barely know this man! Couldn’t be me, but it really establishes Richard’s feelings about Seigi quite early on. Or he’s just a fucking weirdo. (It’s both.)

* Flowers mentioned by name at the mansion in Kobe—pansies (romantic love and platonic affection), pale pink roses (grace, joy, happiness), cherry tree (unclear if it’s blossoming; renewal, rebirth, new beginnings). Also mentioned—“some blue flowers whose name I didn’t know, red flowers with round petals, and some sort of white double flowers” (38).

* Padparadscha meaning—joy, vital energy, foresight.

* I love all the ways Tsujimura entwines fate/coincidence into the narrative. Seigi just happening to be in the right place at the right time to save Richard from the drunks, Richard just happening to already have connections to the Miyashita family, the padparadscha just happening to be mined in the same town that Richard’s grandmother grew up in. “‘It’s honestly fascinating—a stone mines in Sri Lanka and cut in Europe ultimately lands in faraway Japan. To borrow a turn of phrase from you, perhaps the universe is trying to tell us something’” (48). Simply ineffable. 😉

* Even just the first story establishes Seigi and Richard’s personalities and mannerisms so well, and establishes their relationship dynamic so quickly. This is what character writing should be!

“The Ruby of Truth”

* Hmmm fascinating difference in Seigi’s immediate sparkly cutesy crush on Tanimoto and his reluctant, suppressed attraction to Richard. He talks to Richard and Tanimoto about the same thing, yet Seigi is much more mentally open to the idea of loving Tanimoto. That’s heteronormativity for ya!

* Speaking of heteronormativity, holy shit! I forgot this was the story with the lesbian couple broken up by one of them wanting so desperately to be “normal” that she disappears from her partner’s life and tries to force herself to marry a man. Then tries to kill herself when she can’t bring herself to go through with it. The fucking subtly of the setup is absolutely brilliant. But Mami’s story is so heartbreaking. “‘Do any of your friends live with their same-sex partner? Probably not, right? I’m not even talking about discrimination or harassment but the constant exhaustion of knowing you’re not “normal.” It’s like trying to grow vegetables in the middle of the desert. I always wondered why I had to go through all this hardship that other people didn’t…’” (119). Ouchie.

* “‘…I find a world with a variety of diverse units of measurement much more comfortable, beautiful, and rich for it.’ Mami giggled, like she understood something” (122-123). THE GAYS HAVE FOUND EACH OTHER AND THEY ARE COMMUNICATING.

* “She was a pretty impressive person to be able to ignore that face of his” (123). Sweetie, that’s because she’s not attracted to men, and YOU ARE!

* Richard giving Mami the gemstone ID on the house: mlm/wlw solidarity.

* Seigi is a very good ally for not even having thought about the existence of gay people before. It’s almost like he can relate on some kind of deeper level that not even he can understand… 👀

* Richard is fucking insane for sending Seigi that text, holy shit. Like I certainly understand why he feels that way, but that was so unprofessional. I know it’s painful when somebody you have unrequited feelings for gets your hopes up (not to mention his issues around compliments about his appearance), but damn, keep that shit to yourself!

“The Amethyst of Protection”

* Seigi: “‘If I’m being honest, your face is so beautiful it’s not even human—I wouldn’t compare your beauty to nice weather but rather to diamond dust or an aurora.’” Also Seigi: “I didn’t think I’d really said anything that outlandish…” (150) FUCK OFF! Richard literally had to go punch a pillow after that.

* Wow, this is the power of heteronormativity! Everybody Seigi tells about Richard is like, oh so you’re attracted to your boss. And Seigi is like NO I just think he’s the most beautiful human being I’ve ever seen! 😤 Right…

* Seigi’s argument that love and beauty aren’t the same thing is interesting. I totally agree that you can love things because they’re beautiful and think things are beautiful because you love them. That’s exactly why love and beauty are so intertwined. For me, when I love someone, the more beautiful they are to me. I think that’s how Seigi thinks of Tanimoto. So does Seigi love Richard because he’s beautiful, then?

* “My feelings for Tanimoto were wholly unique. I couldn’t compare them to my feelings for anyone or anything else” (160). That’s fucking funny, since that’s exactly what the narrative is doing with your feelings for her.

“The Diamond of Memory”

* “‘… Maybe beautiful things can make us happiest when we can just innocently call them beautiful without having to think about numbers’” (208). Yes, Seigi, I think you’re going to find that applies to people as well. It’s fascinating how Seigi can say such philosophically astute things sometimes but never apply them to his own life.

* Ahh, mistaken as a couple. My favorite trope. Richard blushing and getting impatient—so cute. “‘Congradulations on the Shibuya ordinance’” (215) hehsjdkdls. God damn, the jewelry department scene is so infuriating but so delicious. Seigi’s innocent ignorance truly knows no bounds. “‘If you ever go back to that department again, make sure you tell them that the wedding’s off’” (218) RICHARD. 😭😭😭 And then Seigi thinks “It’d be nice to bump into Tanimoto somewhere on a day like this” (218) FUCK YOU!

* It’s not even that Seigi has a hard time recognizing social cues. He recognizes them and then straightforwardly blunders right on past. 🤦🏽‍♀️

* Not Seigi calling Tanimoto a “space case.” You have no room to talk, mister!

* Richard really got back at him, though. Well played…

“To Wish Upon a Rose Quartz”

* Seigi couldn’t possibly put his foot in his mouth any less. Fucking wild.

* I love this little scene, though. It’s nice to see them just chatting, and a bit more of Richard’s humor coming out. Great end to the volume!

[burdenedreverance]

CALLING FROM YESTERDAY

June 2003. Nineveh Governate, Iraq.

Desmond Hayden's foot kicked in the wooden door of the shack, sending it flying off its hinges. Violence and tenacity is what carries the day as he tries his rifle on his target, a large rotund officer of the former Iraqi Army. His latest excursion in the human world has him hunting down those who evaded justice, the war-crime committing officials who got away with corruption.

"Anzil, Anzil!"

Hayden's words leave his mouth in Arabic as he commands the man to get down, which he does so. He moves behind him placing a knee on his leg, slinging his rifle he begins to zip tie the man. As he hauls him to his feet, a loud beeping noises emits from the blocky sat-phone on his side. As he walks the man outside with one hand, he answers the call.

The familiar voice of Kisuke Urahara greets him.

"Hayden-san! How goes it? --ahhh, I can hear you're busy. Not to worry, I won't take up too much of your time here-- I'm afraid your service is requested for a far more important mission. I'll need you to prepare for departure as soon as possible. --Don't worry, we'll make sure your leave is granted. You know I wouldn't call unless the fate of the world depended upon it -- which it does -- haha --"

The shouting of the man he has 'arrested' grows annoying as he hands him off to the local authorities. To be fair he isn't sure what justice this man will face, but at this moment Hayden doesn't have the luxury to see it through to the end. Hayden doesn't even have to time ask questions before Kisuke hangs up, leaving much of the details blank.

That's fine, Hayden's operated on less. If Kisuke is contacting him regarding this, then it must be important. He offers a look towards the men placing the target within the back of a Toyota Truck, they make eye contact with him.

"Wadaa’an, Sahibay."

The words leave Hayden's mouth almost bitterly. Because there is a real change he will never return to these lands. However, his duty calls to him from lands faraway and he must answer that call.

He turns to depart, knowing the journey will be short. A terrible uneasiness enters him.

@uraharashouten

[omori-aus-archive]

OMORI: Justice League AU idea

So, since I'm back on a DC kick, I figured that I'd make a prompt for a JLA Omori AU.

Basically, Mari and Sunny take the roles of Superman, but different depictions of him. Hero and Kel are basically Terry McGinnis and Richard Grayson Batman. Aubrey is Wonder Woman. I have NO idea who Basil would be....

Don't expect any evil versions of the characters, because I hate the idea of evil versions of the characters. Omori's characters already have a shit load of demonization and vilification in this damn fandom....

Mari and Sunny

So, everything would be similar to Superman's origin. Mari and Sunny are the last children of Krypton and are sent to Earth for their safety. Their origins are unexpectedly revealed by the time Mari is 15 and Sunny is 12.

I don't know if they'd have the same upbringing as they did in-canon or not, but it'd probably be similar.

Sunny would be more similar to Earth One Superman, as Earth One has Clark feel a little more doubtful and uncertain with his place in the world. Mari would be more similar to Superman in Birthright, which has Clark tackle these challenges with excitement and adventure.

Around this time, Mari's 19 and Sunny's 16.

Both would eventually become similar to DCAU, DCAMU, and/or MAWS Superman, due to their growing influence on the world and possibly struggling with their inner demons. Not to mention the struggles with keeping their identities a secret from a lot of people they care about.

Mari and Sunny are in their early 20s now. Also, here is where things get different.

Mari, in a response to this, would probably leave Faraway for a while in an effort to rediscover herself. Sunny, meanwhile, would let the people around him help him rekindle his spirit. They both need help for sure, but said help comes in different forms.

Their costumes would most likely change to reflect these transitions.

Hero and Kel

So, this might be confusing, but try to hear me out.

Hero and Kel's father was basically the OG Batman, though has since retired. When Hero and Kel discover his secret, he's convinced to train them.

Hero and Kel both prove to be extraordinary, but after their father's sudden passing due to heart complications, Kel chooses to become his own hero as he feels unworthy to the title.

For most of their teen years, things go somewhat smoothly, as Hero proves to be a very effective Batman and Kel his own vigilante.

However, after the formation of the league, things slowly grow out of hand. Hero eventually becomes increasingly aggressive, due to the expectations of the police.

Kel, now 19, is forced to take the mantle away from Hero. No one intervenes. Mari and Sunny wish for Kel to save Hero from himself. Aubrey, at the moment, is unaware of the conflict.

Sure enough, Mari and Sunny's hopes come true as Kel successfully convinces Hero to surrender, thus becoming the new Batman.

Kel serves as Batman while Sunny and Mari deal with their personal issues. Hero, on Kel's advice, is put through therapy. Eventually, when Mari returns, Hero's healthy enough to become Batman again.

Aubrey (and Basil)

So, Aubrey definitely had a different upbringing.

Here, her father is indeed a vessel for Zeus...and after things start getting worse for her nearing her teenage years, the god used his power to give Aubrey a better childhood.

This meant that he sent her to the past and to the land of the Amazons, where they raised her to be a warrior, though due to her remembering her connections with Hero, Kel, Basil, Mari, and Sunny, she would develop a sense of justice.

She was applauded for her choice and made the Knight Eternal of the realm of humanity. After turning 16, she was returned to Faraway, before taking residence with Basil, his grandmother, and Polly.

Of course, after the formation of the league, things slowly become more complicated and leads Aubrey needing to find if she's doing the right thing.

It's through Basil and Kel that she's able to remind and recommit herself to her choice to protect and help others. Again, her costume would be revamped to reflect this.

I don't know if there's such thing as the Legion of Doom here, but maybe there would be? Perhaps the SOMETHINGs are actual people and become this AU's Legion of Doom. Dunno.

Now that I think about it, one of the SOMETHINGS could essentially be a symbiote-esque villain, like Venom and Carnage.

[lanistas]

lead me home, my shooting star (Maura x Eyk, light and soft smut; Eyk sees Maura as his north star, his axis, and his lighthouse guiding him to safety)

[I was writing this fic waiting for season 2 announcement, and now... I’m crying, you guys... Anyways, this is officially a ‘screw you, Netflix’ fic now, hope you still enjoy]

also on ao3

His dreams are plagued by fire. Night after night, he is the victim and he is the arsonist, he is the mad and he is the grieving, perishing in the catastrophe of his own making. His wife, a woman caught up in her own demons, her eyes blank and unmoving when she lights a match and throws it at him, flames licking at his face and his boots and the rich carpet under his feet. His daughters, his darling girls, too young and innocent to deserve any of this, too scared and paralyzed to escape. Nina, his sweet, precious Nina, with ribbons in her hair and sadness in her voice, her lullaby cutting him so deep that he bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until there is nothing left of him.

Nights like these are no surprise to Eyk anymore, and each time he wakes up with a gasp, choking on his ragged breaths and clenching his fists, his palms sticky with sweat. Each time he curses and trembles. Each time he reaches for the bottle. He drinks, gulps, alcohol burning his throat until he doesn’t feel anything at all, until he collapses on the bed and can barely keep his eyes open because of intoxication.

At least when he is dead drunk, the fire in his dreams doesn’t scorch his skin. At least in his drunken stupor he cannot hear his family screaming in pain.

* * * 

Sometimes Eyk wonders if he is, quite frankly, a shitty captain. It’s not that he doesn’t know what he is doing, because he does, years of training and decades of experience making sure of that. Yet sometimes, more often than he’d like, he doubts his state of mind, as sleep deprivation kicks in and as he inevitably reaches for a flask in his pocket. His head throbs, because it’s been weeks since he slept properly, and drinking… well, it helps a little. Not that he is proud of it, but if alcohol is what makes him pass out at night and stay awake during the day, he is not the one to question it.

Drinking doesn’t leave him much time for “captaining”, but he is not the one to question that either, even though his crew looks at him funny more and more often.

His new ship, The Kerberos, is a wonder. Gracefully gliding across the waves towards their faraway destination, she is a beauty and a beast in one. He marvels at the ship, wants to do her justice, but the way his limbs hurt after too many restless nights is a lot to handle, and Eyk suspects his crew might be better suited for the job after all.

He needs some air. And he needs it now. He is pretty sure they’ll manage on the bridge without him.

It’s chilly and foggy outside, but at least Eyk can take a deep breath, close his eyes and have a drink that he’s been dying to have for the last two hours. A week. Less than a week even - and they’ll see the shores of America. New land. New possibilities. Perhaps his nightmares won’t be able to reach him there.

A sound catches his attention. Someone runs up the stairs from down below where the third-class passengers are, and Eyk hears light footsteps, as this mysterious someone (who is not even supposed to be here, who do they think they are?) crosses the deck and stops, leaning on the rails. Eyk turns around to see what the commotion is about - and his breath hitches.

There’s a woman. Eyk doesn’t see her face, but by the way her shoulders are shaking he can guess that she is in some kind of distress. A part of him wants to stroll towards her and ask what the hell she was doing down there, while another part of his brain, the part that Eyk fears might be a little bit insane after all, short circuits - because the woman in front of him glows against the clouds, her red hair a stark contrast to the grey skies above. Eyk shakes his head, swallows, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the illusion is gone, and the woman in front of him is once again just another human being and not some otherworldly creature descended from the stars.

He still approaches her slowly and very carefully, just in case.

(He vows to stop drinking for at least a couple of days.)

“Haben Sie sich verlaufen?” he asks, and he knows that he startled her (“I didn’t see you there,” she answers, and her voice sounds strangely familiar), understands that this is a rather peculiar situation, yet he cannot stop staring at her as she recognises the captain in him, as she defies his rules and refuses to follow the order of things.

He stares, and he smiles, and when she smiles back at him (the smallest of smiles, but a smile nonetheless) Eyk feels like he’s just started assembling a jigsaw puzzle, and the first puzzle piece has miraculously gotten into place.

* * *

He learns her name from the rumours surrounding her. A woman who studied medicine, travelling alone, not particularly talkative and rather aloof. Miss Franklin. Maura Franklin. 

Learning her name, finding her on the deck when everyone else is having dinner, talking to her about the depth of the ocean and the mysteries of the universe - all this feels like a missing piece that he’s finally found, and Eyk can’t shake the feeling that no matter what or who they’ll find on The Prometheus Maura is going to be there with him every step of the way. 

He is drawn to her, as if mesmerised by her gravitational pull, and the way her hand rests on his forearm, the way she caresses his wrist is the only thing making sense when nothing else around them does.

He trusts her. He confides in her. They question everything, they investigate, and they share the burden of insanity together, trying to solve this bizarre predicament that they’ve found themselves in.

He almost kisses her twice, and with each passing day being close to her and not tracing her delicate features with his calloused fingers is a challenge that’s testing all of his resolve. 

* * *  

Seemingly endless days on The Kerberos, filled with questions and theories and half-formed guesses - this he can deal with. Nights, however… still, not so much. How foolish he was, to hope that confusion and exhaustion of his crazy days would chase his nightmares away.

In his dreams he is still covered in ashes from head to toe, can still taste soot and misery on his tongue. The only thing that changes is that now Maura is by his side, watching as his house collapses and burns down completely. Eyk reaches for her, and his hand goes right through her, as if she herself is an apparition about to disappear if he dares to blink.

Eyk is scared. His nightmares never scared him like that.

Maura’s head turns in his direction, her neck snapping unnaturally. “Haben Sie sich verlaufen?” she asks, time and time again, her voice mechanical and lifeless, and Eyk covers his ears to get rid of the sound.

“No… no… stop. Maura! Why is this happening? No…”

“Haben Sie sich verlaufen?... Haben Sie sich verlaufen?... Eyk…Eyk! Wake up!”

He wakes up because someone is holding him by the shoulders, pushing him into the mattress. An intruder. Eyk’s first instinct is to grab his assailant’s wrists. He doesn’t like it when people startle him when he is most vulnerable. His attacker winces, but Eyk doesn’t loosen his grip. It takes his eyes several seconds to adjust to the surrounding darkness, and when Eyk sees who it is that he is holding, her blue eyes open wide, staring at him in fear, he lets go immediately.

Maura Franklin moves away from his bedside, rubbing at her wrists.

“Miss Franklin?” Eyk sits up in his bed, confused. Has he forgotten to lock the door? “You are… here.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in like that,” she starts explaining, and Eyk feels relief washing over him when he hears her voice, so different from the eerie voice that she had in his dream. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk, and then I heard…” her eyes dart from his face to the floor. “I thought you were in pain, so I came in, and you were restless. You could’ve hurt yourself.” 

Eyk gets out of bed, and she stops talking and finally looks at him. He moves closer to her, one unsure step at a time.

“Forgive me, miss Franklin,” Eyk says, rubbing his neck. “I don’t like being startled. I thought you were… well, not you.”

“Yes, of course,” Maura breathes out, crossing her arms in front of her. She looks Eyk over, doctor mode activated, scanning for any problem or injury. “You were having a bad dream.”

They are standing so close, enveloped by darkness, and it’s only natural for Eyk to reach out and squeeze her shoulder. She is solid and warm, and his hand travels down her arm and up again, her presence grounding him to reality.

“Yes,” he says, his eyes locked on her lips. “I have nightmares sometimes. My family is there. My wife. My children. And I cannot do anything for them.”

He is a moon in her orbit, leaning in, unable to look away. Her face is barely a few inches away from his, and their breaths mingle as the distance between them becomes almost non-existent, but suddenly Maura flinches and draws back a little. 

“I’m sorry,” Maura says, shaking her head. “I’d better go.”

“No,” he doesn’t let go, cannot let her go, needs proof that she won’t turn into ashes and smoke and disappear. “Please. Stay.”

Maura hesitates, but doesn’t push him away.

“It’s late. And it’s dark.”

“I know,” Eyk says. “And you are… You are the light. My light. Maura…”

For a moment neither of them speaks. Not a sound, not even a breath. Just silence, heavy with a realisation that scares them both. Maura traces his forearms, holds on to him as tightly as Eyk is holding on to her. They look at each other, their eyes betraying the storm within their hearts, and in her ocean eyes Eyk sees the truth as clear as day.

His lighthouse leading his battle-worn ship into a safe harbour. His north star, his axis, and his home. Maura. It’s her. No one but her.

“Ich gehör’ dir, nur dir allein,” Eyk whispers, cupping Maura’s cheeks and caressing her skin, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. His eyes are closed as he breathes her in, her proximity torturous and intoxicating, and he feels lines forming in between her eyebrows as she frowns in confusion. Eyk knows Maura doesn’t understand his words, but he hopes that she can guess the meaning, that she knows that at this very moment he wants her so badly that he crashes and burns with the intensity of his desire. 

Eyk searches for courage to close the final distance between them, but Maura surprises him once again as she beats him to it, kissing his eyelids and his cheeks. She stops at the corner of his lips, and in almost a euphoric haze Eyk realises that she is waiting for him to take the next step.

He tilts his head, capturing her mouth in a passionate kiss without any hesitation.

Maura tastes like sweet air on a warm day in early autumn. Like happiness. Like home.

They undress each other in a hurry, his shirt and her blouse, his trousers and her skirt (which turns out to be trousers as well, and he smiles when he kisses her temple, because of course she would wear something like that), his and her undergarments, until they are completely naked, free to touch, to stroke, and to feel. 

There’s no need to hurry now, when he hugs her tightly, presses her into his chest, relishing the way her bare skin feels against his. His fingers tread through her hair, scratching the back of her head, and he feels her shivering as her kisses start a sloppy trail up his neck.

He is in no hurry at all, but if Maura continues sucking on his pulse point like that, he won’t last long.

“Miss Franklin,” he utters, trying to keep his tone serious, scolding and teasing her with unnecessary formality. Maura pulls away from him to look him in the eyes.

“Captain,” she plays along, and he smirks. How he managed to lure this brilliant woman into his embrace is beyond him. He kisses her deeply, the need for her singing in his veins, and Maura moans into his mouth.

Bed. Now. Or else he’s just going to push her up against the wall and take her, chivalry and decency completely forgotten.

They are a mess, stumbling and almost falling, but after a moment of clumsiness Eyk leads Maura to his bed, lays her down on rumpled sheets and covers her body with his own.

Maura Franklin underneath him, her lips swollen from his kisses and her red hair tousled on his pillow in disarray, is a vision. His phoenix in the making, the promise of rebirth hidden in the valley between her breasts.

When he finally enters her, she gasps, and they fit like lock and key as he moves in and out, finding the angle and the pace that quickens her breath and makes her eyes roll with pleasure. Eyk rocks into her, listening to her every moan, feeling her muscles tightening around him. It’s both too much and not enough, because he wants their bodies to meld and become one, he wishes to never let go of her ever again.

Like shooting stars, falling at unimaginable speed, they collide and they explode, a supernova washing over them. Eyk makes sure that Maura finds her release first, and the way she moans his name into his ear when she comes is enough to pull him into the abyss with her seconds later.

* * *  

It’s a very warm evening for the middle of September, and Eyk yawns and rubs his eyes, trying to stop himself from falling into slumber. They’ve been working non-stop for several hours, and the fact that Maura Franklin, a workaholic who doesn’t know when to quit, is his superior on this project is a cruel joke. He is tired. He is too old for this. He wants to go home.

“Can this wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it can not,” she tosses her words at him without even looking in his direction, too focused on some schematics in front of her.

Eyk huffs and stretches in his chair. Nope, his brain is on overload. No way is he going to stare at codes and digits for a minute longer.

He can stare at her instead.

They’ve been working together for three months, and Eyk figured out he likes watching Maura work. She purses her lips when she is lost in thought. She traces sketches and diagrams with her long fingers when she tries to understand what and how to improve. She mutters words under her breath when she tries to figure stuff out. 

It’s almost endearing. 

Also, the strands of her hair sometimes fall out of her complicated updo, and Eyk has caught himself thinking of tucking a loose lock behind her ear more times than he is comfortable to admit.

It’s not endearing. It’s infuriating.

“Stop staring at me,” Maura says, and Eyk shakes his head. Shit.

“Wasn’t staring.”

“Uh-huh,” Maura finally looks at him, and he fakes a yawn. He read somewhere that yawns are contagious. Maybe he can trick her into thinking she is exhausted and sleep-deprived.

Maura has none of it, crossing her arms.

“Look, I know you find me difficult, but let’s at least check these calculations, and I’ll be out of your hair until tomorrow, okay?”

“Das ist nicht wahr. Ich hab’ dich wirklich gern, weißt du das?”

“I have literally no idea what you’ve just said.”

“It’s elementary German, miss Franklin.”

“No, it is not! And don’t you “miss Franklin” me, Eyk Larsen. We have less than a week to finish these blueprints, and we are not leaving until we check this one section over here!”

Maura closes her eyes and rubs the bridge of her nose. Yep, she’s tired. High and mighty Maura Franklin is only human after all. Eyk smirks a little and scoots over to where she is sitting.

“Fine,” he says, admitting defeat. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

* * *  

When Eyk wakes up, Maura’s head is nestled in the crook of his neck, and her skin is soft and warm under his fingertips as he absentmindedly traces lazy patterns across her bare back. It’s still the middle of the night. They must have slept for barely more than an hour, but Eyk can’t remember the last time he felt this refreshed after definitely-less-than-normal-amount-of-sleep.

Maura stirs and lets out a breath that tickles his collarbone. Eyk watches her as she opens her eyes, a bit disoriented at first, but the moment she tilts her chin up and finds his gaze, she smiles at him softly, and Eyk cannot help kissing her on the forehead.

“Any bad dreams this time?” Maura asks, her hand drawing tiny circles on his chest.

“No, liebling,” Eyk whispers, burying his nose in her hair. “Dreamt of you, actually. A strange dream. But pleasant.”

Maura chuckles. “Haven’t you had enough of me during the day?”

“Never,” he answers, capturing her lips. Maura deepens the kiss, and Eyk is happy to oblige. When they break apart, he holds her closer, his arms encircling her in a warm embrace.

They are real. They are finally complete.

“I need to go,” Maura murmurs into his chest, planting slow kisses right above his heart.

“Do you now?”

“Yes. I have to return to my cabin.”

Eyk sighs. He knows she is right. There are so many rumours surrounding both of them, they don’t need to add more fuel for anyone’s wild imagination. It’s reasonable to part while everyone on the ship is still asleep, to find each other in the morning and exchange simple pleasantries, as if tonight hasn’t interwoven their very souls. 

Eyk kind of hates being reasonable right now, but he lets Maura slip out of his arms, albeit reluctantly. He is too tired to get up, so he quietly watches her as she puts on her clothes and pins her hair up, leaving a couple of strands falling around her face. When she’s done, she sits on the edge of his bed and bends down to give him a kiss, and Eyk caresses Maura’s neck and sucks on her bottom lip, drawing a soft moan out of her. He hugs her, drunk on the smell of her all around him.

“Promise me this will still be real when morning comes,” he asks of her, begging the universe to grant him this one wish.

“I promise,” Maura answers, kissing him on the temple when they part.

When she leaves, Eyk collapses back on the bed, sleep overtaking him in a matter of seconds. This time he dreams of astrolabes, of stars and milky ways, and of a red-headed phoenix singing to him and calling him home.

[reasoningdaily]

The cottonfields of Georgia were once worked by the enslaved. REUTERS/Tom Lasseter

WASHINGTON

We sat in the pews of a Methodist church last summer, my family and I, heads bowed as the pastor began with a prayer. Grant us grace, she said, to “make no peace with oppression.”

Our church programs noted the date: June 19, or Juneteenth, the day on the federal calendar that celebrates the emancipation of Black Americans from slavery. The morning prayer was a cue.

The kids were ushered from the sanctuary to Sunday school. My sons – one 11, the other 8 at the time – shuffled off to lessons meant for younger ears.

The sermon, delivered by a white pastor to an almost entirely white congregation, was headed toward this country’s hardest history.

“We are a nation birthed in a moment that allowed some people to stand over others,” she said from the pulpit, light flooding through the stained glass behind her. “We’ve all been a part of taking what we wanted. White people, my community, my legacy, my heritage, has this history of taking land that did not belong to us and then forcing people to work that land that would never belong to them.”

The pastor did not know that I was months into a reporting project for Reuters about the legacy of slavery in America. It was an idea that came to me in June 2020, shortly after returning to the United States after almost two decades abroad as a foreign correspondent.

We had moved to Washington just 18 days after George Floyd was killed by a white police officer in Minneapolis, and in our first weeks back, I found myself drawn to the steady TV coverage of protests from coast to coast. I read about the dismantling of Confederate statues on public land – almost a hundred were taken down in 2020 alone. I thought about my own childhood, about growing up in Georgia. And I wondered: Had this country, which I had yet to introduce to my sons, ever truly reckoned with its history of slavery?

REUTERS/Photo illustration REUTERS/Photo illustration

I wondered, too, about our most powerful political leaders. How many had ancestors who enslaved people? Did they even know? I discussed the idea with my editors, who greenlighted a sweeping examination of the political elite’s ancestral ties to slavery. They also raised another question: What might uncovering that part of their family history mean to today’s leaders as they help shape America’s future?

A group of Reuters journalists began tracing the lineages of members of Congress, governors, Supreme Court justices and presidents – a complicated exercise in genealogical research that, given the combustibility of the topic, left no room for error.

Henry Louis Gates Jr, a professor at Harvard University who hosts the popular television genealogy show Finding Your Roots, told me that our effort would be “doing a great service for these individuals.”

“You have to start with the fact that most haven’t done genealogical research, so they honestly don’t know” their own family’s history, Gates said. “And what the service you’re providing is: Here are the facts. Now, how do you feel about those facts?”

And there was more to the project, something I needed to do, if only out of fairness. As a native of Mississippi who grew up in Georgia, I would examine my own family’s history. A passing remark made by my grandfather long ago gave me reason to believe my experience wouldn’t be as joyous as the advertisements I saw for online genealogy websites. Instead of finding serendipitous connections to faraway lands, I suspected I would find slavery on the red clay of Georgia.

But all of that was for work. It wasn’t for Sunday church, I thought, sitting next to my wife. My mind wandering, I looked down at the Rolex on my wrist.

This is the story that I tell myself: Those are things that I earned, paid for with hard work. I am a high school dropout. My mother is a high school dropout. My father is a high school dropout. My sister is a high school dropout. My first home was in a southern Mississippi trailer park. My mother was pregnant with me at the age of 19. My dad left our lives early.

I got my GED. I moved from a community college to the University of Georgia, working as a short-order cook while earning a bachelor’s degree in journalism.

For me, church is a place that offers a soothing sense of order, of ritual. That morning, I didn’t feel comfortable. I resented the pastor. I was there to listen to the choir and contemplate a Bible verse or two, not to be lectured. Especially about a subject I was grappling with personally and professionally.

“We would swear with our last breath that we do not have a racist bone in our bodies,” she continued. “But some of us were born in a lineage of people who take land that is not ours and enslave other people.”

Her words would come close to the facts that my reporting surfaced in the months ahead. Still, on this Juneteenth, I was done listening.

After the service, I walked to the car with my wife and sons. I didn’t talk with them about the sermon as we headed to our home on the outskirts of Washington. Ours is a street of rolling green lawns and shiny Cadillac Escalades. On the edge of the U.S. capital, a city where some 45% of the population is Black, the suburb where we live is about 7% Black. It was an inviting place for a white man to escape the pastor’s message.

That cocoon soon started to unravel. I had begun a journey that would take me back to places I held dear but had not truly known. What I would come to learn in researching my ancestors didn’t tarnish my love for family. At times, though, I did worry that I was betraying them.

It also left me with two questions I have yet to answer. What do I tell my sons about what I found, and what does it say about their country?

Introducing America

Throughout 2022, our reporting team assembled family trees for Congressional members. We connected one generation to the previous, like puzzle pieces snapping one to another, extending years before the end of the U.S. Civil War in 1865. We learned to decipher census documents written in sometimes bewildering cursive. Enlisting the help of board-certified genealogists, we became comfortable with the types of inconsistencies that surface in the old papers: names slightly misspelled, ages off by a few years, children who disappear from households as they die between censuses or marry young.

For months, my attention was drawn to the complexity of the task, and I scoured websites for documents that went beyond census records: certificates of birth, death and marriage, obituaries, military service forms, family Bibles.

The work was painstaking, and a welcome diversion. Each time I thought about building out my own family history, I winced at the subject coming close. Those were my people, my history.

Eventually, I knew I had to get started.

My wife and I were born in America. Both of us are journalists. We met in Baghdad, there to cover the war in Iraq. We married later while living in Russia, had our first son in China, our next in India. After two years in Singapore, we decided it was time to take the boys home to America, a land they’d visited on summer trips to their grandmothers’ houses in Georgia and Virginia but hardly knew.

Their introduction began less than three weeks after the May 25 death of George Floyd, as soon as we rode in from the airport. As we approached shuttered stores and boarded-up windows in downtown Washington, our younger son looked at the graffiti and banners and asked what the letters BLM stood for. My wife and I spelled it out – Black Lives Matter – and told him about Floyd’s death. Six at the time, he had no idea what we were talking about. His older brother explained the protests were to help Black people. Then he reminded him that their uncle, my sister’s husband, is Black. Our little boy went quiet. In the wake of George Floyd’s killing, protesters took to the streets across America.

REUTERS/Photo illustration In the wake of George Floyd’s killing, protesters took to the streets across America. REUTERS/Photo illustration

Last spring I began to trace my family’s lineage in detail. I had gone through this process for dozens of members of Congress. Now I was looking at my own mom. As I started a family tree, I did not like typing her name – it felt like I was crossing a line. I opened the search page at Ancestry.com and entered the names of her parents, Harriet and Brice.

Brice was 69 or so when he visited us in Atlanta during the summer of 1994. I was a teenager. Joseph Brice James was my grandfather, but we just called him Brice. Like my own father, he hadn’t been part of our life. He lived in Chicago and had worked as a traveling salesman. The trip may have been one last effort by him to connect. He wasn’t well and would die about eight years later.

It would be that visit – really, just one line that Brice muttered – that came back to me in the summer of 2020 and started my own personal reckoning.

My Grandfather’s Words Joseph Brice James. (Courtesy: Tom Lasseter)

Here’s what I remember: Brice wanted to see the farm where his ancestors, our ancestors, lived. My mother drove, and my sister and I sat in the backseat of our family’s aged Toyota Corolla. The address Brice helped direct us to was about an hour out of Atlanta. My mother had been there before, too, but my ancestors had sold it off, parcel by parcel, starting around 1947. We pulled over in front of a clapboard farmhouse.

I wasn’t sure why we were there, or who might have once lived on the farm. Brice, a gaunt figure with closely cropped hair and large glasses, didn’t volunteer much. I walked alongside him in silence, across a field spotted with pine trees, on the edge of a lake. Then Brice paused, flicking his wrist toward an old well and said: “The slaves built that.” A moment passed and he kept walking, offering nothing further.

Those four words stayed with me, though, in the way that happens with some white families from the South: I now knew, if I wanted to, that somewhere in my history there was a connection to slavery. The farmhouse in Georgia, once owned by the ancestors of Reuters journalist Tom Lasseter.

REUTERS/Tom Lasseter

Where to begin? Before prying into Brice’s side, I decided to look somewhere more familiar. The census shows my mother’s maternal grandmother as Cornelia Benson. I grew up calling her Grandma Horseyfeather, a nickname given her by my mother’s generation, the product of a long-ago children’s tale.

Looking at the 1940 census, there was Cornelia Benson of Brooks County, Georgia. I knew Brooks County as a place of Spanish moss, where we caught turtles and lizards in my childhood. I loved Thanksgiving at 618 North Madison Street, where a dirt driveway led to the back stairs and then a kitchen with long rows of casseroles. Grandma Horseyfeather, born in 1898, spoke in a slow, deep drawl. She wore lace to church. I adored her and I adored Brooks County.

At home in Atlanta, I felt lost at times, my single, working-class mom stretching one paycheck to the next. But in Cornelia Benson’s house, I felt at ease. My identity was simple: I was a white kid descended from generations of white people from the deepest of south Georgia.

As a child, I did not ask what it meant to belong to a place like Brooks County. Now I wanted to know. Cornelia Benson with Tom Lasseter as infant (left); Tom Lasseter during a childhood visit to Quitman, Georgia. (Courtesy: Tom Lasseter)

A story came to mind. I was young, and the grownups were visiting at the dining table. Someone started to tell a story about life in Quitman, the town in Brooks County where Grandma Horseyfeather lived. It was about the Ku Klux Klan and its marches.

The Klan would saunter down the street, wearing hoods and sheets, thinking no one knew who they were. The story’s punchline: All the “colored boys” – meaning Black men – knew who was wearing those sheets. They could see the shoes the white men were wearing. And who do you think shined those shoes?

I remember a tittering of laughter ripple around the table.

It was a vignette I sometimes trotted out when discussing the South. I’d shake my head and show a rueful half-frown that communicated disapproval, but not too much. My Brooks County relatives didn’t quite fit the pastor’s words. I knew they had some racist bones in their body. Still, these were my people. They didn’t mean any harm.

Reading back over the story after I wrote it down last year made me wonder what I didn’t know. So I did something that had never before occurred to me: I looked up the history of Brooks County, Georgia. It did not lead anywhere good.

In 1918, at least 13 Black people were killed in a rash of lynchings by mobs in Brooks that cemented its reputation for bloodshed. A flag that hung from the NAACP national headquarters in New York City, 1920-1928 (Source: NAACP via Library of Congress). Lynchings in Brooks County, Georgia, in the early 20th century cemented its reputation for racism and bloodshed.

REUTERS/Photo illustration

“There were more lynchings in Brooks than any county in Georgia” at the time, according to a 2006 paper examining lynchings in southern Georgia. Among the 1918 victims: Near the county line, a pregnant woman was tied to a tree and doused with gasoline before her belly was slit open with a knife and her unborn child tumbled to the dirt. The woman was shot hundreds of times, “until she was barely recognizable as a human being.” And then both her and her fetus’ burial spots were marked by a whiskey bottle with a cigar placed in its neck, according to the paper – “Killing Them by the Wholesale: A Lynching Rampage in South Georgia” – published in The Georgia Historical Quarterly.

I toggled my Internet browser to census records. Cornelia Benson and her husband weren’t yet living in Brooks County as of the 1920 census. They moved there between 1920 and 1930. I felt relieved, clean. I didn’t know any of that history. No one had told me.

But the more I learned, the more I played out the possibilities, the more troubled I felt about the Ku Klux Klan anecdote.

One morning in my home office, I pulled out a cell phone to record my thoughts about those memories. As I did, I heard the wood floorboards creaking. It was one of my sons walking outside the room. I waited for him to go downstairs before starting. When I later listened to my recounting of the Ku Klux Klan story, I noticed I’d used the phrase “Black people” rather than “Colored boys.” Without thinking, I’d cleaned the story up around the edges, making it easier to tell.

‘Mules, Oxen…and The Following Negroes’

Brice died in 2001. I never learned anything else from him about that well on the property our ancestors owned. Having read through the Brooks County material, it was time to see what I might find out about Brice’s side of my family.

I knew my grandfather was born in Canada, but that his side of the family was somehow connected to that land in Georgia. Using Ancestry.com, I found a 1948 border crossing document for him, with the names of his father and mother. I took those names and found his parents’ 1921 marriage license in Fergus County, Montana.

I noticed that his mother’s maiden name was Lila M. Brice, and that her parents were Ethel Julian and Joseph T. Brice. I looked for Ethel Brice. There she was, in the 1910 census. She was living with her daughter Lila in Forsyth County, Georgia, after a divorce – back in the household of her father, a man whose name I had never before heard: Abijah Julian.

The trip to the farm house in 1994 was in Forsyth County. The old clapboard house was built in the 1800s. And the well that Brice mentioned, the one that he said enslaved people built, sat right next to the house.

From one census to the next, I followed Abijah, a name from the Old Testament.

Information about the Julian family wasn’t hard to find once I started looking.

Working my way backwards, I learned Abijah Julian died in 1921. His passing was marked in The Gainesville News by an item headlined “DEATH OF SOLDIER STATESMAN.” Placed high in the article was the fact that Abijah Julian was part of a Confederate cavalry general’s staff during the Civil War, and that in his later years he “had been a prominent figure at all the reunions of the Confederate veterans.” The piece ended with these words: “Mr. Julian was laid to rest shrouded in the Confederate uniform which he loved.” Abijah Julian, seated, was buried in a Confederate uniform. In an account by his wife, Minnie Julian, she described him returning from war “broken in health and spirit. Negroes free, stock stolen and money – Confederate – valueless.” (Sources: Historical Society of Cumming/Forsyth County, Georgia. Newspaper clipping: The Gainesville News, June 1921)

He had served in Georgia’s state legislature for three terms. I looked for more details about him and his ancestors before the Civil War.

Abijah’s father, also a member of the state legislature, died in 1858 at home in Forsyth County, according to press reports. It was just a couple months before Abijah’s 16th birthday.

Some four years later, Abijah went to war against the United States. In 1864, a year before the Civil War ended, he married a woman in Alabama, the daughter of a doctor, who moved to the Julian farm. In an account by his wife, Minnie Julian, she described Abijah returning home after the war, “broken in health and spirit. Negroes free, stock stolen and money – Confederate – valueless.” In the very next sentence, however, she noted they still had 600 acres of land.

Her words signaled that Abijah had enslaved people. But I needed more proof.

In addition to the usual household census forms, in 1850 and 1860 the U.S. government created a second document for the census takers to fill out in counties in states where slavery was legal. It’s referred to as a slave schedule, and it lists by name men and women who enslaved people, under the column “SLAVE OWNERS.” The form gives no names of the human beings they enslaved. Instead, it tabulates what the document refers to as “Slave Inhabitants” only by the person’s age, gender, color (B for Black or M for Mulatto, or mixed race) and whether they were “Deaf & dumb, blind, insane or idiotic.”

After you find a slaveholder on the household census form, matching them to the slave schedule can be complicated. In some counties, multiple men of the same or similar name enslaved people. And of course, not every head of household in a county enslaved people, so fewer names are listed on the slave schedule than on the population census. Fortunately, the households on the two documents are typically listed in the order they were counted by the census-taker – meaning if you see the same residents’ names close by, in the same sequence, you’ve likely found the same person on the two forms.

In 1860, on a slave schedule in Forsyth, I found my ancestor listed on line 34 as A.J. Julian. He was 17-years-old at the time. There were four entries for his “Number of Slaves” column – four males, ages from 10 to 18.

There was more. When Abijah’s father, George Julian, died in 1858, he left a will.

One key to unlocking the identities of those who were enslaved is through the estate records of white families who claimed ownership of them. In many cases, wills give the first names of the Black men, women and children bequeathed from one white family member to another.

In his will, George listed property “with which a kind providence has blessed me.” To wife Adaline, George bequeathed “mules, oxen, cattle, hogs and other stock, and plantation tools, wagons, carriages and the following Negros…”

There were five enslaved people left to George’s wife, the will said, with the provision that “the negros and their increase” – that is, their children – would go to Abijah after his mother’s death. George Julian also left four enslaved children to Abijah, himself a teenager at the time.

And, in a separate item, Julian wrote that an enslaved woman and three children should “be sold” to pay his debts.

The will was difficult reading. Lumped in with oxen and kitchen furniture, plantation tools and wagons, were human beings. And “their increase.”

The will listed names of the enslaved kept by the family: Dick, Lott, Aggy, Henry, Lewis, Ellick, Jim, Josiah and Reuben.

The document was dated 1858 – close enough to emancipation that I might have a chance at tracing some of them forward, especially if they used the last name Julian. Perhaps there would be a chance of finding those same names in Forsyth in the 1870 census, when, finally free, Black people were listed by name and household.

Something kept happening, however, when I looked for those names. I’d see likely matches in one or two censuses, and then they disappeared after the 1910 census in Forsyth.

It took me a few minutes of research to figure out why I was losing track of the descendants of the people George Julian enslaved. It was a history drenched with blood, and it drew much closer to mine than I had realized.

The Search for Descendants of The Enslaved

ATLANTA

In 1912, Virginia native Woodrow Wilson became the first Southerner since the U.S. Civil War to be elected president. And the white residents of a county in Georgia, where my ancestors lived, unleashed a campaign of terror that included lynchings and the dynamiting of houses that drove out all but a few dozen of the more than 1,000 Black people who lived there.

The election was covered in the classrooms of the Georgia schools I attended. If the racial cleansing of Forsyth County was mentioned, I didn’t notice.

That history explains the difficulty I had looking for the descendents of the people enslaved by my ancestor Abijah. By 1920, their families and almost every other Black person had fled the county.

From left: The Forsyth County Courthouse in Cumming, pictured in 1907. Built in 1905, it was destroyed by fire in 1973. (via Digital Library of Georgia). The Atlanta Georgian newspaper reports on the lynching of Rob Edwards, September 10, 1912. (Source: Ancestry.com). U.S. President Woodrow Wilson.

They were forcibly expelled under threat of death after residents blamed a group of young Black men for killing an 18-year-old white woman in September 1912. A frenzied mob of white people pulled one of the accused from jail, a man named Rob Edwards, then brutalized his body and dragged his corpse around the town square in the county seat of Cumming. Two of the accused young Black men, both teenagers, were tried and convicted in a courtroom. They too died in public spectacle, hanged before a crowd that included thousands of white people.

There were also the night riders, white men on horseback who pulled Black people from their homes, leaving families scrambling and their houses aflame. The violence swept across the county, washing across Black enclaves not far from the farm where my ancestor, Abijah, lived at the time.

In 1910, the U.S. Census showed 1,098 Black people living in Forsyth. Ten years later, the 1920 census counted 30.

‘Night Marauders’

Until last year, I had never heard of this history. I had a dim memory of news reports about white residents in Forsyth attacking participants in a peaceful march for racial equality – not during the tumultuous Civil Rights era but in the 1980s. I watched video clips from an early episode of “The Oprah Show” – a telecast from 1987 when talkshow star Oprah Winfrey went to Forsyth to try to make sense of what was happening there. Some locals in the audience were unrepentant. Footage shows that crowds on the street and a man, to Oprah’s face, were not shy about using racial slurs on national television.

I learned about the 1912 violence in Forsyth after a genealogist who worked with Reuters sent me a note pointing out that my ancestor Abijah Julian appeared in Blood at the Root, a 2016 book that chronicled the bloodshed there. I already knew Abijah had enslaved people and adhered to the “Lost Cause” – the view that the South’s role in the Civil War was just and honorable.

About four months after the terror in Forsyth began, Abijah wrote a letter to the governor of Georgia in February 1913. He was asking for help to quell the chaos unleashed by “night marauders” who had “run off about all of the negroes.” Here’s part of his letter: A letter Abijah Julian wrote to the governor of Georgia.

(Courtesy: Kenan Research Center at the Atlanta History Center.)

During that week alone, Julian wrote, “3 negro houses” in Cumming had been damaged by dynamite. The letter did not suggest any anguish for the Black people who’d been terrorized. What concerned Abijah Julian was his fields and who would farm them.

The Julian land stretched hundreds of acres across Forsyth and neighboring Dawson counties. Abijah told the governor that large swathes of land “will not be cultivated” because “labor now can not be found to hire...”

Gov. Joseph Mackey Brown referred to the situation Julian highlighted later in 1913, in a written message to members of the state senate:

After all, the governor continued, “there is no reason why farms should lose their productive power and why the white women of this State should be driven to the cook stoves and wash pots simply because certain people blindly strike down all of one class in retaliation for the nefarious deeds of individuals in that class.”

What happened in Forsyth was not unique. White people across the South had been pushing back against political and economic progress made by Black Americans after the end of slavery and would continue doing so.

In 1906, a white mob stormed downtown Atlanta, killing dozens of Black people and attacking Black businesses and homes. In 1921, a white mob destroyed a Black community in Tulsa, Oklahoma and, according to a government commission report, left nearly “10,000 innocent black citizens” homeless. The death toll was in the hundreds.

Once you begin to look, such violence stretches on and on, decade after decade.

Still hopeful that I might be able to somehow identify and locate living descendants of the people my family enslaved, I flew to Georgia last November.

‘Dick a Man, Lott a Woman’

While I was in Atlanta, I asked my mom and sister if they had time to talk about what I’d found. We sat one evening at the dining room table in my mother’s house, the same table on which we had once shared Thanksgiving dinners with Grandma Horseyfeather.

I had prepared two thick packets of documents that outlined our family tree, each with underlying records, to walk through the lineages of our slave-holding ancestors in three Georgia counties, including Forsyth.

I explained that my search began with a memory of walking with my mother’s father across some land our people used to own in Forsyth; and my grandfather casually remarking of the old well: “The slaves built that.”

“It added up from this one, just sort of little vague memory that I had of Brice gesturing at a well.”

The first question came from my sister, who is married to a Black man. Her voice was stretched thin with emotion. She asked: “Is there any possibility of doing the same for the people that our family enslaved?”

I’d found a man in Grandma Horseyfeather’s lineage who was a slaveholder and likely worked as an overseer in Jefferson County, Georgia. But neither I nor the genealogists we consulted could identify descendants of those he’d enslaved.

“So I’ve – I’ve tried,” I explained. “The issue is that the best details that we have are in Forsyth County, but in Forsyth County they forcibly expelled all of the Black people.”

There were, however, names of enslaved people who were bequeathed in the 1858 will of George Julian, Abijah’s father. At least two seemed to fit with a lineage I could trace.

Listed in the will as “Dick a man” and “Lott a woman,” they looked like a possible match for a couple living three households from Abijah Julian’s uncle in the 1870 census. Their names were listed as Richard Julian and Charlotte Julian. Was Dick short for Richard? And was Lott short for Charlotte?

I noticed that Richard Julian had an “M” in the column for Color. The M stood for Mulatto, someone of mixed race. Charlotte was 32 years old in 1870, an exact match for a 22-year-old enslaved woman listed on the 1860 slave schedule as belonging to George Julian’s widow. Richard was listed as 30 in 1870, which did not line up as neatly with an 18-year-old enslaved man next to Abijah Julian in the 1860 slave schedule.

A comparison of the 1870 census and the 1880 census reinforces that Reuters journalist Tom Lasseter is following the same family from one decade to the next. (Source: Ancestry.com)

Still, based on the mention of the names Dick and Lott in George Julian’s will, I followed the Black family’s lineage from one census to the next.

In 1880, Richard was listed as Dick. Lott was there, too, as Charlotte. And their ages were close to what they should have been – about 10 years older than in 1870. The children listed in each census gave me confidence I was following the same family. In 1870, four children were listed. There were three girls and a boy. In 1880, the oldest child was no longer there; she would have been 19 or 20 and may have married. But the boy and the two other girls were there, names and ages matching. The Julians had added four children to the family since the previous census, too, the eldest 8.

My sister’s first question after I traced our family tree that night lingered: “Is there any possibility of doing the same for the people that our family enslaved?”

One of the children in the 1880 census would provide the path.

The Shacks

The day I arrived in Atlanta, November 1, I chatted with my mom about Forsyth and our family’s history there. She’d mentioned something that took me aback.

“When we were talking about the farm, you said there was a slave shack, a slave shed?” I asked her the next day. “What was that?

It turns out my mother had visited the Julian farm when she was a kid. Someone had pointed her to a pair of shacks on the farm and explained that they were where the families of the enslaved used to live.

“It was a structure – by the time we came along it was still on the property but it was, like, a wooden structure that was falling apart.” Her voice became low for a moment. “And that’s what we were told that it was. And I think – I don’t know.” She paused. “I know my grandmother talked about teaching people how to read, or people in her family having taught some of the slaves how to read.”

My mom, a slight woman with a calm voice who works as a nurse with organ transplant patients, was uncertain about the details. “I’m not sure what the – it was just information that she was sharing, maybe to make it feel better that they had slaves. I don’t know.”

I went to dinner with my mom at a Thai restaurant the following evening. I’d been in Forsyth that morning, looking at some documents about the Julian family. She asked me if I learned anything new. I told her about two murders in the family – a pair of sisters slain by the husband of one – that had been covered in the newspapers in the 1880s.

That’s not what she was asking about. My mom looked up from her tofu dish and said, “I am uncomfortable with how little attention was paid to what that was.”

Under her breath, she continued: “The shed.” She meant the slave sheds on the Julian farm.

She said nothing for a few moments. And then she explained, “I was 11.” It was her way of saying she was young at the time. What could she have known about such things? It was the same age as my eldest son.

Why was I putting this at her feet? I thought.

What did she have to do with a white man, dead now for a century, who got rich and enslaved Black people? Where was that money? Not in her pocket. She was working late shifts and driving a beat up Toyota with a side mirror attached to the car by duct tape.

But the feeling of indignation was mine. My mother, a child of the 1960s who took us to downtown Atlanta for parades on Martin Luther King Jr Day, wasn’t being defensive. She was trying to work through what it all meant.

An Unexpected Meeting

Just before Thanksgiving last year, I reached out to a young research assistant at the Atlanta History Center. I’d heard she was tracing descendants of people who fled Forsyth.

Over the phone, I told Sophia Dodd that I was looking for people with the last name Julian. She said she had someone in mind. But first, Dodd would need to check with the person; we arranged to meet in Atlanta later in the month. There was a possibility the person would join us, she said, “but I also know they’re in the midst of traveling so that’s a little up in the air right now.”

I met Dodd at her office a few days before Thanksgiving, ready to ask her questions about Forsyth County.

And then another woman walked into the Atlanta History Center: Elon Osby. She wore a cranberry-colored top and glasses with red cat-eye frames. The 72-year-old Black woman with gray hair shook my hand and said, yes, she would gladly take me up on a cup of coffee.

I hadn’t expected her. I’d not even known her name – Dodd had protected her privacy while Osby decided whether to meet me. But there Osby was, looking at me expectantly. The three of us headed to Dodd’s office.

Without my census forms in hand, I felt exposed. Those family history packets – the ones I shared with my mother and sister – were a way to guide the conversation. And this conversation was with a stranger whose history with my family may have involved slavery. I told Osby that I regretted not having materials to give her.

Osby looked me over. She got to the point. “Is it that you feel that your ancestors were slaveowners of mine?” she asked.

Because I hadn’t done a family tree for her, I explained, I couldn’t be certain. During months of examining the lineages of American politicians, we had held to a firm standard: a slave-owning ancestor needed to be a direct, lineal ancestor – a grandfather or grandmother preceded by a long series of greats, as in great-great-great-grandfather.

As I built my own family lineage, I knew that the Julians were slaveholders. But when I worked with the genealogists on our team to trace the enslaved people named in George Julian’s will, they urged caution. What wasn’t entirely clear: Exactly who had enslaved Richard and Charlotte? Was it George, or was it George’s brother, Bailey?

I offered Osby the abridged version. If she were a direct descendant of Richard and Charlotte Julian, “they were enslaved either by my direct ancestor, George H. Julian” – Abijah’s father – “or his brother.”

As I finished my sentence, I realized the distinction may have been important to the journalist in me. But in this context, it was meaningless. What mattered wasn’t in question: Someone in my family had enslaved hers.

Osby turned to Dodd, the young white woman who’d been helping her research her family.

“First of all, let me ask this.” Osby said. “Do any of these names that he mentioned ring a bell with what you’ve done?”

Dodd answered quickly. “Yes, so I think that it’s definitely very possible that Charlotte and Richard were enslaved by George,” she said.

I asked Dodd if she had an account with Ancestry.com and whether she could print some documents. Together, we navigated to the 1858 will for George H. Julian and the 1870 census forms that showed Richard and Charlotte Julian.

Osby had explained that her grandmother’s name was Ida Julian. And Ida Julian’s parents were Richard and Charlotte Julian of Forsyth County.

Ida. Daughter of Richard and Charlotte. I would see it later. Not in the 1870 census, because Ida hadn’t yet been born. But there she was, listed in the 1880 census. Ida Julian, age 6. Ida Julian, listed in the 1880 census as a young child. (Source: Ancestry.com)

I later found a marriage certificate showing that Ida Julian married a man named WM Bagley in 1889. She was young, perhaps 15. By 1910, the census showed them living in Forsyth County, the parents of three girls and a boy.

The youngest of their children, not yet a year old, was a girl recorded as Willie M. She would go by Willie Mae Bagley, get married, and become Willie Mae Butts – the mother of Elon Butts Osby. The former Ida Julian, now Ida Bagley, in the 1910 census. Her daughter, listed as Willie M., would become Elon Osby’s mother. (Source: Ancestry.com)

After we had worked through the small pile of papers that Dodd had printed, I asked Osby what it meant to see some of those documents.

“It makes people real now. It just makes all of this more real. And it has started a journey for me,” she said, adding that there’s “no telling where it’s going to go.”

I asked her what her family said about Forsyth County when they discussed it with her as a girl. “They didn’t. They didn’t talk about it,” she said.

It wasn’t until around 1980, when Osby was about 30 years old, that she heard her mother tell a reporter the story of her ancestors fleeing the county by wagon because white people were attacking Black families.

“There wasn’t any conversation about it,” Osby said. “But she did talk about her grandfather had this long hair, straight hair, and they would comb it.” That was Richard Julian, Osby’s great-grandfather, the man listed as a “Mulatto” on the 1870 census.

She paused and stared at my face for a moment.

‘I Don’t Think You Can Get Justice’

When Elon Osby’s grandmother, Ida Bagley, and her family fled Forsyth, they left behind at least 60 acres of land, she said.

They made their way to Atlanta after 1912, the year of the carnage. There, in 1929, her grandfather, William Bagley, bought six lots of land in a settlement of formerly enslaved people known as Macedonia Park, according to the local historical society.

It was located in Buckhead, long among the most expensive neighborhoods in Atlanta. The Black residents of Macedonia Park worked as maids and chauffeurs for white families in the area, as golf caddies and gardeners.

Osby’s grandfather made money as a cobbler and local merchant. Her parents opened a store and a rib shack. Her father was also a butler for a wealthy white family, her mother a cook. The area became known as Bagley Park, and her grandfather, according to a historical marker now at the site, was considered the settlement’s unofficial mayor. William Bagley, Elon Osby’s grandfather, was known as the mayor of Bagley Park, a Black enclave in Atlanta that was later razed by the county.

(Courtesy: Elon Osby)

In the late 1930s and early 1940s, nearby white residents – members of a women’s social group – petitioned the county to condemn and raze Bagley Park, ostensibly for sanitary reasons. It had no running water or sewer system. The county, which had not provided those services, agreed, forcing the families to leave. They were compensated for the land, but it’s not clear how much, and in the process they lost real estate in what is a particularly affluent quarter of the city.

Osby’s family had again been pushed off its land. The settlement was demolished and replaced by a park, later named for a local little league umpire. Last November, the city of Atlanta restored the area’s name: Bagley Park.

In thinking about Osby’s family and my family, I found it was impossible not to compare them – and the role slavery played in our respective paths. In 1860, Osby’s ancestors were enslaved and working the fields of Forsyth County. In 1860, my ancestor Adaline Julian, widow of George and mother of Abijah, reported a combined estate value of $19,020. She was among the wealthiest 10% percent of all American households on the census that year. And that wealth didn’t include her son’s holdings. Then just a teenager, Abijah had a personal estate of $4,828, according to census records. That amount lay largely in the value of the enslaved people bequeathed to him by his father.

In 1870, Osby’s ancestor, Richard Julian – free for only about five years – was listed on the census as a farmhand, with no real estate or personal estate to report.

In 1870, Abijah Julian – despite having “lost” those he had enslaved – still had a combined estate of $4,655. That put him in the top 15% of all households in America, census records show.

Osby said her parents used the money they got from the government after being forced out of Bagley Park to buy land in a different part of Atlanta. They continued to work hard. Her father was hired as an electrician by Lockheed, and her mother ran a daycare business.

Osby spent a career working in administration. She said she started as secretary for the manager of the city’s main Tiffany & Co location in 1969, then worked in various city government offices, and now for the Atlanta Housing Authority.

After she’d finished telling me about her family and herself, I asked Osby whether she would mind me recording some video with my cell phone. I asked once again about her family’s reluctance to discuss Forsyth. She repeated that Black parents had long kept such things quiet. I noticed she added the words “rape” and “lynchings.”

But, she said, she has seen considerable progress during her life. Osby, whose family was forced out of Forsyth in 1912, was the keynote speaker in 2021 at a dedication event in downtown Cumming, where a plaque memorializing the bloodshed in Forsyth had been installed. And Osby, whose family was forced with others to leave their neighborhood in Fulton County, is now a member of the Fulton County Reparations Task Force. The group advises the county board and has sponsored research on what happened at Bagley Park, including a report documenting what Osby already knew: that “property owners in Bagley Park were forced to liquidate their real estate, a vital link in the chain of generating generational wealth.”

“There was a time when I didn’t feel that restitution or reparations was necessary” for the land taken from Black families after 1912 in Forsyth, and then what followed in Bagley Park, Osby said. 

“I just want somebody to acknowledge it and say, you know, we’re sorry. But I have come to realize, or come to feel, that we do need to receive something in the form of restitution. I think that the main thing is, if you touch people in their purses they’ll think before they let something like that happen again. I think it’s mainly about [how] we can never let this happen.”

As for her enslaved ancestors, Osby had a different outlook on reparations. “I don’t want to think of slaves as property. And if I have to give you a value for a slave person so that you can, you know, give me reparations for that – then that’s making them property. That’s reinforcing that idea that they were a piece of property for somebody to own.”

I asked her what it meant to know that history – to know more about what happened during slavery in such personal terms. To know that my own ancestors enslaved people. Osby puckered her bottom lip, paused for a moment and sighed.

She pointed her left index finger at me and said it was a question for me to answer. How did I feel, she asked, when I found out my ancestors enslaved people?

‘What Does It Mean to Know This?’

I told her the story of the old well and my grandfather. I told her about the reporting project, about finding out that my family enslaved people not only in Forsyth, but at least two other counties as well.

Finally, I stopped talking. In my mind, I had run through the right things to say. In a blur, I wondered: Should I apologize to Osby, to her family on behalf of mine?

Instead, I decided to talk about what made me most comfortable: the journalism itself. “A lot of it has been just establishing, sort of, the facts – figuring out, this is who they were, this is what happened,” I said. “I guess sitting here right now I don’t have an answer for – I don’t have an answer for my question” on the value of discovering more about slavery.

She leaned back and laughed.

At some point, I lowered the camera from chin height to the table. My hands were trembling. I was based in Iraq for three years. I sat with militants in Afghanistan. I know what mortar and machine gun fire sound like, at very close range. But at this little table, before this woman, I felt nervous.

I kept talking. I talked about how we – meaning white people – choose to know but not know. I told her about my mom remembering the decrepit former slave sheds on the Julian farm.

Osby no longer was smiling.

She began to talk about something that circled back to her comments about her great-grandfather’s straight hair, her curiosity about possible Cherokee Indian heritage. And, also, to rape.

“Black people, we’ve always known either through the movies or if you’ve learned it, you know, from your family, about the interracial relationships that happened on these plantations or whatever,” she said. “My grandmother – very, very fair skinned. I have one picture of her where she, you know, looks like she’s white. And so, you know that somebody else was there. You know?”

Somebody else was there. It was a phrase with a passive structure common to the South, a way of not assigning blame to the person sitting across the small table from you in the corner of an office. The meaning nonetheless seemed clear to me: Did my ancestor rape her ancestor?

“I’m curious, and that’s one reason why I was excited about coming to speak with you because I want to find out about the Cherokee part,” she said. “And also, if there was a white person, you know, that was, her – whatever,” she said, cutting the sentence short and fluttering her hands in the air.

I told her that I’d done a DNA test online. She said she was considering taking one as well.

After we spoke, Osby asked me to go with her to the graveyard at Bagley Park. I followed her Mazda. Its license plate read MS ELON. Her grandparents were buried there, she said, but she couldn’t say where. The gravestones had been vandalized over the years, Osby explained, looking at the broken markers.

Panic and Questions

After we parted, I drove to Forsyth County and the Julian farm. I could see across the road to the spot where my mother described the slave shacks having once stood.

The door was locked, the farmhouse empty. I stood outside the white clapboard home and stared. The leaves crunched underfoot, down at the end of Julian Farm Road. I rested my forearms on a dark slat fence and scanned the property, a utility shed to the right and a patio to the left.

I did not see the well.

I walked to the front of the house and looked for it. The well wasn’t there. I went to the back edge of the land, which now sits on the shore of a man-made lake that flooded part of what was once Abijah Julian’s farm. Nothing. The waters of Lake Sidney Lanier near what was once a farm owned by Abijah Julian. The lake, created in the 1950s, flooded parts of that farm. REUTERS/Tom Lasseter

I felt panicky. The well, the totem of my memory and the genesis of this project – “The slaves built that” – was nowhere. Was it possible I had mixed up some other memory, that it was never at the Julian farm?

I walked over to a step behind the house and sat down. My thoughts about the well gave way to replaying parts of my meeting with Elon.

Should I have apologized to her? “I am sorry,” I could’ve said. “I am sorry that my ancestors brutalized your ancestors.” What had stopped me?

The next day, I sent a text message to the man who now owns the Julian property. Did he know anything about an old well? “Yeah, there was a well next to the house that was dried up. We covered it,” he replied. He sent me a photograph of the front of the house from a 2019 real estate listing. And there it was – the well I remembered, at the far right of the picture.

I peered at the photo. I read the listing. The lake that flooded part of the farmland had created 209 feet of waterfront that now featured four boat slips, according to the advertisement for the property. It noted the farmhouse was “originally built in the late 1800’s by the family of State Senator Abijah John Julian” and added another dash of history: the Julian family was “of the Webster line circa 1590 England.” There wasn’t a word about the other side of the Julian family history: slavery.

Instead, under the section for what the seller loved about the home, was this line: “Your own private plantation.”

What Should Be Handed Down?

In the months after my visit to Forsyth, I’ve looked at a video of the church service that I attended last summer on Juneteenth, the national holiday marking the end of slavery. At the time, I had bristled at the pastor’s remarks, which centered on the need for white people to face our history, to atone.

Toward the beginning of the service, the children had been sent to Sunday school. So my sons weren’t sitting next to me when the pastor said, “We’re asked to stay home and to reflect with those who we know and whom we love – we’re asked to … have the difficult conversations about race and status and prestige and wealth.”

There was another detail that I hadn’t associated with that day’s sermon. It wasn’t only Juneteenth; it also was Father’s Day. From a 2019 real estate listing. The well is seen at the far right in this photo of the front of Abijah Julian’s house.

I’ve thought more than once about all that I had missed. About what to tell my children about everything I’ve learned in the past year. About our family’s part in slavery and the descendants of those we enslaved. About my conversation with Elon Osby.

What should be handed down, and what should not?

Getting ready for a reporting trip last year, I was sifting through online documents from an archive in south Georgia.

I came across a photograph from 1930 of white men sitting in front of an American Legion post. They each wore a medal on the left lapels of their suit jackets. I zoomed in and saw what had caught my eye. It was the cross of military service, handed out by the United Daughters of the Confederacy to World War I veterans who were direct descendants of Confederate soldiers.

In a little white box on a shelf in my home office, I have that same cross. It had been given to my great-grandfather, from Brooks County. After my great-grandmother Horseyfeather died, my family gave it to me, the ever-faithful son.

I fished the cross from its box and turned the thing around in my fingers. The cross was decorated with an X formed by two stripes of stars immediately recognizable from the Confederate battle flag. Around the edge, in the background, are a Latin phrase and two dates: Fortes Creantur Fortibus 1861-1865. The years are those of the Civil War. I Googled the phrase. It means the strong are born from the strong.

I’d had that cross for about 25 years and always associated it with my great-grandfather’s service in World War I, its dates marked in the foreground. I had never stopped to look more closely.

Peering down at it now, I realize it also meant something more: a loyalty to the South when it was a land of slavery and secession.

I was holding on to a relic of the Lost Cause, a history of savagery cloaked in nostalgia. I was holding on to something that I needed to explain to my sons, and then to let go. As I type these words, I have yet to have that conversation. The medal remains on my shelf.

Apology and Absolution

I met with Elon Osby once more earlier this month. We walked again through the cemetery at Bagley Park, where somewhere her ancestors are buried, their gravestones long gone. We stopped at a picnic table. I asked her about the last time we met, reading some of our quotes out loud and talking through what each of us had meant.

There was rain coming, with dark clouds, then lightning. I told her that I’d been nervous during our initial conversation. She asked whether I thought the guilt had been passed down: “Most white people do not have ancestors that owned slaves,” she said. I pointed out that I have at least five.

I said that I’d wondered if I should have apologized. “No,” she said, “I don’t transfer the guilt. Or not the guilt, but the responsibility of it. I don’t do that.” I said with a nervous laugh that I wasn’t asking her to absolve me.

The lightning drew closer. It was time to leave. “We’ve probably covered everything,” Osby said, gesturing to get up.

But I wanted to say more. Ignoring the rain, I reached for the words I hadn’t found during our first meeting: “I’m very sorry that it happened. You know, that all of that happened. And I feel that every time I look through those wills and the language that they used. And that 1858 will – listing furniture and livestock and then human beings. You know, I can’t help but be sorry.”

Osby stopped and looked at me. Listening to the recording later, I could hear the wind and the rain in the background. And then her voice. “It doesn’t feel good at all when you see the horses and cows and slaves. You know, it doesn’t feel good at all,” she said. “But at the same time, it happened. It happened to my people. I don’t want to forget about it.”

She pointed at the packet of genealogical material I’d brought along, mapping our families and that terrible history long ago in Georgia. “This is good enough. What you’re doing for me and my family, bringing this information to me.”

She let a moment pass, and then said: “You’re absolved.” She threw her head back and let the laughter roll like thunder. As the rain fell, we walked to the parking lot together. We paused, then hugged before parting.

“The Slaves Built That”’

By Tom Lasseter

[theimperiumchronicles]

Happy World Building Wednesday! Describe your current WIP without using any character names, place names, or terms exclusive to your world. Is it even possible?

Awe, now I thought we were friends 😂🤣😂

The Imperium Chronicles - With the underworld now split asunder and a new ruler in charge, the previous occupants are planning mutiny from afar. Recent additions to the upper portion of said underworld are bringing about some interesting developments, and all of them may turn out to not be good.

Meanwhile those in a faraway land will soon intersect in unexpected ways that could change everyone's destinies.

Bending the Law - When one man's desire to rule the Windy City sets him on a dangerous path to destroy the man in the position to bring him to justice, they may both miss that there is at least one more person at play. Who that is and what that means could be deadly for both of them.

Bombs, Bodyguards, & Broken Artifacts - A Louisiana heiress with a perchance for collecting ancient objects of a special kind has a close relative assemble a crack team to go after an item of mythical proportion. But they aren't the only ones after it, and they may not all make it home. When others have to step in to keep her safe, all have to wonder if they're also all playing on the same team.

😳 I think I did it!! 😵

That was actually a good question and really made me think!! Thanks babes!! 💜💜