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The thing about Peter B. Parker is that his memory is a fickle thing. Miguel knows this firsthand, because he’s watched Peter go on a thirty minute rant about a tiny detail in his favorite childhood cartoon and then ask why he came into Miguel’s office, even though he never told Miguel why he was there.
He also knows this because Peter remembers how Miguel prefers his coffee (a splash of condensed milk and a little bit of caramel, rather than sugar), but regularly forgets his mask in either Miguel’s apartment or at his home on 616, wherever he ends up spending the night.
And he also knows this because, on the day that changes everything, Peter bombards him with pictures of Mayday the second he sees him, and waits until they’re in the field fighting something that looks like a sea urchin— if sea urchins were as wide as an entire city block and as tall as a skyscraper— to drop the news on him.
“Oh, babe, I completely forgot until now,” he says when he’s on the other side of the monster, voice reaching Miguel through the comm in his ear. “MJ wants you to come over for dinner tonight.”
Miguel chokes so hard that he loses his grip on his web, and he goes tumbling through the air for several long seconds before he manages to pull himself back together enough to fire a new one. “What? And you just forgot to tell me?”
“I know, I’m sorry! But I told her we’d be there at seven o’clock. So come on, let’s get this wrapped up here!”
And—
And Miguel loves Peter, he really does.
He just also happens to want to kill him, sometimes.
Like now, when he drops dinner with his wife in— in four hours, his watch shows— on Miguel.
It’s not the idea itself that he’s opposed to. In fact, he’s been looking forward to meeting MJ for months, even before he and Peter got together. It’s just that he expected that he’d have a few days, or even a few weeks, to figure it out: what he’s going to say, what he’s going to wear, how he’s going to make himself less intimidating, how he’s going to prove to the love of his life’s wife that he’s good enough for Peter—
It’s fine. It’s fine.
He’s Spiderman. If he can fight a giant sea urchin in a different universe, he can figure out dinner with Mary Jane Watson-Parker. No problem.
He sighs, loud enough that his mic will pick it up and let Peter know he’s not happy with the situation. His voice is light, though, when he says, “Seven, huh? We better get a move on then, cariño.” Then, to Lyla, he says, “Lyla, let Jess know I need her to take over for tonight.”
He gets to work taking care of their anomaly.
—
When the sea urchin thing has been taken care of and Jess steps through with the clean-up crew, she pulls Miguel aside almost immediately. “What’s this I hear about me needing to step in tonight? A little last minute, don’t you think?”
He winces. “I know, I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important to me. But it’s about Peter–”
“Oh?” Jess interrupts, wiggling her eyebrows. “Got a hot date or something, O’Hara?”
“...Something like that,” he sighs, knowing she’s going to have a field day with this. “During the fight, Peter decided to tell me we’re having dinner with MJ in” —he checks his watch— “three hours, and he just forgot to let me know until then.”
Sure enough, she cracks up.
“Yeah, laugh it up,” he mutters. “It’s hilarious.”
“It absolutely is. So is that why you started falling through the air randomly?”
He coughs. “Ah. You saw that.” She laughs even harder at the confirmation, and he rolls his eyes. “Okay, are you done yet? I need to go.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m done,” she says, finally stifling her laughter. “I can cover for you, no problem. Do all the hard work while you take a night off to go suck up to your boyfriend’s wife. Tell me, do you think I should expect you back in a few hours, or tomorrow morning?”
She starts cackling again immediately, and Miguel just sighs and walks away. “Goodbye, Jess.”
“Bye, Miguel! Have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
Considering there’s approximately nothing Jess wouldn’t do, and also considering that she rode a motorcycle in the field while pregnant, that’s not the helpful advice that he’s sure she thinks it is.
He flips her off over his shoulder, and her laughter follows him through the portal.
—
The reality of what’s happening doesn’t hit him until he’s mid shower, conditioner in his hair and his lip caught between his teeth.
Dinner.
With MJ.
Tonight.
All this time, he thought he was ready to meet her. Was excited to meet her, even.
But now, staring down the barrel of a seven p.m. dinner that he just found out about, dread has settled heavy in his stomach.
It’s just that… Well, it’s just that in the months that he and Peter have been together, his life has done a complete one-eighty. It’s become something a little less like surviving and a little more like living, and it’s all because of Peter.
Peter, who brings him food when he forgets to eat and makes sure he actually takes a break. Peter, who drags him to bed when it gets too late and helps him get more than a few hours of sleep at a time simply by being next to him. Peter, who eases his restless thoughts, the churning anger in his gut, the heavy burden he bears on his shoulders.
He makes Miguel better, makes Miguel want to be better.
If MJ doesn’t like him… Well. Who’s to say that Peter won’t be far behind, realizing that Miguel isn’t quite worth it, that maybe he doesn’t love Miguel as much as he thought he did?
He can’t lose him.
Deep down, he knows that that’s an unfounded fear. Peter has seen him at his very worst, drowning in his own anger and rage and self-loathing, and still stuck around. He knows about the terrible things that Miguel has done, all the ways that he’s failed and fucked up and hurt people, and yet he still kisses Miguel goodbye at the end of each day. He still trusts Miguel with his daughter, and his heart, and his life.
But his fear has never been rational, and so no matter how hard he tries to reassure himself that it’ll be fine, no matter how much he reminds himself that Peter always says he and MJ will get along like a house on fire, he can’t help but imagine the worst.
He exhales heavily, and repeats to himself that it’s going to be fine.
When he rinses out his conditioner, he tries to send his dread down the drain, too.
—
An hour later finds him standing in his room, still wrapped in his towel and surrounded by so many clothes that it looks like a tornado passed through. He doesn’t have much in the way of clothing— he tends to live in his suit more than anything else, after all— but what he does have is strewn across the bed and floor, tossed aside carelessly because it’s not right, or it’s not good enough, or it’s too much, or it doesn’t fit anymore, or it won’t help him make a good impression, or it’ll make the wrong impression, or—
Well. Suffice to say, he’s at a complete and utter loss as to what to wear, and it’s now dangerously close to seven.
“Come on,” he mutters to himself. “Just pick something. It’s not that hard. Just—”
He hears the lock on the front door turn and sighs. Of course he isn’t ready to go by the time Peter is.
“Miguel?” He hears Peter call down the hall, followed by what sounds like a bottle of wine being set down on the counter. “Where are you, love? You ready to go?”
He groans before he reluctantly calls back, “I’m in my room.”
There are quiet footsteps as Peter makes his way down the hall, then a click as the door opens and he comes in.
Miguel doesn’t turn at his entrance, just stays staring at his bed with his lip caught between his teeth and his arms across his chest. Peter doesn’t say anything either, though Miguel can hear the quiet brush of his hair against his collar and knows he’s taking in the wreckage of the room.
After a few seconds, Peter crosses the room to Miguel and wraps his arms around his waist. Miguel sighs at his touch and melts into it immediately, uncrossing his arms and releasing his lip from the bite he had it in; when Peter brushes a kiss between Miguel’s bare shoulder blades, he can feel that there’s a slight smile on Peter’s lips at his reaction.
Peter brushes another kiss to the back of Miguel’s neck, then to the ball of his right shoulder, then to his cheek. Finally, he hooks his chin over Miguel’s shoulder and asks quietly, “What’s going on, babe?”
Miguel gestures around him, thinking it’s fairly obvious. “I can’t decide what to wear. It’s stupid, but I’ve been stuck here for an hour because nothing’s right, and I just—” He huffs in frustration. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be ready when you got here.”
“Well, I’m certainly not complaining about finding this instead,” Peter teases lightly, trailing his hands up from Miguel’s stomach to his chest. There’s nothing heated about his touch, though; it’s just a subtle pressure that Miguel can focus on and use to calm himself down, and his own hands come up to rest over Peter’s in gratitude. Peter continues, “But hey, don’t focus on the time right now, okay? MJ will be fine, she’s used to me being a little late. Let’s just focus on getting you dressed. You want me to pick something out?”
He squeezes Peter’s hands and lets out a long exhale before nodding. “Please?”
“Of course,” Peter agrees easily, and guides Miguel to turn around so that they’re face to face finally. He kisses Miguel sweetly. “Hi, love.”
“Hi, cariño,” Miguel greets. Then, once he finally gets a look at Peter, he adds, “You look really nice.”
It’s true— he’s in black slacks and a white button up, a maroon cardigan pulled over it, and he’s even gone so far as to shave the five o’clock shadow he usually sports. At the same time that Miguel marvels how it makes him look a little bit softer, a little more put together, he also silently mourns it; he’s always liked how it accentuates the line of Peter’s jaw.
(And also how it feels scraping across his skin when— well, that’s beside the point, and very much not the thing to be thinking about right now.)
Peter blushes at the compliment, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think so?”
“Yeah.” After a moment, he adds with a smirk, “It’s very college professor.”
“Oh, shut up,” Peter rolls his eyes, shoving Miguel’s chest lightly.
Miguel just laughs and steals another kiss from him. “Hey, I never said that was a bad thing.”
Peter snorts and shakes his head. “Alright, that’s enough, you big flirt. Take a seat, and let’s figure out what you’re going to wear, okay?” He turns to the mess of clothes and starts rifling through it quickly, muttering under his breath as he goes. “Let’s see, what have we got… Oh, no. Too futuristic, absolutely not. That might be nice, but… Mm, it feels like too much.”
He keeps going, hopping from pile to pile, and Miguel just watches him fondly.
God, but does he love Peter.
“It doesn’t need to be anything crazy. I mean it’s just in our house, so something comfortable… And simple… Similar to what you usually wear… Oh, I got it!”
A pair of black jeans hit Miguel right in the face, followed by a black and white striped button up that Peter snags from across the room with a web— Miguel hadn’t even realized he was wearing his web shooters— and a leather jacket.
At the first touch of fabric against his skin, dread settles heavy in Miguel’s gut once more.
He’d forgotten about everything for a moment there, distracted as he was by Peter, but with clothes in his hands it feels terrifyingly real.
“Okay, there you go,” Peter says with a grin. “What do you think?”
He continues staring down at the clothes silently, mind whirring, not knowing how to begin to tell Peter what he’s feeling, that he doesn’t know if he’s ready, that he can already imagine ten million things going wrong, that—
“Hey,” Peter says quietly, stepping in between his legs and using two fingers to gently tilt Miguel’s face up to his. “What’s happening in that head of yours, love?”
Miguel sighs, but doesn’t bother trying to pretend he’s fine. He never can pretend with Peter, anyways; he’s too good at reading him. “I’m nervous,” he confesses. “I keep imagining a million ways this could go wrong tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just— You know how I am when I meet new people. I don’t always say the right thing, or make the right impression. I almost always intimidate them, with the fangs and the claws and the—” He makes a face. “Me, I guess. I just don’t want to fuck things up with MJ and make her not like me, or mess things up for us or for you two, or— I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Peter says, hands coming up to stroke through the hair at the base of Miguel’s neck. “Especially not if it’s bothering you this much. I’m sorry I didn’t notice.”
“You had no way to know. I didn’t tell you what was going on.”
“Still. I wish I'd noticed,” Peter insists, and Miguel kisses the inside of his wrist in gratitude. “As for what you said, I’d like to remind you that MJ bet on us. I talked about you so much that she knew exactly where this was going. And I still talk about you, probably even more so now, so she also knows exactly how I feel about you and what to expect from you. Plus, I mean, there’s only so many times I can complain about you falling asleep face down at your desk before the intimidation wears off. Not to mention I’ve shown her pictures of you with Mayday.”
Miguel frowns at Peter’s light tone. “How are you so calm about this?”
“Because I know you, and I know MJ, and I have a pretty good idea of how introducing the two people I love most to each other is going to go. But even if it doesn’t go that way, I don’t want you to worry about us. No matter how tonight goes, it won’t change anything about what I feel for you. I love you, Miguel. That won’t go away just because of one dinner. As for my relationship with MJ, you let me worry about that, okay? You don’t need to bear that weight.”
Miguel sighs and leans his forehead against Peter’s stomach. “I just don’t want to be responsible for you losing her again.”
“If that happens, it’ll be because of something I did. Not you,” Peter says gently. “You don’t always have to be responsible for everything all the time, babe.”
Peter’s been reminding him of that since they first met, that Miguel doesn’t always need to carry the entire weight of the multiverse and everyone in it on his shoulders. It’s not always the easiest thing for him to remember, but— but Peter helps.
“I know,” he murmurs. “Logically, I know I’m overthinking things. I just…”
“You want it to go well,” Peter says plainly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” They’re quiet for a long moment, then Peter offers tentatively, “I know I kind of sprung this on you— I’m sorry again, I wish I hadn’t forgotten— so if you’re not up for it tonight, I can pop over and tell MJ that something came up and we need to pick another night. She’ll understand.”
It would be so easy to take that route— he can imagine it clearly, sending Peter back to MJ and going to dismiss Jess, working into the night until Lyla gets so annoyed with him that she calls Peter to drag him to bed, pushing off meeting MJ until another day.
But he also knows how much Peter wants this, and MJ invited him, and it’s been months since he and Peter started dating, and— and it’s time.
He looks up and shakes his head. “No. No, I want to go. I want to meet her.”
Peter swipes a thumb across Miguel’s cheek and kisses him, deep and slow. “Alright,” he says against Miguel’s lips when they break apart. “Then go get dressed. As gorgeous as you are, I don’t think MJ would appreciate you showing up near-naked.” He pauses. Looks at Miguel. Raises an eyebrow. “Actually—”
Miguel scoffs and shoves him away playfully. “And who’s the flirt now?”
Peter laughs and drops an affectionate kiss to the top of Miguel’s head before heading towards the door. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll wait for you out here. But take your time, yeah? No rush.”
He closes the door behind him, and Miguel feels all the air go out of him.
He glances down at the clothes in his hands.
He starts getting dressed.
—
He emerges a few minutes later, the only change he made to Peter’s selection being that he traded out the leather jacket for a light wash denim one. It makes him look softer, he thinks, a little more approachable.
Peter, at the very least, lights up when he sees him, hitting Miguel with a thousand watt smile and a playful wolf whistle. “Well damn, babe,” he teases.
“I take it you’re pleased with your work,” Miguel says dryly, though he can feel his cheeks burning.
“You look great,” Peter says sincerely, rising from his spot on the couch to take one of Miguel’s hands in his. “With everything else I know you’re going to worry about, you don’t have to worry about that.”
Miguel hums and twists his hand to tangle his fingers with Peter’s. “Thank you, cariño. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Go to dinner naked, probably.” He squeezes Miguel’s hand once. “Ready?”
Miguel sets his shoulders and takes a deep breath. Squeezes Peter’s hand once in return. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
Peter snags the bottle of wine from the counter with a web and pushes a button on his watch to open the portal.
Hand in hand, they step through.
—
They emerge from the portal in Peter’s living room, and the first thing Miguel registers is a voice from the kitchen calling, “Is that you, Tiger?”
The second thing he notices is the smell, something buttery and garlicky and delicious. His stomach rumbles in response, and Peter shoots him a wink.
“Yeah, sweetheart, it’s us!” Peter then calls back easily.
The third thing that he notices is that— the lights aren’t hurting his eyes. It’s dim.
He whips his head over to Peter, eyes wide, and Peter squeezes his hand. “I asked her to dim the lights,” he explains. “Figured it’d make you feel more comfortable.”
“I love you,” is all Miguel can think to say, but even that doesn’t fully encompass the heavy aching in his heart right now, the cavernous depth of his love for Peter. He doesn’t know that there are any words for it.
Peter seems to understand, though. He kisses the back of Miguel’s hand. “I love you too, babe. Now go ahead and look around, yeah? Sounds like MJ’s finishing up dinner, it should be just a few minutes.”
He nods, turning his gaze to the room, and feels Peter move away.
For all the time that they’ve spent together, he’s never actually been in Peter’s home on 616— they’re usually in Miguel’s office or apartment, or fighting in the field. Peter has quarters at HQ of course, and from what little Miguel has seen of them he knows they’re messy and covered in photos of MJ and Mayday, but even that seems bare and empty compared to here.
The couch is well worn and covered in thick blankets, the floor is covered in Mayday’s toys, and the curtains are open to let in the last rays of the setting sun. One wall is entirely taken up by bookshelves, each shelf cramped tight with books and knick knacks that seem to be both Peter and MJ’s. There are scripts and librettos intermingled with engineering texts and classic lit, acting awards and tiny potted plants sprinkled amongst knitting needles and spare parts for web shooters, framed photos of them throughout the years and so many of Mayday it seems almost like a shrine.
Miguel snorts when he spots a Spiderman bobblehead on one of the shelves and shoots Peter— who has busied himself with opening the wine and pouring three glasses— a glance. “You buy your own merchandise?”
He clicks his tongue. “That was MJ, actually, because she likes to think she’s funny.”
“I heard that!” MJ yells from the kitchen. “And I am!”
Peter shrugs at Miguel as if to say what can you do, and Miguel smiles slightly. Already, he’s beginning to understand why Peter and MJ ended up together.
He continues his scan of their home, eyes getting caught on the walls not covered by bookshelves. They’re covered in dozens upon dozens of photographs, and Miguel’s heart clenches: Peter Parker, a photographer in every universe.
He looks at each photo fondly.
MJ in a beautiful gown on a red carpet. A train rushing by, the light bending around it. Mayday mid laugh on a swing, the sunlight setting her hair on fire. The city from the top of a spire, lit up in little golden squares. Mayday and MJ on a picnic blanket, smiling at each other. A woman that Miguel knows intuitively is Aunt May, sitting in an armchair and focused intently on her knitting. A spider web covered in dew drops. Mayday, perched on Miguel’s shoulder—
He stops short, heart in his throat at the sight of himself on Peter’s wall, in Peter’s home, surrounded by photos of the things Peter loves most—
“He’s fond of that one,” MJ says behind him. Miguel whips around to face her, startled. She smiles apologetically. “Sorry. I’m used to Peter always knowing when I’m approaching.”
He just blinks at her, thrown momentarily by the realization that this is the first he’s seeing her in person. She’s shorter than he’d thought, not even reaching his chin, and she has to tilt her head back to make eye contact. Her hair’s pulled up in a messy bun, bangs frizzy from being in the kitchen, and she’s wearing an apron over a pale blue blouse and black skinny jeans. She’s— she’s pretty, he thinks, and has a sense of kindness and peace about her, and is waiting for him to respond—
“It’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention. I was—” Helplessly, he turns to look at the photo again. “I didn’t realize Peter took this. Or that he would…”
MJ laughs quietly as he trails off. “He took down one of his first photos that ever made it into the newspaper and replaced it with that. Didn’t even tell me. I probably wouldn’t have noticed, had I not walked in and found him staring at it one day because you were in the field and he missed you.”
“Oh,” he says simply, at a loss for words. It’s— It’s overwhelming, this blatant display of Peter’s love for him, and he curses himself for this being the state he meets MJ in. “I’m sorry, I just—”
“It’s alright. His love can be overwhelming, sometimes, I know.”
“Yes, I suppose you would,” Miguel laughs through his nose. He looks at it for a moment longer, and feels a little more of his apprehension fade away. If Peter hung a photo of him in their home, and MJ didn’t care, then— then maybe it’ll all be okay, after all. The thought bolsters him, and he turns to face MJ completely with his hand outstretched. “Miguel O’Hara. Pleasure to meet you.”
She takes his hand and shakes it firmly. “MJ Watson-Parker. You lost me twenty dollars, you know.”
He opens his mouth, although he’s not entirely sure how to respond; Peter had told him about her dry humor, but being put on the spot by it is entirely different. Luckily, he’s saved by Peter coming down the stairs— and Miguel is startled to realize he hadn’t even noticed Peter go upstairs— with Mayday in his arms.
“Go easy on him now, sweetheart,” he says, but it gets partially lost under Mayday squealing loudly at the sight of Miguel. It’s been a few days since Peter brought her to work, as caught up with the urchin-thingy as they were, and she makes grabby hands at him. Peter laughs. “I think she missed you, babe.”
“Is that true? Did you miss me?” He asks Mayday seriously, taking her from Peter. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Unfortunately, that mission was no place for a baby, even superpowered ones. Although I think you would have disagreed, you absolute daredevil of a Spiderling.”
She lets out a displeased grumble in response.
“Yes, I know. But I have lots of paperwork to do tomorrow, so maybe your parents will let you come visit. How’s that?”
She babbles again, much happier, and leans her head against his shoulder.
Suddenly conscious of the fact that they have an audience, he looks up. Peter and MJ have moved so that they’re leaning into each other, his arm around her shoulder, and Peter has the same lovesick expression he always has when he sees Miguel and Mayday together. MJ is smiling softly, and it grows wider when she meets Miguel’s eyes.
“I thought about asking someone to look after her,” she explains, “but I thought her company might be appreciated. I’ve heard you two are quite the duo.”
It’s subtle, but Miguel recognizes it for the acknowledgement of the situation that it is. He wonders if MJ, despite inviting him to dinner, was as nervous for it as he was.
“She does tend to make paperwork more interesting,” he says, and hopes MJ hears the thank you behind it. Based on the glint in her eyes, she does.
Peter chuckles. “A kind way of saying she annoys you until you sigh and give in to letting her stay with you.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Miguel says, and raises a pointed eyebrow at Peter.
He grins broadly. “What can I say? I teach her all my best tricks.”
“And your worst habits,” MJ says dryly. “I spent twenty minutes looking for her the other day only to find she had webbed herself to the ceiling and was asleep. Which I’ve found you doing more times than I can count.”
“Peter,” Miguel sighs. “You web yourself to the ceiling?”
“Not since Surfer Spiderman taught me to make a hammock! It’s not my fault Mayday hasn’t caught on, and— Oh, whatever,” he sighs when he catches Miguel’s wry smile and MJ’s shaking shoulders. “Let’s eat, how about that? It smells great, so…”
MJ stifles her laughter enough to kiss Peter’s cheek. “Alright, alright. You two go ahead and sit down. I have just a few more things to do, and then I’ll bring the food in.”
She disappears back through the door to the kitchen, and Peter turns to Miguel and cups his cheek in one hand. “How’re you doing, love?”
“I’m good, cariño.” He means it— between Mayday in his arms, MJ’s kind smile, and already easing into banter, he’s relaxing more and more by the second. “I promise.”
“Good,” Peter says, and kisses him sweetly. “I’m really glad. Also, what did I tell you? You both love to be mean to me!”
Miguel snorts. “You deserved it there. Webbing yourself to the ceiling? C’mon.”
“Alright, I get it.” He rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Let’s just sit down, yeah? The table’s over here.”
Miguel trails after Peter, and feels another bit of nervousness fall away.
—
Dinner passes by in a pleasant blur— the garlic butter steaks that MJ made are delicious, the wine that Peter picked is rich, and the conversation flows between them naturally.
MJ asks about the Spider Society, mostly nonsensical questions about what he does when they’re not in the field and about some of the universes he’s visited. In return, she tells him about some of her acting work that she’s done recently, and some of the projects that she has coming up. She has a captivating way of speaking, dry and witty as often as she’s articulate and thoughtful, and Miguel finds himself easily enraptured as she describes some of the mishaps that she’s encountered during her time in the theatre. Peter, for the most part, stays quiet unless he’s adding something to a story, busying himself with feeding Mayday her mac n’ cheese and leaving them to figure out their own dynamic.
It’s almost startling, how easy he finds talking to her to be.
It’s not something he’d expected, not when he struggles even to meet new Spiders, and he’s not sure what to attribute it to.
Perhaps the wine is loosening his tongue, or maybe it’s the reassurance of Peter’s ankle resting against his under the table, or maybe it’s that he knows Peter has talked about him with her before, or maybe there’s just something inherently warm and welcoming about MJ.
Whatever it is, it’s— it’s nice. Peaceful. Domestic in a way that he’s not used to experiencing with anyone other than Peter.
Little by little, the rest of his fears about the evening melt away.
—
Later, long after dinner ended and Mayday fell asleep against Peter’s shoulder, Miguel finds himself sitting on the couch aimlessly.
Alone while MJ does the dishes and Peter puts Mayday to bed, there’s not much else he can do but look around. Or he tries to look around, at least, but his eyes keep coming back to the picture of him and Mayday, drawn to it no matter how many times he tears his gaze away.
It’s— it’s odd. He doesn’t know why he’s so fixated on it. There’s just something about it, hanging right there below photos of MJ in her wedding dress and New York City from the top of the Empire State Building, that hits him right in the chest.
Something about MJ letting him have a place in her home, even beyond dinner and what Peter tells her.
There’s a clatter from the kitchen, and suddenly Miguel can’t stand sitting here alone anymore. Not when MJ’s done so much for him, probably without her even realizing it.
He rises to his feet and crosses the room swiftly, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe.
MJ, standing at the sink with her sleeves rolled up and a pot in her hand, looks over her shoulder at the sound. “Miguel! Is there anything I can get you?”
“No, no. I just— Can I help?”
She blinks in surprise, and looks for a second as if she’s going to say no. She must see something in his eyes, though, because she softens after a second. “I’d appreciate that, thank you. Can you dry?”
“Of course.” He joins her at the sink and takes the pot and dry towel she hands him. He begins drying it quietly, while she picks up the next.
They work in silence for a long minute, Miguel trying desperately to figure out what he wants to say to her and just managing to come up empty handed. This is what he was so afraid of, he thinks; not knowing what to say to MJ, and spending the entire night in silence, and—
“Thank you,” he blurts out.
MJ laughs in bewilderment, setting down a plate to look at him curiously. “What for?”
“Just for… For tonight, and letting me into your home, and letting me love Peter, and—” He sighs in frustration. “I’m not the best with words, or meeting people. I’ve gotten better, with Peter’s help, but—”
MJ stops him with a gentle hand on his arm. Her gaze is knowing when their eyes meet, and she says simply, “I understand, Miguel. And you don’t need to thank me. I’m just glad that he has you. Being Spiderman hasn’t always been kind to him, but finding you has made him so happy— and more than that it’s made him love it again. That means the world to me. And that May has two people looking out for her now as she goes traipsing across universes… Well. I don’t think I need to tell you what that means.”
It’s the closest she’s gotten to acknowledging that she knows about his past, and Miguel’s heart squeezes in his chest painfully. “I— No. You don’t,” is all he manages to get out.
MJ, though, doesn’t seem to mind. She just smiles, a little bit sad. “Peter has a big heart. He always has. I’m glad that he’s sharing it with you.”
Then, seeming to understand that he’s not sure how to, or even if he can, respond to that, she picks up another plate and begins to wash it.
After a moment, Miguel follows suit.
—
When it’s finally time for him to head back to 928, he’s stopped by MJ’s hand on his wrist once more.
This time, when he turns around, she tugs him into a hug. He’s so surprised that he just kind of stands there, frozen, but she isn’t deterred. She says quietly into his ear, “I’m really glad you came tonight, Miguel. I hope you know you’re welcome anytime.”
Tentatively, his arms drift up to return the hug. “Thank you, MJ.”
It seems to be enough, because she lets go after another second. She turns to Peter, then, and she’s clearly trying to surprise Miguel to death because she says, “Hey, Tiger? Go with him. Spend the night there.”
Peter looks between Miguel and MJ quickly. “Are you sure? I’ve spent the past few nights there—”
“I’m sure,” she interrupts, kissing Peter softly. “You can bring us alternate universe pancakes in the morning, how’s that?”
Peter kisses her once more. “Deal. Love you, sweetheart.”
As Miguel opens up the portal to go back home, she says, “Goodnight, you two.”
Her quiet smile is the last thing Miguel sees before he steps into the portal.
—
He and Peter don’t really talk until they’re settled into Miguel’s bed, facing each other like a pair of parentheses, and Peter asks, “So? How was it?”
Miguel smiles a bit, thinking. It was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, between his anxiety and seeing the picture on Peter’s wall and talking to MJ, but… It was nice, overall. “Good,” he ends up saying. “You were right, I didn’t need to worry. And MJ is wonderful. I can see why you fell in love with her.”
“I’m really glad, babe. I knew it would be fine, but I’m glad you were able to find that for yourself, too.” He pauses, then asks tentatively, “So, do you think you’d do dinner with us again?”
He reaches for Peter’s hand and intertwines their fingers together. “Yeah,” he says without hesitating. “I’d like that a lot, cariño.”
Even in the dark, Miguel can see Peter’s wide smile. “Really? That’s— Okay. Great.”
He laughs and leans in to kiss Peter, slow and sweet, free hand on the smooth line of Peter’s jaw. After a moment, he breaks away to say, “Hey Peter?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“Don’t shave your stubble again.”
Peter laughs against his mouth, and kisses him again.
—
He gets a message from Peter a week later, the notification popping up in the corner of his screens while he’s flicking through readings from various universes, and the small chime that accompanies it makes him smile to himself.
Peter has been stuck at home for a few days, taking care of the latest threat to his Manhattan— nothing he can’t handle alone, but still pesky— and Miguel misses him more than he’d thought was possible. He’s had a window with the feed from 616 open the entire time, watching closely to make sure everything’s okay, and Peter has been messaging him with updates at every opportunity he gets, but it’s not the same. It’s nothing like having Peter next to him, warm and real and safe.
His thoughts are interrupted by Lyla sighing dramatically. In a split second, she flickers between standing, sitting, and taking a selfie with him. “Are you ever going to answer that, or just stand here smiling at it all day? You’re grossing me out.”
“I thought you were always telling me to be nicer. This is me nicer,” he mutters absentmindedly, opening Peter’s message and reading it quickly.
Got everything wrapped up here finally. How about dinner with MJ? I could use some time with my favorite people.
“That’s before I knew that you being nicer also meant you being all gooey and gross all the time. It was sweet at first, but now… Eugh.”
He rolls his eyes at her and types out a swift reply.
Be there in an hour.
“Well,” he tells Lyla as he stretches out his back, stiff from standing at his station for so long, “you’ll be relieved to know you’re getting a break from it tonight. I’m going to 616.”
“Oh?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Another dinner with the mister and missus, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he grunts, swiping a hand through her hologram in place of shoving her away. She materializes a few inches away, undeterred.
“You need me to call in Jess?”
He hums. Scanning over the array of screens in front of him, he doesn’t see anything that sticks out at him, nothing on the brink of going horribly wrong or that necessitates bothering Jess. “I think you can handle it, don’t you?”
“Please, is that even a question?”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. “You have control for the evening. If there’s an emergency, call me. Otherwise, place me on do not disturb. I don’t want Jess or— God forbid— Hobie or anyone else calling me while I’m on 616 unless it’s important. Got it?”
“Will do, boss. Only contact you in case of an emergency. Enjoy dinner. And tell Peter I say hi!”
He gives her a two finger salute and leaps off the edge of his platform to go get ready.
—
He’s barely emerged from the portal when he’s hit by a web and yanked across the room. It all happens so fast that, with his eyes still recovering from the bright orange light that accompanies interdimensional travel, he doesn’t even see Peter before he’s wrapped up in his familiar embrace and kissed soundly.
Peter presses in close, wrapping his arms around Miguel’s back and holding him tightly, the kiss as much a hello as it is an I missed you. Miguel lets out a small noise of surprise before he leans into it just as firmly.
It’s unyielding, all his senses taken up by Peter, and he gets lost enough in it that he thinks one of his fangs slices Peter’s lip. Peter, though, doesn’t seem to notice or care, and Miguel has missed him too much to feel too bad about it… At least until they break apart, both panting slightly, and he sees Peter with a smear of blood on his bottom lip.
Then he feels a little bad.
Peter just beams at him, though, still not seeming to care. “Hi, babe. I missed you.”
Miguel smiles softly and uses his thumb to wipe the blood away from Peter’s lip. He scans over him quickly as he does— he looks tired but uninjured, and Miguel lets himself relax a little. He knew Peter had it handled, but still. He can’t help but worry. “I missed you too, cariño. Sorry about your lip.”
“I’m just taking it as a compliment. I mean, I kissed you so solidly that you forgot to watch the teeth.”
“Oh good, so it’ll cancel out when I insult you for using a web to pull me over.”
Peter’s jaw drops, but any retort he might’ve had is cut off by MJ walking in from the kitchen. “Peter, tell me you didn’t… You know how cheesy that is.”
“Can no one just let me be?”
“No,” MJ and Miguel both say at the same time, and Peter throws his arms up in the air.
“I thought you both loved me.”
“We do,” MJ says. “You’re also just really fun to tease.” She turns to Miguel then, and pulls him into a hug. Unlike last week, he doesn’t freeze, just returns it gently. “Hi, Miguel. Glad to see my cooking didn’t scare you off.”
“Yes, because it’s so bad,” he says dryly. “I mean, it just smells horrible in here. What is that, fresh bread? Pasta? Ugh.”
It smells delicious, really, and her exaggerated sympathetic pout tells him she knows it. “Oh, I know. Even worse than the smell is the fact that it’s ready, so I’m afraid there’s no escaping now. You’ll just have to choke it down.”
The corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile, and he follows her and Peter to the table easily.
—
Miguel thought once, back when Peter first started coming into his office to bother him, that three times makes something a habit.
He thinks the same thing when Peter strolls into his office, sets up a hammock— because that really did become a habit, one that’s still going strong even now that they’ve been dating for several months and sleep in the same bed several nights a week— and invites him over for the third week in a row.
“MJ’s making chicken and waffles tonight, if you want to come over.”
Miguel furrows his brow. Without looking away from his screen, he asks, “Chicken and waffles?”
“It’s her grandmother’s recipe— she was from the south,” Peter explains. “It’s good.”
Miguel hums. Looks at the list of files he needs to review about the mission that a few Spiders just got back from. Thinks about Peter’s ankle resting against his under the table, and MJ’s smile when he goes back for seconds, and their home with its dimmed lights and a photograph of him hanging on the wall.
“Seven again?” He asks.
—
It becomes a weekly event after that, dinner at MJ and Peter’s.
What MJ cooks always changes, and sometimes Mayday is there and sometimes she’s with a sitter (which Miguel has come to learn means either Gwen or Miles), and sometimes he arrives with Peter and sometimes Peter’s already on 616.
But it always ends up being good, all easy conversation and playful teasing and wine-flushed cheeks, and Miguel ends up staying a little later each time, wanting to leave a little less.
It’s— it’s nice, really nice, and each week Miguel finds himself counting down the days until the next one, waiting until he can go through the portal and be greeted by Peter’s sweet kiss and MJ’s gentle smile.
Waiting until he can return to what he yearns to call home, but isn’t yet brave enough to.
Because— because he tried to have a family before, and it ended with Gabriella unraveling in his arms.
He thinks, if he grasps onto this too tight, tries too hard to take something that isn't his, then… Then what keeps that from happening again?
If he lost Peter, and MJ, and Mayday…
He can’t.
—
Three months into their new routine, another Alchemax super-collider goes off on Earth-63115, and Miguel finds himself with a whole new batch of anomalies to find and send home.
It’s—
It’s exhausting, no matter how much more he knows and how much more help he has this time around. There’s just so many of them, each one threatening everything he’s worked so hard to keep safe, and it’s impossible to keep up.
He buries himself in his work, flicking through data from hundreds of universes at a time, flagging every anomaly, assigning teams, leading his own missions, but it’s never enough. Everywhere he looks there’s a new threat, a new anomaly, a new canon event at risk of being disrupted, and all he can do is keep going, keep trying, keep giving orders, keep working.
He loses track of things, the passage of time only marked by when teams leave and when they come back, how many anomalies have been caught and how many still remain.
And so, when Peter shows up at his desk with his mask in his hands and his shoulders slumped, Miguel doesn’t really know what time or even what day it is. All he knows is that Peter has gone out into the field a dozen times already, and there are still more than a hundred anomalies that they haven’t caught.
He’s about to ask Peter if he’s here for another mission when—
Peter leans his head against Miguel’s shoulder blade and wraps his arms around his waist.
Instantly, Miguel stops what he’s doing, worry overtaking everything. “Peter? Are you okay?”
“I’m really fucking tired, babe,” Peter mumbles thickly. “And I’m worried.”
Miguel places a hand over Peter’s and rubs a circle into his knuckles. “I know, cariño, I’m sorry. But we’ll get them.”
“Not about that. I’m worried about
you,
Miguel.”
His words are muffled by Miguel’s shoulder, but they still make his heart drop. “Me? What do you mean, you’re worried about me? I’m fine.”
With a sudden motion, Peter spins Miguel around and cups his face between his hands. “Miguel,” he says, and his voice is so broken that Miguel feels it cut right through his heart. “You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. You’ve barely left this room other than to tackle the most dangerous anomalies. It’s been days, babe, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen you. You’re going to run yourself ragged like this. You need to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Miguel repeats, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. Because— because he is tired, so achingly tired, and all he wants is to pull Peter into his arms and fall asleep. But he can’t, because there are still universes out there that are in danger, and if he doesn’t stop the anomalies then they’ll crumble and break apart, and he’ll have failed again, and— he can’t take a break, is the point. “I can’t. There’s a lot of work to do.”
“And you have a team of literally thousands of very capable people who can handle things for a few hours while you take care of yourself.”
“I—”
“I know you want to help everyone,” Peter cuts him off, and his eyes are sad as he gazes at Miguel. “And I love that about you. But you’re not going to be able to help anyone if you keep going like this, babe.”
Miguel sighs heavily, and his eyes slip shut. He knows Peter is right, but he can’t stop that nagging voice that tells him he needs to keep going, that he’s the only one who can fix this, that if he doesn’t than Gabriella will have died for nothing—
“Peter…” He whispers, and he knows Peter hears all of his unspoken fears when his arms tighten around his waist.
“I know, Miguel.” He brushes a kiss to Miguel’s shoulder. “I know. But it’ll be okay. Just come home. Let MJ and I make you dinner. Get a few hours of sleep. And then come back tomorrow.”
And he should say no, but he’s so tired, and Peter called it home as if it’s Miguel’s too, and for once he’s not scared to hear it called that, and—
And there’s only one choice.
“Okay. Let’s go home, cariño.”
—
Peter must have warned her they were headed over, because MJ is pacing in the living room when they step through. The second she sees them, leaning heavily on each other, her step falters and her forehead creases with worry.
“Honey, we’re home,” Peter says weakly.
MJ sweeps across the room to meet them without a word.
She cups Peter’s cheek with one hand, sighing softly, and Miguel knows she’s seeing what he does— the bags under Peter’s eyes, the downturn of his mouth, the slump of his shoulders. It's hard seeing him like this when he’s usually so lively and bright, and there’s a tickle of guilt in the back of his mind. He pushed Peter this hard. He drove him to be this tired. He—
MJ cups Miguel’s cheek with her other hand, and her frown deepens even further as she searches his face, and— he freezes, not knowing what to make of this.
It’s not that it’s bad. Really, it’s— it’s kind of nice. Different from when Peter holds him like this, considering her hand is much smaller and missing the distinct calluses that all Spiders seem to have from swinging, but it’s still pleasant.
He just… Wasn’t expecting it, or for her to look so heartbroken by whatever it is that she sees in his eyes.
“Oh, my boys,” she whispers. “My poor boys. It’s alright, I’ll take care of you.”
“Thank you,” Peter mutters brokenly, and Miguel’s heart shatters.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and finds himself reaching for Peter before he even realizes he’s doing it. “I didn’t realize, I should have let you take a break sooner, I—”
It’s MJ who stops him, her thumb stroking across his cheekbone. “Hey. Miguel. It’s okay. You’re here now, and you’re going to get some rest, and it’ll all be okay, alright?”
“…Yeah,” he sighs, the fight going out of him. “Okay.”
“Okay. Now, I want you two to go shower, and I’ll make something easy for you to eat, and then we’ll go to bed. Sound good?”
Peter presses a lingering kiss to her temple. “Yeah, that sounds good. Thank you, sweetheart.”
And so that’s what they do.
Miguel and Peter shower together, helping each other wash away the dirt and grime and stress of the past few days.
They eat dinner with MJ, just grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, but it’s the best meal Miguel has had in a long time.
And then— and then MJ takes them both by the hand and drags them up to her and Peter's room.
Miguel pauses in the doorway as Peter lays down and MJ heads towards the bathroom, not too tired to be aware that this— the three of them sharing a bed— isn’t something they do. That this is a little too close to what he wants so bad, but has been so scared to chase.
MJ, as if hearing his thoughts, stops at the bathroom door. “Miguel,” she says quietly, and he looks at her with wide eyes. “Lay down. It’s okay.”
And he should turn around, go sleep on the couch or open a portal, walk away before he gets in too deep. But he’s— he’s just so tired, and MJ is looking at him like she understands, and Peter has a hand outstretched to him, and—
He goes and he lays down next to Peter, who curls into him and buries his face in his neck, one arm slung over Miguel’s stomach.
A few minutes later, MJ lays down and mirrors Peter’s position.
They fall asleep like that, Miguel held by the both of them.
It’s the best night of sleep he thinks he’s ever had.
—
He pulls up the video from Gabriella’s soccer game when he’s back on 928.
Watches it over and over again.
Thinks about Gabriella unraveling in his arms, and how she cried for him, and how he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
Thinks about falling asleep with Peter and MJ, the weight of their arms across his stomach, the peaceful haze of waking up with them still pressed against his sides.
“Lyla?” He asks. “Can you pull up the timeline for 616, please?”
“Sure, boss,” she answers quietly, appearing just off his left shoulder.
The timeline opens before him, an entire universe compressed into one single twisting and turning branch of Everything, and he exhales shakily.
It's fine. Not a single thing out of place, no extra branches where there shouldn’t be, no new events or anomalies or complications. Just… 616, same as it ever is.
“It’s okay?”
“It’s okay,” Lyla confirms. After a long moment, she adds tentatively, “It’s different this time. You know that, right? It’s… It’s okay to let yourself have this.”
He looks up at the ceiling and sighs heavily. “It seems that way, doesn’t it?”
—
Things change after that.
Mostly, it gets harder to stay away, harder to remind himself of what he was so afraid of.
He wonders what it means, that he’s forgetting how scared he was— if maybe he just wants it bad enough to forget, or if it was seeing that the timeline went unchanged, or if there’s something about Peter and MJ’s home and being there with them that makes him crave it more than he fears it.
Because it’s true; he does crave it. On the nights when he’s alone and eating a lukewarm meal from the cafeteria or cooking a meal for one, he thinks of MJ and Peter, and he craves their company and their teasing and their laughter.
He thinks of the warmth of their home, the richness of the food, the comfort of looking up and seeing them both smiling at him. He thinks of washing the dishes with MJ, holding Mayday on his lap while they watch a movie after dinner, kissing Peter with the taste of wine on their tongues. He thinks of dimmed lights, warm hugs, sleeping in a bed together.
He thinks of home.
He thinks of home, and Peter and MJ and Mayday, and he wants.
—
“Incoming call from Peter, boss,” Lyla announces, and Miguel goes on high alert automatically; Peter never calls, preferring to spam him with text message after text message. If he’s calling, then something must be wrong. Miguel pictures the worst; Peter injured, or someone got to MJ somehow, or Mayday was kidnapped, or—
He answers in a rush. “Peter? Is everything okay? Are MJ and Mayday—”
“Safe, they’re safe.” Peter’s hologram flickers. “Sorry to worry you, I know I never call. I just have my hands a little full right now, so this seemed easier. MJ is sick— the flu, I think. I know I was supposed to spend the night with you on 928, but I don’t thi—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Miguel cuts Peter off. “Stay with her, cariño. She needs you more than me.”
Peter sighs, clearly relieved; it breaks Miguel’s heart, a little, that he thought it would be an issue. “Thank you, love. I really appreciate it, and I know MJ does too.”
“You don’t need to thank me. Just take care of her, yeah? And tell her I hope she feels better soon.”
He gives the briefest flicker of a smile. “I will. I love you, Miguel.”
“Love you too, Peter.”
And then the call goes dead, Peter’s hologram blinking out of existence, and Miguel is left alone.
He remembers when Gabriella got the flu, and how badly her body hurt and how fierce her shivers were and how much time he spent holding her hair back as she vomited. Thinking of MJ going through that now, her vibrant personality dulled by sickness… It aches, a bit.
He’d hated when Gabriella got sick, simply by virtue of how powerless he was— he could fight off bad guys any day of the week, always finding a way out of even the most impossible situations. But when it came to curing his daughter of a cold or the flu or a stomach bug, he’d only ever really been able to ply her with medicine and make her—
He pauses.
“Lyla? Let Jess know I’m heading out for the night. There’s something I need to take care of.”
—
He steps through a portal into their living room two hours later with a pot in his hands, finding the house quiet and dark downstairs. The lights are on upstairs, though, and he hears Peter’s footsteps before he sees him.
He’s in his pink bathrobe, and he stops halfway down the stairs when he sees Miguel. “Babe? What are you doing here?”
Miguel lifts the pot awkwardly. “I brought soup. I thought it’d make MJ feel better. And I figured you haven't eaten anything, either.”
The best way that Miguel can describe what Peter does is— is melts, his face going soft and his body sagging. He looks relieved and emotional and exhausted all at once, and Miguel crosses the room in a flash simply out of worry that he’s going to collapse.
He doesn’t, thankfully, just comes down a few more steps until he’s close enough to lean in and kiss Miguel softly. “Thank you,” he murmurs against Miguel’s lips. “She’s going to be really happy to see you. And the soup, too. It’s been… A rough day, to say the least.”
“Well, I better get this served then. Don’t want her bad day to go on any longer than it has to.”
Between him and Peter, they get three bowls of soup served and topped with fresh lime quickly, and head upstairs.
Peter lets Miguel go first, and MJ lights up when she sees him— or at least, as much as she can when she’s laying in bed with an ice pack on her forehead and a blanket tucked up to her chin. “Miguel,” she says, her voice stuffy. “What’s this? I wasn’t expecting to see you! Peter, did you call him?”
Peter puts his free hand up in surrender. “I only told him you were sick. The rest is all him.”
“Oh, Miguel,” she sighs. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he gives her a small smile, sitting on the edge of the bed gingerly. “But I wanted to come say hi. And bring you my magic cure.”
She smiles softly, then winces when she tries to sit up. Instantly, Peter is at her side, helping her with a gentle hand.
“Thanks, Tiger,” she huffs, making a displeased face. “Stupid fucking body aches… Anyways, what is that? I’m congested, but I can still tell it smells delicious.”
“This,” he offers her a bowl, “is my grandmother’s preferred cold medicine: caldo de pollo. It’s just chicken soup, but she would make this for my brother and I whenever we got sick and it always helped. She taught me how to make it, too, and I made it for Gabriella when she wasn’t feeling well. A couple servings of this over the next few days, and you’ll be feeling better in no time.”
MJ takes it from him carefully, inhaling deeply for a moment before she takes a careful bite. Instantly, her eyes go wide. “Shut up,” she says. “Miguel, this is incredible. And I had no idea you cooked!”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t do it frequently, especially since starting the strike force. But when I have time… I enjoy it.”
“Oh, MJ, you have no idea,” Peter pipes up. “He made me this stew once, with potatoes and bacon and sausage, and—” He kisses his fingers. “It was so good.”
She narrows her eyes, even as she takes another bite. “Unbelievable. All these months I’ve been making dinner for you, and not only did you never tell me that you cook, but you’ve cooked for Peter and not me? You owe me a home cooked meal, Miguel O’Hara. Multiple, actually.”
“Alright,” he laughs quietly. “You just say the word, and I’ll make you dinner whenever you want.”
“Good,” she says firmly, then goes back to her soup.
It’s quiet after that, but it’s peaceful and comfortable, and he’s with the two people he loves most.
He pauses.
Glances at MJ, feels the warmth in his heart that has nothing to do with the soup heating his belly.
Huh.
He thinks that if realizing he loved Peter hit him like a truck, then realizing he loves MJ is like sliding on an old, well worn jacket.
Easy. Warm. Fitting.
Because, really, he doesn’t know how he couldn’t have fallen for her; MJ, with her smile and her sharp wit and the way she seems to see through him, the way she’s seen through him from the very beginning. The way she is with Peter and Mayday, and how she knows exactly what to say, and how she’s opened her home to him time and time again.
How she’s helped him remember what it is to have a home, and people he wants to come home to.
So, no. It’s not surprising, the way falling in love with Peter was.
And he thinks, based on the way that MJ keeps inviting him back, and how she brightens when he walks in, and how she’s leaning towards him even now as she’s growing tired, that he’s not alone in feeling that way.
He could say something now, and he knows that it would be okay. Peter would be overjoyed. MJ would hug him tight and welcome him home. Mayday would— well, Mayday would be about the same as she always is, with how young she is, but she would grow up knowing the love of three parents instead of two.
He stays quiet though, not wanting to fracture the quiet peace of this moment.
He just tucks his revelation away in his heart and continues eating.
And he listens as Peter starts rambling on about what Mayday did while MJ was asleep earlier, and he watches MJ laugh even as her eyes close further and further, and he thinks—
He thinks he’s home.
—
Later, once MJ has well and truly fallen asleep, he gently pries her bowl from her hands and brushes a fleeting kiss to her forehead.
“Que descanses, mi querida,” he murmurs quietly.
She sighs softly, as if in response, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile. After another moment spent just gazing down at her, letting himself bask in the warm affection he has for her, he turns to go.
He finds Peter leaning in the doorway, watching them with the slightest of smiles and a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.
Miguel doesn’t say anything, though, and Peter doesn’t ask.
He simply takes Miguel’s free hand in his, kisses the back of it, and they head downstairs together.
—
True to her word, MJ starts asking him to cook for her after that and suddenly they’re having dinner together twice a week, MJ and Miguel cooking one night each.
He finds himself making things he hasn’t made in years, recipes that his mother and grandmother would make that were too much for just one person but perfect for three, recipes that have him reminiscing and telling stories about his childhood as they eat, recipes that have always been synonymous with home to him.
The nights that he cooks end up being his favorite. He loves preparing dinner while MJ sits on the counter and Peter floats between getting in Miguel’s way, leaning into MJ, and corralling Mayday. Loves asking Peter and MJ to taste something for him, and watching their eyes light up as they do. Loves when MJ puts on music and ropes Peter into dancing, inevitably grabbing Miguel the second nothing’s at risk of burning and making him dance with her, too.
He always thinks about saying something in those moments, when they’re spinning each other around in the kitchen, but he never does.
He can’t really explain why.
It’s not as much the fear now, though he thinks there might always be a part of him that wants to run and examine 616’s timeline for even the slightest indication that he’s messed something up.
He just… He likes how things are now, simple and domestic and peaceful. He doesn’t want to mess with that, even knowing it’ll all be fine— better, even— once he does.
And so, no matter how many encouraging looks Peter gives him over MJ’s shoulder, he stays quiet.
—
MJ, he finds out when he arrives at the house with a bandage on his head after getting hit by a throwing star during a mission, reacts to injuries about as well as she’d reacted to their exhaustion, which is to say she immediately frowns, worries for a moment, and then starts trying to take care of him.
He steps out of the portal being supported by Peter, still a little woozy from the meds that Lyla and Margo gave him, and when MJ hears it, she comes rushing out to meet them. She has a big smile on her face, but as soon as she sees the bandage, her eyebrows raise impossibly high and her mouth twists in displeasure.
“What did you do?” She demands.
“Hi MJ,” he says instead, trying for a weak smile.
It does nothing to help the situation— if anything, it deepens her frown. “Miguel. What happened?”
“I’m fine,” he insists.
“Mm, I don’t know about that,” Peter hums in disagreement, and Miguel flicks him lightly. It doesn’t stop Peter from explaining to MJ, “We were fighting this group of… I guess ninjas? I don’t know exactly, but they were anomalies and he took a throwing star to the forehead trying to get a civilian out of the way. He’s fine, he’s mostly just still messed up from the drugs.”
MJ closes her eyes. Inhales deeply. Opens them again and starts to say, “Miguel O’Ha— Actually, no. Miguel, what’s your full name?”
Were it not for the meds, Miguel probably would have cut out his middle name. As it is, though, he says smoothly, “Miguel Javier O’Hara Gutiérrez.” He’s greeted by silence, MJ and Peter both staring at him, and he frowns. “What?”
“No way,” Peter says, sounding dazed. “I’m dating two MJ’s.”
Miguel supposes that’s true, but had never really thought of it that way. Mostly because, as he says to Peter, “No one calls me that. No one has ever called me that.”
MJ pinches her brow and sighs deeply. “Just… Just sit down, Miguel, you look like you need rest.”
He does as told, tugging Peter down with him because his head is still a little foggy and he wants him close by, while MJ runs into the kitchen. Peter exhales a little from the force with which he hits the couch, but doesn’t complain— he just wraps an arm around Miguel’s shoulders and leans into him.
“You’re sure you’re doing okay?”
Miguel rolls his eyes. “You’re a mother hen, you know that? I told you, I’m fine. I’m just woozy.”
Peter raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I bet. I watched Lyla and Margo give you the good stuff.”
MJ returns then with a glass of water, which she shoves at Miguel. “Here. It’ll help the woozy.”
“Thank you.” He looks up at her as he accepts it, and decides, suddenly, that having Peter next to him is nice, but it isn’t enough. He wants to sit with her, too. Before MJ can walk away again, he grabs her wrist lightly and looks up at her. “Sit with us?”
She smiles slightly, even as she says, “I haven’t started dinner yet—”
“We can just order takeout or something,” Peter waves a hand. “Are you really going to ignore the wish of an injured man?”
Miguel rolls his eyes, and MJ laughs under her breath. “Oh, alright. Fine.”
And then she sits, leaning into Miguel’s other side, and it’s— it’s really nice, being sandwiched between his two favorite people, the two people he loves most.
He sighs, content to just sit here with them, Peter’s arm around his shoulders and MJ playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, warm and quiet and—
“Nothing beats this,” Peter sighs. “Just chilling with my MJ’s—”
“Don’t call me that,” Miguel interrupts at the same time as MJ says, “Be quiet, Peter.”
“...Yeah, okay.”
—
“Are you ever going to tell them?” Lyla asks him, popping into existence with a shower of orange sparkles. “Because watching you pine is getting really old.”
He wants to feign ignorance, but considering that his desktop is currently being taken up by a picture he took of Peter, MJ, and Mayday dozing on the couch together, and he was staring at it when she appeared, he’s not really in a position to do that.
“I’m going to,” he says instead, poking her hologram with a single finger just to bug her. “Just… Not yet.”
“Literally why? I mean it made sense when you were scared you were going to break their universe, cause woof. But the timeline is fine and has been for weeks, and you still haven’t made a move. It’s annoying.”
“I don’t know. I just… Haven’t.”
Lyla stares at him for a few long seconds, flickers through several positions, and finally settles in front of him with her arms crossed. “Pussy.”
“What— Why would you say that?”
“Because you’re being one.”
Miguel briefly contemplates rebooting her programming. “No, I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
“I am not! I simply like how things are now.”
“Yeah, but think about how much better things will be after! Hand holding, and kissing, and spending the night together, and fu—”
“Okay, I get it!” He interrupts. “You can stop now.”
She shrugs. “I’m just saying! You could be making the most of your time right now, but instead you’re dragging your feet for reasons I don’t think you even understand.”
“...I’m going to reboot you.”
“That won’t change the fact that I’m right,” she says. Then, before he can respond, she disappears, this time with an explosion of pixelated orange hearts.
“Subtle,” he retorts. Then he sighs. “You’ve got a point though. Soon, okay?”
She just texts him another orange heart.
—
In the end, he gets his opportunity a week later.
It’s movie night, something they started doing a while ago when Miguel started searching for ways to stay longer and decided the stack of movies by the television was as good a place to start as any.
They’ve worked their way through quite a few of them at this point, huddled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, a bottle of wine, MJ’s legs across Miguel and Peter’s laps, and Mayday leaned against whoever’s chest she chooses for the night.
Tonight, Mayday had chosen him— she’d picked him even before dinner, actually, and had screamed so much when he tried to put her in her high chair that he’d eaten with her on his lap— and the four of them had settled into the couch to watch Peter’s pick.
Naturally, it’s Star Wars, because no matter the universe, Peter Parker is a Star Wars fan.
It’s… it’s okay. Miguel prefers chick flicks himself, a consequence of having lived with a tween daughter, but at least it’s the first one in the original trilogy— the plot’s a little different, universe to universe, but the first one being the best is a constant.
They’re halfway through the movie, right as they discover the moon that’s not a moon— “It’s a space station”— when Miguel notices Mayday has fallen asleep, her head tilted back on his shoulder and her mouth hanging open.
He chuckles under his breath and nudges Peter. “May fell asleep.”
Peter grins, cooing under his breath. “Now that’s just precious. Sweetheart, you gotta see this.”
MJ, ever the responsible movie watcher, hits pause. With a wry smile she says, “I’m looking right at it, Tiger. And it is indeed pretty precious. We should probably get her to bed, though, it’s starting to get late. Do you want me to take her?”
“No,” Miguel says, shifting so that he’s holding her carefully, “I got it. No point in disrupting her.”
MJ slides her legs off his lap and he stands up fluidly, thankful that Mayday’s a sound sleeper, then heads upstairs.
He gets her settled in her crib easily, smiling when she reaches for the red and blue stuffed cat that Peter knitted for her. Once she stops moving as much, he tucks her blanket around her. She’ll no doubt wiggle herself free of it eventually, but for now she just lets out a content sigh and snuggles into it.
“Que sueñes con los angelitos,” he whispers, and brushes the gentlest of kisses against her forehead before he straightens up.
When he turns, MJ is leaning in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself and a serene smile on her face. Miguel’s breath catches a little at the sight of it, that wondrous smile that he’s privileged enough to see.
Ever conscious of Mayday sleeping, they both wait until he’s out of the room and the door’s shut to speak.
“Sorry to crash your moment,” MJ says. “I was coming up to change into my pajamas and couldn’t help myself. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of watching you two together… She loves you, you know that?”
He glances back at her door and smiles helplessly. “I love her,” he says simply. “I know she’s gonna be a pain in the ass once she grows up and starts wanting to go on missions, but right now? She’s a good kid.”
“Miraculously, despite all the bad habits Peter is teaching her,” MJ jokes, and Miguel laughs.
“Well, that’s why she has you. To teach her how to be reasonable.”
MJ takes his hand in hers. “And you.”
He can’t stop the lump of emotion that lodges itself in his throat at the sincerity in her voice. There’s a certain weight to it, an acknowledgement of this thing between them, an implication that he’s going to be sticking around for a while. He’s going to be a part of their lives.
It’s— it’s overwhelming, and his heart is overflowing with love, and there’s a million things he wants to do. He wants to kiss MJ, hold her close and make sure she knows how he feels about her. He wants to rush to Peter and cup his face in his hands and tell him that he owes Peter everything for giving him this, for sharing this with him, for loving him fiercely and loudly and unapologetically. He wants to go back into Mayday's room and watch over her, listen to her soft breathing and smooth back her wild hair. He wants to tell them all just how much this family means to him, and that there’s nothing he won’t do to keep them safe, and that he owes them everything for reminding him just what home feels like.
He does none of that, though, frozen in place by MJ’s words.
She takes pity on him and squeezes his hand with a soft smile. “Go back downstairs. Peter and I are just changing into comfy clothes, and then we’ll be right there.”
“Yeah,” he says weakly. “Sounds good.”
He walks downstairs in a daze and pauses in the living room, taking everything in; the blankets discarded on the couch, the empty bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, the movie paused on the television, the dimmed lights.
He thinks of all those months ago when he was so nervous of fucking everything up that he couldn’t even pick an outfit. When he had no idea what this place, these people, would come to mean to him.
Without thinking, his feet carry him over to the wall where the photo of him and Mayday hangs.
He gets sidetracked, though, before he can really look at it.
Because he’s spent hours staring at these walls at this point, looking at every single photo that hangs on them, soaking in every ounce of Peter, MJ, Mayday, and their life that he can. He knows each and every photo at this point, exactly where they hang and exactly what they’re of.
And so he notices the difference immediately— Peter has swapped another photo.
Gone is the photo of the sprawling mass of New York as seen from the top of the Empire State Building, which Miguel has come to learn was one of the first photos Peter took after becoming Spiderman.
In its place is—
Is a photo of MJ and Miguel, dancing together in the kitchen. They’re pressed close together, one of Miguel’s hands flat on the small of MJ’s back while hers is on his shoulder, their other hands clasped together. She’s laughing, her eyes shut and her head thrown back, and Miguel can hear it ringing in his ears, that bubbly, infectious laugh. Miguel is watching her, meanwhile, and he looks soft and besotted and— and utterly in love, really. He’s gazing at her as if he’s never seen anything more beautiful, as if there’s never been anything as wonderful as the sight of Mary Jane Watson-Parker laughing in his arms.
And they’ve danced in the kitchen many times to a lot of different songs, at this point, but he remembers this moment distinctly. Remembers the slip of the tile underneath his socks, MJ singing along, being unable to think about anything other than what it would be like to kiss her.
He hears soft footsteps coming down the stairs, ones he’s long since come to know as MJ’s, but he doesn’t move.
He’s run from this long enough.
She meets him where he stands, sliding her palm up his shoulder blade before dropping it back to her side, and lets out a soft laugh when she sees what he’s looking at. “That was a good night, huh?”
“Yeah, it really was. I almost burned the meat.”
“Eh, you salvaged it okay,” she teases. After a moment, she adds thoughtfully, “It’s funny. I remember dancing, and I remember singing along, but I don’t actually remember what song I was singing along too.”
“Me neither,” he says. Takes a breath. Turns his head to look at her. “I was too busy thinking about how badly I wanted to kiss you.”
She turns to him with a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “And I was too busy thinking about how badly I wished you would.”
He laughs under his breath. “Sorry for not granting it. It was a missed opportunity.”
“Not missed forever, though. I mean, nothing says you can’t grant it now.”
He pushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear, then gently brushes his knuckles across her cheek. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough, Miguel. Kiss me.”
He’s smiling when he kisses her.
He means to be gentle, wanting to be careful with his fangs, and it is, for a time. It’s soft and sweet and tender, a welcome home and a finally all at once.
And then MJ lets out a broken noise, the sound of someone finally getting what they’ve wanted for so long, and she knots her fingers in his shirt to tug him closer. She kisses him deep, a little more demanding, a little more biting, a little more pressing, and—
And Miguel is lost in it, in the way she tastes like mint toothpaste and vanilla chapstick, the line of her body against his, how her waist fits so nicely in his palms, how she still has her hands tangled in his shirt to hold him close to her.
They continue until Miguel’s lungs are burning and he has to force himself away from her to catch his breath. MJ’s chest is heaving as well, and she untangles her hands from his shirt to smooth out the wrinkles with her palms.
Miguel can only stare at her in wonder.
With her lips a shade darker from their kiss, and her cheeks flushed pink, and her eyes glittering with happiness— she’s beautiful.
“I love you,” he says, needing to tell her what he’s been feeling for so long now. “I love you, and this family, and this life we have together. I don’t ever want to lose it.”
“Good.” She goes up on her tiptoes to kiss him quickly. “I wasn’t planning on letting you go any time soon. I love you far too much to do that.”
He tugs her in for a hug and says honestly, “I am sorry for making you wait so long, by the way. I’ve been thinking of this as home for a long time, I just… I liked how things were, so I never said anything, even though I knew things could only get better if I did.”
She pulls back just enough to meet his gaze evenly. “You have nothing to apologize for, Miguel. I would have waited for you for as long as it took. Peter… Not so much,” she says frankly, and Miguel chuckles. “He was getting annoyed with you stalling.”
“Oh, I know. He kept raising his eyebrows at me whenever I hugged you. Not very subtle.”
“Of course not, he’s a dude who swings around in a blue and red su— Wait, are we talking about you or Peter? I forgot.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, I get it. I was super obvious.”
“Super,” she teases. “I knew exactly how you felt the whole time.”
Ordinarily he might be offended at being called out like that, but MJ kisses him right after so he’s not actually that upset.
They’re mid-kiss when they hear Peter come thundering about halfway down the stairs, then stop suddenly. MJ laughs into Miguel’s mouth.
“No way,” Peter says.
MJ breaks away to look at him and say smugly, “Yes way.”
Peter blinks once. Twice. Then breaks into an even wider grin than usual, which Miguel honestly didn’t know was possible, and rushes down the stairs to meet them. He throws himself at them, slamming into them with enough force that even Miguel staggers back a step, and hugs them tight.
“This,” he says into the space between MJ and Miguel, “is the best day of my life. I mean, seriously. My two favorite people, in love with not only me but also each other. It feels like a dream. Am I dreaming?”
“I don’t know,” MJ says slyly, and Miguel mentally braces himself for whatever she’s about to say to bring Peter back down to earth. “If it was a dream, would you owe me fifty bucks?”
It works like a charm; Peter lets go of them and grumbles, “Ah fuck, I forgot.”
Miguel is too busy sighing to appreciate his reaction, though. “You bet on me again? And for fifty dollars this time?”
“You’re expensive, lover, what can I say?” MJ shrugs unapologetically.
He tips his head back to look up at the ceiling. “Do I even want to know what the bet was?”
“Same as last time, babe,” Peter says sheepishly. “But we swapped. I thought you’d fess up eventually, but MJ said it would take another romantic gesture on our end. I guess she learned from her mistake.”
He huffs. “Am I really that predictable?”
“Yes,” they say together.
“…Fair.”
“It’s okay, though,” MJ pats his cheek.
“We love you anyway,” Peter tags on, smacking a wet kiss to his other one.
He snorts, shoving them away. “Okay, that’s enough, you two. Should we finish this movie, or what?”
“In a second,” MJ says, and tugs Peter in for a long kiss. Then she does the same to Miguel. When she pulls away, she smiles softly. “Now we can finish the movie.”
She heads for the couch, but Peter snags Miguel by the waist before he can follow. “Not bad for the guy who was worried he’d fuck it all up, huh?”
“No,” Miguel grins. He kisses Peter the same way MJ had kissed them, slow and sweet. “Not bad at all.”
“Hey, lovebirds!” MJ calls over her shoulder. “Are you two going to join me, or what?”
“We’re coming, hold your horses,” Peter mutters. “Honestly, woman, you just kissed him for like ten minutes. I wanted a turn.”
“It was not ten minutes,” MJ rolls her eyes.
“Listen, I’m already out fifty bucks, can't you just let me have this one thing?”
“C’mon, you know me better than that, Tiger.”
Miguel settles into the couch with a fond smile as they bicker, and MJ buries her toes under his thigh while Peter throws an arm around his shoulders, and they hit play, and he thinks—
It’s good to be home.