"You almost died!" you were trying not to raise your voice, you were, but you could hear it tremble with anger.
Hurt. Fear.
Miguel O'Hara had never been one to care for his own safety, you had learned that a long time ago. The man had a penchant for throwing himself headfirst into dangerous situations, always for some greater good.
You knew why, of course you did. He had an unparalleled sense of justice, a need to help others, even if it meant sacrificing himself.
It was part of the reason you fell for him.
But this? This was a new level, even for him. He had barely managed to make it through the door when he showed up at your apartment a battered, bleeding, broken, mess— and all for what?
"Y/N, it's not—" Miguel tried, but you cut him off.
"Like hell it's not that bad! Look at you! And you expect me to just stitch you up and not make a big deal out of it?"
Sure, Miguel looked better than he had before you treated him, but you had spent hours desperately trying to patch him back together, hours with tears stinging your eyes, hours with fear choking you, hours wishing that you could've done more.
What were you supposed to do if he didn't wake up?
He was silent, laying in the faux hospital bed you had set up in the spare bedroom of your apartment. You didn't look at him, you couldn't, because you knew that if you did, you would break down all over again.
You busied your hands sterilizing your equipment for the ten billionth time, as if you hadn't already, trying to ignore the way they were trembling.
Never would you have guessed that being in your final year of med school would include running an emergency room out of your little Brooklyn apartment, but here you were.
You were the only person Miguel trusted, the only one who would patch him up without asking too many questions. At first, you had found it surprising that healing injured superheroes wasn't on the top of the list of federal priorities, but as the time passed, you began to understand.
There was a big difference between being a superhero and being a vigilante.
Being a superhero was sanctioned by the government, it was a job, a full-time occupation. Being a superhero meant you were an officer of the law, working for a federal department.
Being a vigilante, on the other hand, was being a criminal.
Being a vigilante meant doing the dirty work the "real superheroes" couldn't. Being a vigilante meant doing it all without a license. It meant doing it without any government oversight and there was nothing that scared the government more than not being in complete control.
And Miguel was most certainly a vigilante.
Which meant, by the standards of the law, he was a criminal.
And you were a wanted criminal's primary care physician.
You heard a soft sigh and the rustle of fabric.
"I'm sorry for scaring you."
A humorless laugh of disbelief slipped from your lips, "Scaring me?" you turned back to face him, unable to stop the angry tears that welled up in your eyes, "Miguel, I was terrified!"
"Y/N, please—"
"No," you interrupted him, voice harsh, "If you died it would have been my fucking fault for not being able to save you!"
The words hung heavy in the air, your chest heaving with the effort of trying to keep yourself together. For a moment, Miguel looked like you had slapped him, the realization of what this was really about finally dawning on him.
You felt silly, suddenly, standing there with your pajamas covered in splotches of dried blood. His blood. The evidence of how close you came to losing him. What had you been thinking agreeing to do this? You weren't a medical professional, for fuck's sake, and you had no business trying to act like one.
And yet, here you were. A useless fucking med student playing doctor to a man with an eternal death wish.
"Y/N..." Miguel's voice was soft, careful, as if he was afraid he would only scare you more.
"I can't lose you," the words were small, quiet, but you knew he had heard them, "If I can't save you, I'm as good as killing you myself."
Miguel was quiet, his brown eyes watching you carefully, gauging your reaction. He was silent for a few moments longer, before finally speaking, "Come here."
His arms were outstretched, inviting you into his embrace, and despite yourself, you felt your feet moving, taking you closer. He pulled you in the rest of the way, and you couldn't stop the sob that tore from your chest. You clung to him, trying to be careful not to aggravate his injuries but needing to be closer, to reassure yourself that he was okay.
He was here. He was safe.
He was holding you.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent, feeling his skin against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat.
He was alive.
"Please," you whispered against Miguel's neck, "don't ever do that to me again."
His hand carded through your hair, "I can't make that promise," his voice was just as soft, just as careful.
You knew that. You knew it better than anyone. And you knew that this would be a never-ending argument.
Miguel had been lucky this time, but you didn't know how much longer his luck would last. He had always been prepared for the possibility of death, but you were not. You had deluded yourself into thinking you could live like this, that you could keep up the charade of normalcy, of peace. Deep down, you had known all along that there was no happy ending waiting for you, that there was no perfect little domestic life in your future. Not with Miguel. But, God, you wished that things were different. Maybe that was why you cried so hard when he pressed kisses into your hair, whispering soft apologies and promises he would never keep.
Was it too much to ask for you to have met Miguel under normal circumstances? For him to ask you for a pencil during a biomechanics lecture? Or maybe he could be a handsome regular at the cafe you worked at? Anything but you finding him in the alley next to your apartment desperately needing medical attention.
Anything but the mess of a life you were currently living.
"I love you, Mi," your voice was muffled, pressed into his shoulder, "you stupid reckless son of a bitch."
A quite huff of laughter escaped Miguel and his grip tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. You let him hold you, let yourself melt against him, because you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Miguel was going to continue to put himself in harm's way, no matter what you asked.
Because this was the man you loved.
The man who cared more about others than he did about himself.
The man who sacrificed his own wellbeing, his own happiness, for the greater good.
It was who he was.
And you would always fix him, because it was who you were:
A fool that was madly in love with a self-sacrificial idiot.