2
—
“Holy shit.” Miles stares at the Spider-Man cup in his hand, holding it up to the light and then turning it at all possible angles, admiring it with wide, glassy eyes. “Where did you get this?
Miguel eyes him, feeling amusement blossom in his chest, unbidden. “It’s a boba drink. You’re Spider-Man. There’s going to be merchandise.”
Miles puffs out his chest with mock disgruntlement, shaking his head mournfully. “They didn’t even ask me first! Where is my money ?! Fuck this.”
Miguel looks on, feeling a grin twitch at his lips. “At least the boba is good.”
Miles whirls, pointing an accusatory finger at him, sticking his tongue out. “That was a test. You were supposed to say language! You fake adult!”
“You want me to get you in trouble?”
“Bad influence!”
“Never said I was a good one.”
They share a quiet laugh, lapsing into a comfortable silence broken only by Miles’s noisy munching of his drink. Miguel ignores his dad-instinct yammering at him in the back of his mind to tell Miles to eat quieter; he’s a guest here. Miles can do whatever he wants.
Miguel casts an appraising glance around, spinning in a slow circle where he’s standing and avoiding bumping his head into the ceiling. There’s so many art pieces and posters and little things of what a teen would obsess over, stray headphones cast on the bed sheets behind Miles and graffiti cans on his desk.
He’d never thought he’d be here, casually bantering with someone he’d been ravenously hunting down just a few months ago.
It all screams Miles; he’s appalled that he’d ever thought that he wanted to take such a fitting home and life away from him.
“You can sit down, y’know,” Miles adds around a mouthful of boba, following his gaze. “You’re too tall to be doing that. Sit.” He jerks his head towards the spinny-chair at his desk.
“Ah…” Miguel glances at the chair, eyes trailing up towards the desk full of intricate pieces of artwork. “You sure?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t want to sit down if you don’t want me t—“
“Jesus, sit.”
Miguel sits.
The chair, surprisingly, doesn’t creak at first contact. He gives it an appreciative glance, shifting to better support himself, setting his own boba drink on the floor at his feet. He doesn’t want it to thaw on Miles’s art pieces.
He doesn’t feel like the adult here. He can’t bring it in himself to care; the easygoing conversation is enough. “Okay, okay.”
Miles huffs a little, tipping his drink in a gesture at him. “Finally. You’re stubborn.” In a way that is very much meant to annoy him, Miles sips loudly, chewing like a newborn child’s first meal.
Miguel rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t feel as irritated as the act suggests. “You’re one to talk.”
And…that brings about remembering why he came here in the first place. He swallows.
Miles, sensing the shift in the air, turns to face him a little better. He gnaws on the straw of his drink, tapping the sides absentmindedly. Almost as an afterthought, he points a finger at Miguel, and, voice muffled by the boba, says, “Y’ hafen’ tried yours yef.”
Miguel blinks, caught off-guard, train of thought stalling. “My…oh.” He eyes the drink on the floor where he left it. “Yeah, uh. I’m not hungry.”
“It’s boba. You drink it as a snack. Not as lunch.”
“No, what I meant was…” Jesus, this kid. “I’m not really in the mood to eat or drink anything.”
This earns him a raised eyebrow. Miguel braces himself, preparing for an onslaught of personal questions—like Gabriella, he was a curious kid, the type to be nosy as hell—but all he asks is, “What flavor?”
Miguel blinks, taken off guard yet again. What is with Miles and these random questions? “Just the classic.”
Miles tilts his head. “Classic sucks. Of all flavors? Seriously?”
“Hey, I got you a classic!”
“ That’s understandable. It’s better to go safe than get a flavor you’re not sure I’ll like.” He leans back, taking a second to drink. “But you could’ve gotten any flavor you wanted. You know yourself best, no?”
“I—“ Of all arguments, really? Miguel’s about to voice his thoughts before the last of Miles’s words register.
He falters.
Miles peers at him questioningly. “Somethin’ happen? You good?”
“No. “Yes. I…” Miguel sighs, running a hand through his hair. Damn, he hasn’t washed his hair in a while. He should soon. “I’ve never really…explored any other flavors. Um. Classic’s the only one I’ve ever tried.”
Gabriella had always gotten the classic milk tea. It didn’t matter the boba shop; it was always the same flavor, every single time. It had become a kind of thing for the two of them, a little something that they had to themselves, a grin that they shared at the mention of it.
Miguel feels an unexpected, sharp lump form in his throat, and he nearly curses himself out. Seriously? Getting set off by a teenager? By a little conversation about boba?
He’s faced monster-like-men, men-like-monsters, all hungry for his death, and—he’d never cried . Never . Always gotten up, a wound in the chest, a tear through the stomach—nothing a little will couldn’t heal.
And now—
Really. Boba.
Miles is watching him, carefully. Very carefully. The kid’s not great at hiding his emotions; they’re written on his face and welling in his eyes like words on a page.
Curiosity. Surprise. Wariness.
Worry. Care. Compassion.
For a second, Miguel feels a little touched at the sentiment towards him.
Then his eyes sharpen.
Don’t ask me if I’m okay. Don’t say it’s okay.
It’s not.
“You wanna talk about it?” Miles asks, voice quiet.
Miguel stills. That’s…not what he thought he was going to ask.
It’s not what most people ask.
The question’s actually…better, in Miguel’s honest opinion, he realizes.
Seriously. Too many people gave him a look somehow brimming with pity, asking are you okay?, telling him it’s okay, you’re okay, everything’s gonna get better soon.
Those bitches. They could be standing over his rotting body and tell him he’s fine, all with that emotion in their eyes that tells Miguel that it’s not going to be fine.
How can you have the audacity to tell someone they’re fucking fine, expecting them to believe you, when you don’t even believe in your words yourself?
Pretty words. Pretty lies.
Pity dressed up as something worthy of being swallowed down.
“I…” Miguel stalls. He blinks, mind sluggish, and suddenly remembers where he is and who he’s talking to.
He draws back. His eyes flicker. His emotion is shut from his face.
Jesus Christ, Miguel is the one that’s supposed to be comforting Miles.
“ No!” Miguel snaps, eyes flashing red, baring his teeth more aggressively than he intended. “I’m okay!”
Miles pulls away, startled. Miguel realizes that the teen had gotten closer, in a serious attempt to reassure him.
Miguel gapes, reeling, gaze flickering. Immediately, shame comes rushing to his cheeks, and he feels like he’s shrinking, physically and emotionally. He stops, shoulders stiff, eyes wide. “Oh, shit. Miles, I…”
Miles blinks. There’s a moment when there’s nothing in the air but weighed silence.
Then, tentatively, Miles shrugs. “Language, Miguel.”
Is he really trying to— “Miles, you have gotta stop with the jokes,” Miguel says faintly, but soft enough so Miles knows that he’s not really trying to reprimand him. He shakes his head, looking away. “I’m sorry, Miles.”
“Hey, no hard feelings.” Miles shakes his head. “You seemed a little…outta it. It was my fault for prying.”
This—This kid. “Miles, it’s not your fault. Stop it.”
“Yeah, but, like—“
“ Miles.”
Miles closes his mouth.
Okay. Miguel runs a hand through his hair. Enough beating around the bush. Miguel has to do something.
“Miles.” Miles looks up at him. Miguel pauses, then sighs, dropping his hand to clench at his side.
“You know,” he starts, gaze wandering. Jesus, he’s not good at this stuff. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s apologized for something; he’s always gotten angry and stormed off or clawed himself to the top of the argument.
Miles tips his head. “I know?”
Miguel falters. Miles blinks, eyes flashing gold in the dim lighting.
Like Gabriella’s.
“I’m sorry,” Miguel blurts. He can’t bear to look at Miles anymore, with that piercing gaze so soft, so innocent, so much like his daughter’s that it makes his heart ache.
Miles is so similar to her, in more than one way.
Swinging high in the air, roaring loud with disgust and rage and desperation, flinging a web that’s so sloppily aimed that it nearly hits a civilian on the road.
Just narrowly, so narrowly, it hits Miles on the arm. He hears him yell out something frantic and incoherent, stolen by the wind whistling wild in Miguel’s ears, Miles thrown violently off-course; the web that Miles had desperately tried to shoot doesn’t land, and the teen tumbles and flails and falls.
He doesn’t go far, anyway. Miguel launches another web at him, catching him in the chest, seizing the string in a sharp-tipped claw, clenching his hand around it, using it like a rope to hurl himself at his target:
Miles.
They go flying. Wood splinters and concrete cracks, bursts, digging into their backs, Miguel throwing them further into the building. Miles takes the brunt of it, and Miguel can tell it hit bad when the teen’s head snaps forward, lolling a little, eyelids fluttering and gaze going glassy.
Miguel, lost in a haze of rage, doesn’t let up, baring his teeth as he checks him over. If he’s unconscious, then they can bring him back and lock him u—
“ Dad,” Miles slurs. Miguel freezes.
Dad.
“My dad,” Miles mutters, blinking a little. The illusion snaps. “ I need to…” He squeezes his eyes shut, like talking is giving him a headache. “ Save…my dad.”
Miguel feels shards of annoyance dig into his chest, so hard that his eyes flash red. His claws tighten against Miles’s chest in warning; not enough to pierce skin, but enough to be taken seriously. “ Give it up. You aren’t getting your dad back.”
The words seem to hit a nerve more than the pricks of pain do. Miles flinches, briefly, before his lips turn downward into a faint but hard scowl. Though his head tilts down at his head wound, he beats at Miguel’s hand, refusing to give up. “ Yes, I am.”
“ No, you’re not!” Miguel snaps. Miles takes a few long seconds to collect himself, and Miguel wonders just how severe his wound is.
Well. He did just slam him into a building. Probably pretty bad.
All for the better. Their tech can patch up even the worst wounds; it won’t do any permanent damage. If Miles momentarily blacks out, good.
“ Jesus Christ,” Miles mumbles tiredly, eyebrows drawn together, fingernails digging into Miguel’s hand. “ Who hurt you?”
Miguel, in all his anger, does not understand, and does not care to understand. Eyes narrowed, he snarls, “ What?”
“You’re always so—“ Miles pants a little, eyes unfocusing—“fucking”—his words slur—“ angry. Did you—wouldn’t you…”
His eyes flicker, and his mouth opens, and he’s clearly struggling to speak. “ Wouldn’t you at least… try to save—someone-youu— love?”
“ No,” Miguel seethes. This conversation is getting too lengthy; it’s making his skin crawl. “ Nothing is worth the lives of the multiverse.”
Miles’s head tips forward. It droops heavily against his chest, too tired to keep it up. Blood trickles from the side of his head. “ You…don’t you have anyone? You…you had someone to-love. Right?”
Miguel freezes.
He blinks. His eyes flicker between red and brown, fury warring with a sudden wash of unresolved sorrow.
He never really did get over Gabriella’s death. And now—someone is using it against him.
“You—“ Miguel swallows past the ash in his throat. “ You have no right to talk about—no single person is worth the safety of the—“
“ Aren’t I an anomaly?” Miles’s voice has taken on a sudden urgency, and it takes Miguel by surprise. Miles scrunches his forehead, like he’s trying to ease a headache. “ Why hasn’t my-universe…been destroyed?”
“ Wha—“
“You said that I was-an-anomalyyy.” Miles cracks an eye open, peering at him, pain dulling his gaze. Miguel can’t tell if it’s physically or mentally. Both, he thinks this question may prove. “ You said I— if anomalies make a universe fall, why am I still here?”
Miguel suddenly catches on. “ Look—sometimes, the universe is destroyed. Sometimes, we—sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes we can patch it up. And it’s not worth risking the chance.”
“ T…try…” Miles peers at him, hand wrapped tight around the claw at his chest. “ Wouldn’t you…” Another sluggish fit of blinking. “ Yuh’ tone is differen’ now. Somethin’…I-mentioned.”
“What are you—“
He hums, thoughtfully, gaze drifting, a little glazed, very much dazed. He honestly looks like he’s falling asleep. “ Ahmm’…hm mrrrr….” There’s a good second where Miles is silent, and Miguel thinks he’s gone unconscious.
Then his eyes open again, fixing on Miguel. “ It wuh’ th’ thing about…loved. Loved-one. Yeah…”
Miguel freezes.
“ Y’ had a lov…ed one. Wouldn’t-you try…for your loved one? Jes’hs, I’m…tired.”
Miguel swears, pressing his claw deeper against Miles’s chest, anger a sudden rush back to his face. Miles squeaks, scrabbling at his hand, sluggishly trying to wriggle away but to no avail.
“ No, I don’t. I wouldn’t. I have no one,” Miguel hisses past the lump in his throat. “ I had no—“
“Y’—daughter.”
Miguel goes still.
“It wuh’ her, wasn’ it?” Miles murmurs. “ You don’t…want what happened to h…happen t’ us.”
“Shut up.” Miguel’s heart is beating too fast. “ Shut up.”
“Y’ daughterr,” Miles slurs, sudden realization dawning in his disoriented eyes. He clutches at Miguel’s hands with a new gravity. “Yeah. Wouldn’t you-try…”
Before Miguel can flinch, something draws his attention. ‘ Miguel!’ His watch. Miguel startles, eyes zeroing in on the message floating in a hologram above his wrist, recognizing the contact as Jess’s. ‘ Hurry up.’
—Right. Miguel needs to take action, before any more damage is done to this universe—wherever they are. He needs to—
Somehow, some way, Miles’s gaze flickers, and for a second, just for a second, seems to focus. “ Miguel,” he says, and his eyes glint, bore into him—brown flashing gold. For a moment, Miguel is back in a different time, a different universe, looking at someone else.
Golden-brown eyes, innocent and sun-bright. Dad.
For a moment, Miguel’s heart, firm and cold and protected under heavy chains, doors locked twice, stutters.
“ If you were in my place, would you choose to save your daughter, Miguel?”
And, just for a moment, Miguel sees someone else beneath his grip. Miles disappears, and in his place is an image of Gabriella, just like how he remembers her except her golden eyes are wide with panic and sorrow and grief.
Afraid of him.
Miguel doesn’t remember the events afterward clearly. He just remembers his grip going slack with momentary shock—the slightest bit, not too much. He remembers the image of Gabriella disappearing, Miles’s annoying little friends, a portal opening wide with them stepping out of it, as he falters and stammers and, oh, shit, understands.
Like a shock of cold clarity, like water splashed onto his head or a bullet through the chest or betrayal or heartbreak.
He remembers his heart pounding, eyes wide, mind far away from the events around him and—
Miles’s allies, shooting enough webs at him for him to be forced to dodge, even as his thoughts are running wild and he can’t even tell what his body is doing because his heart doesn’t care. He remembers feeling like his heart was split open again, just like the first time, somehow the same and worse and better because nothing would ever begin to be able to replicate the pain, even as he runs and the rogues give chase.
And Miles. And Gabriella. And, yes, he knew the answer to Miles’s question, he knows .
Maybe he’s weak for giving in so easily. Maybe he’s not someone fit for holding the tight reins over the Spider-Society.
But, being here, now, talking with someone who has so much more humanity in him than Miguel himself, someone with such an open, hopeful future now that Miguel had backed off—he’d resign from his leadership to keep that safe.
“I—I made a mistake,” Miguel whispers, and his voice can’t go much higher because then he’ll burst into tears and he hasn’t cried since Gabriella’s death. “I’m so sorry.”
What a generic apology. What pretty words. Miguel looks down, feeling something well in his chest, his throat, his eyes. For a second, he panics; what’s happening? He doesn’t like it.
Wait.
Oh.
Tears.
Well. Fuck.
“Hey, man, it’s okay,” someone tries to reassure, but Miguel can’t see and can’t hear because he’s pressing his hands to his eyes and his head is rushing, pounding, and it’s not okay.
He’d made such a mistake. He’d been so cruel.
He imagines, for a second, how he would feel if someone was chasing him down for trying to save his daughter.
He tries to imagine how he would feel if someone was clawing at his daughter trying to save him, but he can’t, because it takes his breath and leaves him choking for air, pain flaring in his chest and his heart and his eyes and disbelief making him want to rip the skin off of whoever would dare chase down Gabriella.
How can he be sitting here, in this chair, in this home that he’d been so close to destroying just a few months ago? Reminiscing about his dead daughter with someone who doesn’t even know her name? How can he have the fucking audacity?
Acting all friendly with the kid he’d almost killed.
The thought hits home. Miguel stands suddenly, stumbling, narrowly missing the boba drink on the floor and—he lets out a high, disbelieving laugh.
How had he ever been bold enough, insensitive enough, to have been in the mind to buy some goddamn boba for the guy he’d been chasing? To come here and expect that, tomorrow, he and Miles would be on good terms?
The house, the warmth, the situation presses down on him, his head, his chest, his shoulders, enough to weigh him down, and he can’t think. His head is swimming, and what once was almost calming is too much, stealing his breath, jerking his limbs, realization crashing home.
This isn’t his house. This isn’t his family.
It isn’t his right to be here—
He isn’t bantering with his daughter.
Hell—Gabriella hadn’t even been his daughter in the first place.
Sluggish, he staggers towards the door, wide shoulders hitting the side of the frame. He can’t be here anymore. He can’t.
“Wait! Miguel!” There’s a voice, breaking just barely through his haze of panicpanicpanic, need to get out, need to leave, get to safety. Faintly, he hears the sound of footsteps hitting the floor behind him. It spurs his desire to just go.
But before he can lurch through the house, a hand clamps onto his shoulder, gentle and hesitant like the person doesn’t know how he’ll react, and ready to let go if need be. A small hand, soft, no calluses.
He stops.
“Wait, Dad! I’m almost ready!
The fog in his brain fades, but his throat tightens. There’s too much similarity to Gabriella that it makes his head spin.
The hand, after Miguel hasn’t reacted too terribly, turns him—with some difficulty, he’s tall—slowly around. He sees Miles’s gaze, meets those determined and unyielding eyes, and he knows that he won’t be able to weasel out of this one.
“Do you want to go?” Miles prompts, searching his face. “I don’t want to—to keep you here if you don’t want to be. Up to you.”
Miguel blinks, swallowing his excuses down, once again set off-balance. He’d been expecting…well. He doesn’t exactly know.
What happened? Why are you crying? Why do you always overreact?
None of that, surprisingly. Miguel releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding through his nose.
What a kind kid.
“I…” He couldn’t go. No matter how icky he feels.
He owes at least this to Miles.
“No.” Miguel grimaces, glancing distractedly back into the room, pressing the tip of his claws into his palm. The pain is grounding, just slightly. “I’m sorry—“
He sees Miles taking a brief glance at Miguel’s hand curled up into a tight fist, concern written all over his face. Not pity, though. “Don’t worry about it, man. Wanna go…back inside?” Quickly, he adds, “Unless my room’s making you, like, uncomfy, or something—we can go somewhere e—“
“Yes—no—I mean, yeah, we can go back in.” Miguel shakes his head, trying to rid it of his thoughts that are quickly turning into a pounding headache. That’s going to be annoying. “What I mean—Yes.”
Miles nods in quiet understanding, then turns, looking over his shoulder to check if Miguel is following.
Miles nods to Miguel’s boba, still left alone on the floor. “I was jus’ beefing earlier. The classic’s not that bad.” He quirks a crooked grin, eyeing Miguel in a silent apology that he doesn’t deserve. “Sorry for trashing on it earlier. Does it…” He huffs a little, shaking his head. “Sorry, I’m rambling. It’s stupid.”
“No,” Miguel interjects, finding his voice, though it’s rough and he has to swallow before speaking again. “It’s not stupid.”
Miles’s smile glows a little this time around, turning less I’m-kinda-guilty-and-smiling-as-an-apology and more yay . “Oh,” he says, relief in his voice.
Miguel wants to sit him down for a conversation and tell him over and over again to stop feeling guilty for no reason. He’s resisting the urge to bash his head against the wall, because he thinks that’ll bring about some degree of alarm, but damn, this kid.
He decides, finally, that he’s gonna need to do something about it.
He can’t let him get stepped all over. Not again.
“Look, Miles,” he starts, then hastily backtracks once Miles shoots him a wary once-over. Maybe not the best way to start a conversation about him apologizing. “Sorry—what I meant was, is, that…I want to say sorry.”
Miles blinks. Inclines his head a bit. “But…you already did?”
Miguel shoots him a questioning look. “Huh?”
“You said you were sorry. Two or three times, I think.”
Miguel stares at him, incredulous. “ That’s it? All it takes?”
Miles shrugs. “What? I could tell you were actually sorry. Dude, you literally choked up. I’ve never seen someone as…imposing as you almost burst into tears.”
Miguel flushes. “Oh. Sorry about that, too.” Oh, wait, did he come in here imposingly? “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You just apologized twice.”
“Yeah, because—“
Miles waves a little, vaguely. “Sit down. Drink your boba.”
Miguel sits. He picks up his drink.
Miles gently closes the door, eyeing it twice, checking to see if there’s any movement in the halls before clicking it shut. “Seriously, Miguel, it’s okay.”
Miguel notices distinctly that he doesn’t add on, I forgive you. He wonders if it’s intentional.
Still, Miguel doesn’t deserve anything. He’ll have to earn his forgiveness, his full forgiveness, over the course of…months. Years. Maybe he won’t earn all of it in his entire lifetime ; and that’s fine. He doesn’t deserve it.
If he can ease the hard feelings between them, just enough for Miles to feel comfortable—that’s okay. And if he doesn’t, then Miguel will do his best to…he doesn’t know. Do whatever makes Miles comfortable; whether it be leaving him alone or surrounding him with the friends he does feel safe with.
Whatever Miles needs, Miguel will offer.
Well—maybe Miguel has worked this out in his head, but he has to actually tell Miles his thoughts. Time to stop keeping his plans to himself. Time to stop being so close-minded.
Miguel tightens his fingers around his thawing paper cup, letting the cold seep into his skin and ground him. He reaches out his other hand, hesitantly. “Look, Miles, I—“
Distantly, he hears a little thud outside the room, out in the hall. He freezes.
Miles frowns, eyeing him a little suspiciously, slowly drinking from his boba. “Whuh?”
In a second, Miguel is on his feet. Miles startles, lowering his cup.
“Don’t you—“ Miguel hisses; his ears pricked, enhanced hearing drumming beneath his skin. “Your spidey-sense. Don’t you feel something outside? Enemy.” And then his mind shifts, and he’s out of his emotional vulnerability and sliding into his leadership role, cool and clear, cold clarity in his mind. “Do you have your suit here?”
Miles’s eyes flare with a sudden wash of panic, though he still looks puzzled. He glances at the door, alarmed. “Uh, no…? I don’t feel anything.” Still, a new hurry to his movements, he sets his boba on the floor; stands, looking on his guard, quickly starting towards his closet.
He opens it, grabbing his suit, shutting himself in the closet as he scrambles to put it on. It barely takes him a few seconds before he’s sliding open the door and stepping out, suited up and clawing his mask on. “Lemme put on my stuff. I don’t want—is this an enemy you know? Why don’t I…”
If anything, Miguel is kind of surprised and—maybe a little grateful—of how much Miles seems to trust him and his word, following before asking.
Then, squinting, it suddenly dawns on Miguel that he doesn’t have his suit.
Shit. He’s such an impulsive fuck to have not bothered with bringing it.
“Oh, wait.” Miles pauses. For a split, split second, relief blooms on his face, showing even through his mask. “I don’t feel the spidey-sense when it’s someone safe; it’s probably just my mom.”
They stand, looking at each other, calm on their faces, one in a Spider-Man suit and the other in casual, day-to-day clothes. And then it dawns.
“OH, SHIT .” Miles jerks, looking left and right, straight panic breaking across his masked face. “Oh, nonono, Miguel, we gotta—“
“Miles? Mijo?” The footsteps, that had gone distantly still in the moments they had conversed, begin to creak again against the floorboards. They curse, silently, in perfect unison.
Miles tears at the mask around his face, scrabbling to take the suit off, nearly ripping the fabric in his haste. Miguel looks around, because, fuck, did Miles not tell his parents in the past three months he’s had the chance? And—where does he even hide—he is not going to be able to fit under the bed—
The window! Miguel, impulsively, brain gone and the only thing driving him his fight or flight—all the spidey-sense he needs—dives for the window on the other side of the room.
The door clicks open. They freeze.
And in that moment, Miles still ripping at his suit, unmasked and hair wild, Miguel still in his frantic running position with arms suspended, look at each other, and think one thing.
We’re fucked.
The door creaks open. A woman, brown hair tousled and eyes tired, peeks her head into the room that’s suddenly gone silent. She stares for a long moment, expression unchanged, just…looking. Nothing seeming to register much, and Miles and Miguel are left with anxiety pounding in their hearts.
Then she blinks. Once, twice.
Her gaze flits to Miles, first. Then to Miguel. She seems to study them both, contemplating, thinking out her course of action—confront her son, or first deal with the stranger in said son’s room.
It takes barely a second for her to come to her decision. And her eyes sharpen.
Miles decides, split-second, will-probably-regret-later, to get a head start. “Mamà, I can exp—“
And Rio, who never curses, swings the door wide and pulls a blade from her pocket, stabbing it in Miguel’s direction. Her voice rises considerably. “Who are you?”
Miles falters in the face of his mother’s sudden, explosive anger, brain still loading about the fact that she didn’t automatically run him through first; instead going for someone else. Miguel cowers, too, face slack with surprise and frozen apprehension.
“What the hell is this?”