Malamente - Visscera - Spider-Man: Spider-Verse (Sony Animated Movies) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Augury

Chapter Text

Part I: Andante

The first time the canon converges, Miguel doesn’t see it coming.

How could he have? Every Spider-Man’s story is his own. Technically, the algorithm stated that it wasn’t possible.

And so, the first time a Spider-person’s death fulfills the canon event of another, Miguel doesn’t know what’s happening until he hears the scream. His watch beeps, signalling the detection of an inbound canon event; ASM-90. He dismisses it as a glitch. The Spider for the universe they’re in is back at HQ, on medical leave. He had returned from a mission with a fractured leg not ten minutes before the anomaly appeared in his own dimension. He’d sent them off with a wave.

“Good luck, guys! Give the anomaly my best.” He’d been chipper despite his injury, but irritated he couldn’t help protect his own dimension.

Hence, the team of four, Miguel included, had been dispatched to deal with the anomaly in his stead. The anomaly had appeared in an abandoned warehouse by the Hudson, and they’d portaled in before it could escape anywhere else. All things considered, it was a convenient location for a fight; there were no civilians to worry about. Everyone present hailed from a different dimension. There was another crucial detail; canon events are endemic to their own dimensions, without fail. Event ASM-90 for this universe’s canon had already been fulfilled, years ago. It had been before the Spider Society was even established. And there were no police captains in sight.

The anomaly is a carnage symbiote; blood-red, grotesque, and spitting with rage. Its ability to form massive blades from its skin at will is proving to be a huge problem. Miguel doesn’t know who the host is, but they’re fighting smart. They’re using their symbiote-blades to cut any webs the Spiders are using, effectively grounding them while making capture impossible. Miguel is having difficulty focusing, too. There’s a foul stench emanating from the creature, concentrated at its mouth where its teeth are stained iron-red and dripping with gore. It’s the smell of death and innards. The creature had been feeding before it got shot into the wrong dimension.

Miguel’s gizmo beeps again and he silences it. Damn thing chooses now of all times to malfunction for the first time?

Being the only one without a spider-sense, he doesn’t see it until it is much too late. The youngest Spider-Man on the team, a kid barely out of high school, has gotten too close to the symbiote. His spider-sense appears to alert him of the incoming threat, and he shoots a web up into the rafters to swing away. He would have had enough time to haul himself out of danger, if not for the red blade slicing through the webbing.

Time runs out.

The symbiote is on the young hero in an instant. He bats the boy to the side like a rag doll. The kid flies across the warehouse and hits the ground, hard . He rolls on impact, but clutches his leg with a groan the second he comes to a stop on the dirty concrete. Miguel can’t remember what the kid’s name is. He’s clutching his leg–it’s definitely broken. f*ck .

The symbiote glitches for a brief moment, roaring in pain. But it’s not enough of a diversion. It shakes itself off, and rounds on the young Spider-Man once more. Prone and bleeding on the floor, he must look like prey. He completely ignores the three other threats in the warehouse. The symbiote lunges for his target. The injured Spider tries, too late, to shoot off a web and pull himself out of the path of the rampaging anomaly. His web-shooters click with the hollow sounds of empty cartridges. Double f*ck .

The kid only stares, vulnerable and immobilized on the ground, as the blood-red symbiote closes in, a huge scythe-like blade forming from its grotesque skin. Miguel is too far away. The symbiote had smashed through one of the warehouse walls in order to trap him under the rubble. It’s only taken Miguel a minute to pull himself from under the wreckage, but it’s enough for the symbiote to have gained the upper hand. Jess emerges from the massive pile only a moment after him. Miguel hadn’t even seen her get caught in the cave-in. Her motorcycle isn’t with her; it must still be caught under the rubble. He and Jess rush for the monster just as something moves in his periphery.

A flash of blue arcs across the warehouse. It’s the fourth member of their squad, a middle-aged Peter with a sky-blue suit. He’s much closer to the symbiote than Jess and Miguel. He’s only a heartbeat faster than the symbiote; he dives in front of the creature at the last minute, pushing the younger man out of the way in a desperate maneuver. There isn’t enough time to attempt anything offensive. His leap was never meant to be anything more than a rescue.

The scream that rips from the kid’s chest is bone-chilling. It’s the involuntary kind of noise, primal and howling, that most people can go their whole lives without hearing–the kind that burns and tears as it emerges. His broken leg–probably the femur–is jostled as he is shoved from danger. It’s undoubtedly agonizing. He must hit the ground at the same time that the massive blade rips through Peter’s chest, because the sound that comes from the young Spider is like nothing Miguel’s heard before. He tries to rise to go to the other man, but collapses the second he gets up on his knees.

A cold, dead feeling spreads through Miguel’s chest. Barely seconds have passed, but it feels like eons. He snarls and throws himself at the symbiote, lashing it around the neck with his webs before pouncing atop its hulking shoulders. He uses a web to pull a loose cinder block toward him. He disregards the usual limits he places on his strength. The second it reaches his hand, he grasps it and brings it down as hard as he can on the back of the creature’s head. Its skull may as well have been styrofoam, it caves in so easily. Symbiote goo and brain matter splatter in every direction.

The foremost weakness about most Spider-People is their distinct moral code. Fight to capture, not to maim. Hold back so people, even bad people, don’t truly get hurt. And never, ever, kill.

Miguel believes in this ideology, for the most part. But someone is now dead on his watch. Carrying out his orders. He had no choice but to make sure that would never happen again. He’s aware that it’s a person inside the symbiote. But when all other options have been exhausted, sometimes there is only one way. The symbiote was fighting to kill. Resisting all of their attempts to capture it and healing from any damage instantly, their options were few. Only one thing could ensure it wouldn’t harm anyone else.

That doesn’t mean the reality of what Miguel has done isn’t harrowing. Doesn’t mean that he hasn’t just murdered someone with his own hands. He staggers away from the corpse. The symbiote withdraws from its host, leaving behind the body of a man, middle-aged with wild red hair. It’s impossible to tell what he really looks like; he only has half a skull left. Jess throws a trap at the wriggling red symbiote on the ground, halting its slow crawl away from Miguel.

He forces himself to turn away and check on the rest of his squad.

Peter had died instantly. Miguel supposes that it’s a mercy. The dead hero is lying in a massive puddle of blood on the floor, sliced open from shoulder to hip. Jess is trying to find his pulse, but it’s a pointless gesture. Her trembling hand slips off his neck and she shakes her head in defeat. There isn’t a Spider-Man alive with a healing factor that could have kept up with a wound like that.

The kids sobs echo around the room. He’s dragged himself to cradle Peter’s head in his hands, paying no mind to the dark, congealing blood seeping into his suit. Peter was a veteran Spider-man who’d had more experience than most. He was trustworthy and well-liked by the Society, always eager to offer help and a kind word. He and the kid– was his name James? –were known to be especially close.

James—no, Jamie —pulls Peter’s prone form closer to his chest. He starts rocking back and forth. The symbiote on the ground crawls along the walls of the glowing cage, looking for an exit and finding none. Without a host, it begins to suffocate. No one pays it any mind. Jamie’s gasping sobs are the only things Miguel can hear.

Miguel’s Gizmo beeps, and its piercing, shrill sound drives a spike of pain through his head.

CANON EVENT FULFILLED: EARTH-221-B.

The world tilts sideways. Jamie’s dimension is 221-B. Never before has a canon event for one universe been completed in another. Yet, the algorithm detects no canon divergence. No multidimensional splitting.

Miguel’s stomach drops to his feet. How could he have let this happen? The algorithm alerted him of an incoming canon event, and he ignored it. Silenced it like he was snoozing his morning alarm. What the f*ck was wrong with him?

A panic claws its way up his throat, and he resists the urge to punch through the nearest wall. Jess is on a call with someone, probably calling for aid. Who she’s talking to, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t register whoever it is that’s come through the portal beside him, stretcher in tow. Several spiders begin to load the dead man onto it, as if to take him to the med bay, useless as that will be. No one bothers to stop them, to tell them not to bother. No one speaks.

In the six years that the Spider-Society has been running under Miguel’s direction, not one Spider has died. Not until today.

. . .

Miguel staves off his breakdown until the doors of his lab slide shut.

“Lyla. Engage soundproofing.” His voice sounds clinical and soulless to his own ears.

She complies immediately, unusually silent. She dismisses all of the notifications popping up on his heads up display. Sassy as she usually is, she knows when it’s best not to push Miguel.

The first to go is the spare desk closest to the platform. He grabs it and hurls it into the far wall, claws scoring jagged marks into the surface. An old screen goes next. It was already broken anyways, it doesn’t matter.

He sees the huge symbiote blade cleave through Peter’s chest again. The sound had been sickening to hear, all cracking, snapping bones and the wet, sucking noise of lungs struggling around a massive chest wound.

He hears Jamie scream again.

Gabriella dissolves in his arms.

Miles stares up at him, wide eyed and struggling, blood welling up from the scratches on his shoulder.

“f*ck!”

The light of his screens are too much to bear. He doesn’t want to see any of the interdimensional data. He punches clean through the one nearest the edge of the platform. Rakes his claws down another. The third he grabs through the middle, tearing it in half like a sheet of paper.

He can see Peter’s broken spine through the gaping hole left across his torso. Jamie reaches for his mentor-

Gabriella dissolves in his arms-

Miles shrinks against the far side of the go home machine, away from him , breaths shallow and fast-

“Miguel, please!” Lyla’s harried voice cuts through his fugue. “You’ve torn into the power lines, you’ll electrocute yourself.”

He stops short, hands drawing through his hair instead. His claws are still out. He thinks he draws blood–he’s not sure, he doesn’t feel anything, aside from a wet droplet trickling down his scalp. He’s not sweating. He’s so cold he may be shivering. His fingertips have gone tingly. He huffs air through his clenched teeth.

“Explain. Walk me through the algorithm. Everything we have on this development. Now! ” He begins to pace back and forth.

Lyla scrambles to comply, flickering between the three remaining screens faster than her graphics can fully keep up with. Her heart-shaped sunglasses are gone.

“Okay, so…hmm, interesting. It seems like the canon is mutating. Or, more accurately, evolving. Before we made interdimensional contact, canon events were contained within their own universes as a rule. Probably just because it was the only possibility up until now. According to what the algorithm is reading, cross-dimensional canon events are now possible due to increasing contact between people from different dimensions.” Lyla’s flickering speeds up as she feeds though the new data.

Miguel rubs his eyes. How long has it been since he’s slept?

“So the canon is intact? The dimension we just left-–is it stable?”

Lyla nods. “Affirmative, boss. Jamie’s version of ASM-90 was fulfilled successfully. I’ll need more data, and it’ll take time to run through everything, but the algorithm is now suggesting that arachnohumanoid canon events can be fulfilled away from their host universe. Anywhere the Spider is, canon events are a possibility. In this case, Peter was the role model with the most impact on Jamie’s life and identity as a spider-man. Since both were in the same universe at the same time, canon had no trouble unfolding. Furthermore, it had no effect whatsoever on Earth 27609.”

Miguel’s head pounds. The lights are still too bright. When he looks away, the shapes of his screens are seared against the darkness of his eyelids. His teeth ache from how hard his jaw is clenched. “Page Jess…we need to brief her and figure out how to deal with…this development.”

Lyla flits away to comply. In the silence left in her wake, he opens up the file for Earth-1610. It’s near the top, under his ‘Last Visited’ tab. The status blinks up at him from the hologram: STABLE. It’s always stable. He doesn’t know why he keeps checking. Miles runs a tight ship.

Miguel O’hara considered himself to be a capable person, once. He doesn’t feel capable now. He’s exhausted, jumpy. He’s about ready to claw out of his own skin. The lights in his office are as low as they can be without being off entirely, so he flinches and squints at the sudden glow of light bursting in through the door when Jess enters.

She has to step over the debris of destroyed screens and unidentifiable machinery. Her brows furrow, and Miguel feels a pang of shame. He tries not to look at the mess he’s left in his frustration, hoping that she won’t comment on it if he pretends it’s not there. Jess isn’t usually one to allow people their bullsh*t, but she also has tact. She makes no comment.

She reaches the platform quickly. Miguel never raised it when he returned from the disastrous mission because, well…there were more things to break down on the ground level. It’s a monstrous effort not to flinch away when her hands take hold of his face, thumbs brushing across his sharp cheekbones. Kind as her hands are, they are firm as they push his head down to make eye contact with her.

Jess’ eyes narrow. Miguel is very sure he’s about to be in trouble–he sees something of his own mother in her gaze, and the shadow of the boy he used to be shuffles his small feet.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Her voice is firm. She probably already knows the answer.

His eyes slide to the side. “A while ago. It’s not important right now-”

“Don’t give me that sh*t. How long?” Her hands give his head a minute shake, forcing him to meet her eyes once more.

He deflates. “Three days, roughly.”

Her eyes soften some, shoulders dropping. “Get out of here, Miguel. I’ll deal with this. You, Jamie, and the emergency response team are being put on mandatory three-week leave, effective immediately.”

Miguel starts and pulls away. “I can’t, not until I figure out how we’re going to sort out explaining Peter’s death to his own universe.” He starts pacing again. “ Jesus, it’s not as if we can just drop him off somewhere, they’ll probably think we killed him-” He stops dead.

“Peter was married, wasn’t he?” Please tell me he wasn’t. Tell me he was alone, that I don’t have to tell someone their husband died because of me .

Jess only nods. “He was. We are handling it , Miguel. Someone has already been dispatched to talk to M.J. But as of right now, it’s no longer your responsibility. You’re going home. Now . And if you show up here before that time is up, I’ll kick your ass to kingdom come. Lyla will alert me the second you set foot on the premises.”

Ah. That means – “You’ve set off Lyla’s failsafes.” Jess’s voice is the gentlest he’s ever heard. Directed at him, at least. There’s an undercurrent of pity to it. It reminds him of how someone would speak to a spooked, cornered animal. Crooning and low. Miguel only nods and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t want to see her pity. He doesn’t deserve her concern.

After…Miles, and the Spot, Miguel coded a system lockout that would transfer full command to Jess when Miguel’s sleep patterns and mental state grew too dire. After the disaster of how he handled that particular situation, fraught with grief over Gabriella’s death not months before, Miguel made sure nothing like it could happen again. It had never been triggered to this extent before. Temporary breaks had been triggered, sure. But not a full lockout.

Lyla’s avatar reappears. “There’s a cab on its way for you, Miggy. You should probably change before heading down, though. Not unless you want to traumatize the driver.”

Miguel looks down, and feels sick. He’s drenched in blood and gore. The smell is pungent and overwhelming. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed it. He smells like death. It makes his head swim.

Jess gives him a nudge toward the door. She points an accusing finger at him. “Three weeks. Not a day earlier.”

“Alright, I’m going, I’m going.” He holds his hands up placatingly. “Can you just…have Lyla tell me if anything serious happens?”

“Mmhm. I’ll need the Gizmo as well.”

Miguel freezes. sh*t. He was hoping she wouldn’t ask for it. He’d probably seemed too willing to leave, too agreeable to the circ*mstances. He felt like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, trying to sneak away with every intention of carrying out missions while he ‘rested’.

He passes it over to her, looking pointedly past her head at the blank wall. She swipes it away.

“Stop pouting, big guy. It’s not cute. You’re about twenty years past being able to use puppy-dog eyes.” She scoffs. “ Jackass .”

The last comment is barely there and definitely not meant for him to hear. He rolls his eyes but relents. He’s worn too thin to put up more of a fight. He turns to leave but stops, throat welling with a choking, suffocating feeling he doesn’t like.

“Thanks, Jess…see you later.” He leaves before she can respond. He hopes she doesn’t know about the spare Gizmo he has at home.

If he has to run to the toilet to retch when he reaches an overnight room in the upper levels of Spider HQ, no one needs to know.

There’s nothing in his stomach, and the force of his dry heaving brings tears to his eyes. He has to sit on the floor by the sink for a few minutes until he can find the strength to heave himself back to his feet. The room blurs and tilts when he does-his vision goes slightly black around the edges.

He disables his suit and steps into the shower, washing himself methodically and efficiently. Desperate to get the scent of death and blood off his skin, he soaps himself down twice. He steps out and dries off, putting on whatever random set of spare clothes he had stashed in the apartment. He leaves the building in a daze.

Truth be told, he’s relieved to be back home once he closes the door of his place behind him.

He doesn’t bother undressing before falling into bed. His sleep is deep, murky, and dreamless. When he wakes, groggy and disoriented, late the next morning, the covers of the bed are still neatly tucked in beneath him.

Chapter 2: Catharsis

Chapter Text

Five years earlier.

The days that follow their defeat of the Spot are mostly a blur to Miles. What he recalls most is overwhelming relief. He’s almost ashamed of it. They’d ended up killing him in the end. Not on purpose, of course. Spider-Man doesn’t kill. The plan had been to revert him back to his original state by modifying an Alchemax collider. And it worked, flawlessly. He was ripped apart at the molecular level. Dissolved into atoms.

The Spot didn’t survive the process. It made Miles feel better to think about it that way. They didn’t kill him; he died.

We didn’t mean to .

Miles supposed that distilling all the power out of an interdimensional being would do that. He didn’t pretend to understand the science behind it. The plan was built on a hunch in the first place; no one had been operating with any degree of certainty. All they had were Lyla’s projections and the wobbly reassurance of a 19 percent confidence rate.

He remembers portalling back to headquarters. Dozens of Spiders had to be taken to the med-bay, himself included. He’d earned an impressive collection of cuts, scrapes, bruises, and hairline fractures. The painkillers had made him slightly loopy on top of his adrenaline crash. He remembers seeing Gwen curled up and asleep on a chair next to his hospital bed, but she was gone by the time he’d woken up. He has no idea if it was a dream or not. He’s too scared to ask.

There had been someone else, too. They hadn’t come in, and it’s the haziest of all his memories of that evening. It was likely a man based on the stature, but you could never be sure with Spider-People. The bite had affected them all in different ways. Whoever it was, they’d only stood in the doorway for a minute, tall and imposing in red and navy. Miles could’ve sworn they were glowing; they’d been encircled with a subtle red radiance. They spoke once, and too softly for Miles to hear; his eyes had been slipping closed. He hadn’t heard it at the time and couldn’t even begin to remember it now. They left shortly after that.

He slept for a few more hours, and was cleared to leave soon after he woke up. His advanced healing and whatever future-medicine they had in 2099 had given him a head-start on recovering, but he was still in a good deal of pain. Most of the blood had been cleaned off him, but he was sure he still looked dreadful. He’d walked out with only a small limp.

The conversation he had with Jess is the clearest memory of that night.

The phone she had pressed into his hand was cool to the touch, black and smooth against his fingertips. On the back where a company logo would usually be was a minimalistic spider design.

He raised his eyebrows in silent question. It hurt a little bit–there was a split in one of his eyebrows.

Jess’s voice was haggard and rough when she spoke. “It’s only a prototype. It’s an interdimensional phone. You can use it for calls, texts, pretty much everything the watches can do without the ability to dimension jump.”

Miles only stared at her. She seemed to realize the implications of what she had said, and scrambled to clarify. It was a strange look on her.

“Not that you aren’t welcome to a Gizmo! And a place…here. We just thought–it seemed–wrong. To force one on you right now, like we expected you to show up to work tomorrow. We don’t–” Her words were wobbly and tentative. She was trembling, with exhaustion and probably blood loss and a dozen other things. The near collapse of the multiverse would do that to anyone. Even her.

Miles steadied her by placing his hands on her shoulders for a moment. It was clear that she hadn’t received medical attention yet. Blood had dribbled down from a wound on her forehead and dried along one side of her face. She probably hadn’t even noticed it. It was likely she had been working the entire time Miles was unconscious. He worried that her injuries would have an effect on the baby–she looked ready to keel over. Then he worried that he was being misogynistic, or something. He didn’t pretend to know anything about pregnancies. Most of all, though, he was grateful.

“I get it, Jess. And you’re right. I need…time, right now. I just want to go home. To see my family. My dad.” He smoothed his hands over the smooth black surface of the screen. It came to life under his hands, lighting up with a login prompt before he shut it off again.

“I appreciate this. A lot. I’ll contact you guys when I’m ready.”

She sniffed. Gave him a wan smile. “Okay. Don’t be a stranger.”

Miles tried to smile back. It came out as more of a grimace. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” She nodded.

The portal Jess opened for him painted her face in technicolour. She stepped aside to let him pass, but grabbed his wrist before he could step through.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear this. But I’m sorry. We’re so sorry, Miles. We failed you when it mattered most. I know nothing I say can fix that. But I wanted you to hear it from me before you left.” She squeezed his hand, her grip warm.

Miles dove in for a hug before she could react. She felt small in his arms despite her baby bump. He hadn’t noticed until then, but he’s a little taller than her. The coconut oil in her hair was a comforting, familiar smell.

“Thank you, Jess.”

He pulled away and leapt through the shimmering portal. Miles was going home.

…

The text comes through a week later.

Miguel O’hara (928): Gizmo is ready for you if you want it.

Miles can only stare. His phone had been preloaded with several contacts when Jess gave it to him. Herself, Peter B., Gwen, Pav, Hobie, Margo, and several more of the Spiders he had connected with. Miguel had not been one of them. He resists the urge to throw it at his wall.

Miles Morales (1610): Shove it up your ass.

The reply comes immediately. Either Miguel was expecting that type of response from Miles, or he just didn’t care.

Miguel O’hara (928): Hobie will drop it off.

Mles is surprised by the tactful choice of delivery person. He still isn’t on speaking terms with Peter and Gwen, though they did come around to his side eventually. He’s not angry anymore. He’s just hurt. He can’t think about them without becoming teary-eyed and upset. Knowing that while he longed to see them again, and hoped more than anything in the world for a way to get back to them, that they could’ve visited at any time? That they knew what was supposed to happen to his father? It felt like abandonment. It felt like– it was –betrayal.

He needed to delay talking to them until he was could think about the whole mess with the Spot without losing it completely. On some level, he understands why they made the choices they did. Everyone truly thought every universe’s safety would be compromised if the Canon was broken again. He also knew that doing so pained them.

Time was what he needed most. Eventually the months would smooth over the jagged edges of his wounds, like sea glass made glossy and harmless.

But right now? His pain is as fresh as ever. And hearing from Miguel so soon, regardless of the reason, makes his hackles rise.

He changes Miguel’s contact to ‘ASSHOLE f*ckFACE’. Hah. Take that . He types in a curt response.

Miles Morales (1610): Fine. He can come tomorrow.

ASSHOLE f*ckFACE (928): Ok

Miguel doesn’t send anything else. Miles isn’t surprised. Miguel doesn’t seem like a particularly chatty guy. Then again, Miles can’t pretend to know him well. Or at all.

Miles sleeps horribly that night. He’s at his dorm, despite it being a weekend. He’s been spending more and more time at school, telling his parents that he needed a private space to focus on schoolwork. He knows they’re worried about his sudden change in behaviour. But his improving grades seem to be enough for them. He is technically still grounded, so they can’t complain about his new interest in academic overachievement. Staying at his dorm also makes it easier to come and go from the window at odd hours, returning more often than not covered in scratches and bruises. And with the occasional broken bone or two. Usually nothing that his quickened healing can’t take care of in a few days.

He knows Ganke’s been concerned, too. His roommate is such a laid back guy, Miles must be acting seriously strange if Ganke of all people is voicing concerns. He’s tried to talk to Miles about it several times, and every time Miles shrugged him off.

‘You know, just…Spider-Man stuff. Nothing I can’t handle. If anything bad happens, I’ll tell you, alright?’

Ganke hadn’t looked convinced. But he wasn’t the type to hover, and he backed off eventually. He’s subdued after that. Miles wordlessly tosses him his J’s just as Ganke is leaving for the weekend.

“Bring those back on Monday, ‘kay?”

Ganke tackles him in a one armed hug, while his other hand gives him a noogie.

Miles screeches. “Hey! Cut that sh*t out, man, my hair!”

They both know Miles is more than strong enough to get out of it if he really wants to. They break away laughing.

“Don’t make me change my mind. I’ll take ‘em back, sh*thead.” Miles pretends to make a grab for the shoes.

Ganke bolts away, hugging them to his chest. “Too late! No take backsies.” He slings his bag over his shoulder, “See you Monday.” He swings the door closed, shooting a peace sign over his shoulder.

The dorm is oddly quiet without him. Annoying as it was, the sound of Ganke typing or snoring from the top bunk was comforting. Without Ganke in the room, the silence becomes oppressive. Miles can’t help but think about them. His friends. Jess. The Spot. Miguel.

He springs up, jittery and anxious. He begins tidying, itching to be doing anything other than wallowing in silence. When everything is put away, he pulls out the cleaning products and gets to work on their bathroom. He blasts music while he works, until the superintendent pounds on the door and tells him to turn it down. He does, but only just. By the time his cleaning spree is done, the dorm is sparkling and smells like lemon and bleach. He’s even scrubbed down the windows. As his primary entry and exit spot, there had been an obscene amount of fingerprints on the glass.

With nothing else to do, he gives in to the urge to patrol. He changes into his spare suit and dives out into the darkness of New York evening.

There wasn't much crime happening that night. Miles stops some petty robberies at a nightclub. Some asshat was going around swiping girls’ purses and being stupidly obvious about it. All Miles needed to do was hold out his hand and the thief was tripping over himself to hand them over.

Mostly he just swings around the city.

He tries new maneuvers, flipping and twisting in a way that’s more aesthetic than functional. It helps calm his mind, lessen the buzzing at the back of his head. If he’s more reckless than usual, he doesn’t let himself linger on why that is. He waits longer to web the next building between swings, letting the ground grow close enough to see the texture of the concrete before catching himself at the very last second. He launches himself higher, flings himself faster than strictly necessary. He works on plotting out the fastest possible routes through Manhattan, makes note of where exactly to web onto, which buildings form the optimal path for rapid web travel. It’s fun. Under the quasi-darkness of New York’s night sky is the only place he feels free.

It’s nearly morning when he slips back through his window. The sky has started to turn purple, the stars fading away. He curls up in bed, but doesn’t bother trying to sleep. He just watches the square of morning sunlight from his window move across the room. An hour goes by, and in the pale golden light of the sun breaking over the horizon, his spider-sense picks up on someone outside.

“You can come in, Hobie. It’s unlocked.” Miles sits up and pushes the covers away. He’s wearing an oversized band hoodie and pajama pants, but the morning chill still seeps in. He tucks his hands inside the sleeves of his sweater.

The window slides open, and Hobie ducks inside. He has to fold his lanky limbs comically in order to make it through the half-open window, but he makes the movement graceful.

For a brief moment Miles wonders if he should be embarrassed by the childish nature of his dorm. There are movie posters and comic books everywhere, even a stuffed animal or two. Hobie seems so mature and worldly. But he dismisses the thought instantly. He doubts Hobie is the type to judge about things like that. Miles is too tired to care regardless.

Hobie collapses into the rolling desk chair, propping his long legs up on the messy desk.

“How’re you holdin’ up, mate?”

Miles blinks tiredly. “Oh, brilliant.”

There’s a beat of silence.

They both burst into laughter. They laugh until they’re wiping tears from the corners of their eyes, stomachs aching. Hobie’s slapping the table, and Miles has to flop over on the bed to catch his breath. It’s a few minutes before they can compose themselves enough to speak.

It’s the lightest Miles has felt in days.

Miles wipes his eyes again. He’s not sure if the wetness there is from laughter or something else.

He sighs; “Yeah. Not so brilliant. Obviously.”

Hobie shrugs, looking around the room absentmindedly. “You’re looking a bit sh*t there bruv. Not gonna lie.”

“I know. I feel sh*t.”

Hobie tosses the watch at him. Miles scrambles to catch it, worried he’ll push the wrong button by accident and summon Miguel himself to his tiny dorm room.

Hobie has the grace not to press. Miles isn’t in the mood to talk about his feelings and Hobie seems willing to allow him his privacy. He changes the subject.

“It’s been uploaded with full privileges.” Hobie gestures to the watch, “Same as everyone else. It’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” He pauses. “Programmed for you by the big man himself.”

Miles looks up. “Aren’t these standard issue? What could mine need that the other’s don’t have?”

Hobie lets out a puff of air. “Jess said something about it being coded for your signature and being more self-sufficient than the others–m’not really sure, to be honest. Lyla’s on there – she’ll probably explain it better if you ask.”

Miles holds the watch up to the light. It’s black, like his suit. The other watches were all silver, even Miguel’s. It also looks like it’s been sized to fit every bend and dip of his wrist. It’s a comfortable weight on his arm when he slides it on. He gives his arm a gentle shake. It doesn’t budge. That’s good; it would be annoying if it slid around while he was swinging or fighting. The customization is strangely touching, though it’s odd to think of Miguel putting time into doing such a thing for Miles. He decides not to dwell on it.

Miles considers Hobie for a moment. The morning sunlight is pouring into the room now, beaming in through the wide windows and glinting off Hobie’s piercings and the studs on his vest. His presence fills the room; the space is charged and made captivating by the merit of him being in it. Miles doesn’t feel intimidated or uncomfortable, though. Rather, he feels energized, stronger with Hobie by his side. This is what he was looking for, Miles realizes. What he was missing, cut off from his friends. The people who understood what it was like, being Spider-Man. In that moment he knows he won’t be able to stay away from the Spider-Society forever.

He looks back at Hobie, who has picked up Ganke’s Playstation controller and has opened the Spider-Man videogame. He sits up abruptly, feet knocking pens and sticky-notes off the desk in his haste.

“Yo, is this you?!” He gestures to the screen with the controller, looking back at Miles with wide eyes. On the screen is an avatar decked out in Miles’ spider suit. It’s his earliest version, with the red bits across the shoulders. Miles has never seen the guy so shocked. He chuckles shyly, rubbing the back of his head.

“Er…yeah? It came out a couple months ago. I guess the thing about taking over for Peter is that Spider-Man already had a sizable following. There was a lot of hubbub when I showed up not days after he died.”

Hobie is already rummaging around, plugging in the second controller and handing it to Miles. “Dibs on playing as Spider-Man Two!”

…

Hobie stays for another couple of hours. They spend the time playing the video game, laughing at all the inaccuracies that only two Spider-Men would know about. It’s nice. Really nice. When Hobie ducks back out his window, he looks back at Miles. His gaze is searching.

“They miss you, you know. And they’re worried.” Then he holds a finger up, shaking it with every syllable to drive his point home. “But also, f*ck’em because they turned on you and almost let your dad die. Just…send a text or something. But make ‘em work for it.”

Miles smirks. “I will. See ya, Spider-Man.”

Hobie gives a mock salute before dropping backwards out the window. The lights of a portal flash and swirl for a second before shutting off.

His gaze is drawn to something glinting on the desk. Miles thinks Hobie may have dropped a pin or something, until he sees the message. It’s scrawled on a pink post-it note, in some of the worst handwriting Miles has ever seen. Nearly two minutes go by before he can decipher it.

In case you wanted some bling. And to remind you that you ain’t doing this alone.

• Hobie

Pierced through the thin paper is a small stud. It’s a silver metal with a flat, circular backing. There’s a tiny deep-blue stone set in the end, so dark it’s almost black. When Miles rotates it in the light, the whole thing flashes pink, then grey, then back to its original colour. Just like Hobie does. It must be from his dimension. Miles’ chest swells with warmth.

He scrambles to get dressed, suddenly desperate to be out of his tiny dorm. He finds a ziploc bag to put the stud in, then zips it into his jacket pocket. He reaches for his Jordans, then remembers he gave them to Ganke. He rummages in his closet until he finds a pair of black Vans, and puts those on instead.

He doesn’t bother going out the front entrance. He turns invisible, then clambers out his window. Jogging along the wall until he reaches the alley, he climbs down and ducks behind a dumpster to turn visible again. As useful as his invisibility is, it’s sometimes a pain having to find places to believably appear out of when he’s not wearing his suit. It’s common knowledge that Spider-Man 2 can turn invisible. But Miles Morales doesn’t have that luxury if he wants his identity to remain a secret.

Walking out of the alleyway, he pulls out his phone and types piercing shop into google maps. Dozens of results pop up. He filters by rating, then sorts through the ones closest to him. There’s one that’s only fifteen minutes away by foot. He selects it and scrolls through the reviews just to be sure. After double checking the address, he sets off. It’s in an area he’s familiar with, so he won’t need the directions until he’s closer.

The door chimes when he opens it, and upbeat music floats out into the street. The language isn’t English–Miles thinks it might be korean. He’s not sure what he was expecting–maybe gruff older tattooed dudes and rough attitudes. But it’s mostly young women working there. The decor is edgy but cute. There are bat decals all along one wall, and another is full with photos of work done by the shop’s artists. At least half of them are anime and pop-culture themed.

Miles feels instantly more comfortable. He floats up to the front desk, eyes still trained on the wall of art to his right. He nearly bumps into the desk he’s so taken with all the colour filling the space.

“What are you looking for?”

Miles starts. The girl sitting behind the front desk doesn’t look much older than him. She’s nineteen, maybe, and looks like she’d barely skim five feet standing up. Her hair has pink streaks in it and she’s wearing some of the most dramatic eyeliner he’s ever seen.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

sh*t . He’s just been standing there like a moron. “Erm–I’m looking to get a piercing? An ear one?” He gestures vaguely towards his head, as if that’ll clear things up.

She co*cks her head. “What kind?”

He didn’t know there were different kinds. He’s beginning to feel out of his depth, and wonders if he’s being a little hasty. Nah. It’s only an earring, Miles. Pull yourself together, Spider-Man.

She raises her eyebrows.

Miles racks his brain. What are the different piercing kinds? “Uh. A normal one? Just…on my earlobe?” Real eloquent, man.

She seems satisfied with that response. “How old are you?”

He doesn’t even think to lie, and the answer is out before he can take it back. “Fifteen.”

She spins her rolling chair around in a flourish, returning with a form in hand.

“I’d ask for ID, but you only need to be fourteen for earlobe piercings, and there’s no way you’re younger than that with shoulders like those.”

Miles feels his cheeks warm. “How do you know I’m not lying?”

She co*cks her head to the side, earrings jangling. “You’ve got an ‘04 pin on your jacket. S’not hard to guess that’s your birth year.”

Huh. “Fair enough.” He’s secretly glad she isn’t asking for proof. All he has on him is his student ID. It’s from his first week at Visions and he looks like a huge dweeb in it - he tries to make sure it never sees the light of day.

She passes him the form and a pen.

“Just sign that and I’ll take you back. Have you eaten within the last two hours?”

He hasn’t, but he senses that the answer is supposed to be yes, so he tells her he has. He signs the form and passes it back to her. She stands and gestures for him to follow. When she walks out from behind the desk he admires her shoes: huge clunky black platform boots with buckles that run up to her knees. He likes them.

The room she takes them to is minimalistic and clean, with a black tattooing table on one side and the piercer’s station on the other. She’s beginning to set up when he remembers the jewelry. He pulls it out of his pocket.

“Hey, is it okay if I have this put in?” She holds out her hand and he passes it to her.

She examines it closely, pulling it out of the bag. “It looks surgical grade. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just need to sterilize it.” Miles nods his assent, pleased.

She explains the piercing process thoroughly, instructing him to inhale before pushing the needle through. It barely feels like a prick. He almost doesn’t notice it, he’s had so much worse done to him. Falling off buildings, countless cuts and breaks. Miguel’s claws in his shoulder. He bats those thoughts away. This is nothing in comparison.

She talks him through the healing and cleaning process, which he pretends to listen to. He’d be surprised if it wasn’t completely healed by the time he went to bed that night.

He pays and heads home, buzzing with feelings of newness. It’s only a piece of jewelry, but he feels…refreshed, in a way. As though he’s had a system restart. He pops his headphones on and heads back to Visions. The sun warms his face as he walks through Brooklyn, and the future feels a touch closer.

Chapter 3: Spectre

Chapter Text

Miles has strange dreams that night. He’s standing in a wide, darkened room, interspersed here and there with the soft glow of screens and machinery. It looks like Miguel’s lab, except there’s no platform; just smooth, dark floor. He can’t see any walls, either. There’s only cloudy darkness on all sides, settling at the periphery of his vision like billowy tendrils of smoke. The details of the room are blurry and impressionistic. It’s like looking at something out of the corner of your eye; things are always slightly out of focus, out of reach. What little lighting there is is warm and hazy, and doesn’t extend beyond the centre of the room.

He thinks he’s alone until he feels a soft touch on his wrist. He looks down, and Miguel is kneeling in front of him. He’s on one knee, actually. He’s in his suit, but he doesn’t have his mask on. The red glow of the spider design on his chest hollows out his stark cheekbones and deep-set eyes, casting his face in sharp planes. Miles has never noticed how full his lips are before. There’s a pouty set to them that would be endearing on anyone else.

Miguel’s hand is circling his wrist. His touch is warm and feather-light. Not like how he held Miles’ arm on the train, grip crushing and oppressive. His huge hand had circled around Miles’ entire bicep easily. It’s gentle now. Tentative. His thumb sits perfectly against the hollow beneath Miles’ thumb. The black watch–a gizmo, Miguel had called it–appears in his other broad hand. He slides it on to Miles’ left wrist. Settles it into place. It fits perfectly. Like Cinderella’s glass slipper.

“Will you accept it?” Miguel’s voice is low and smooth. Solemn.

Miles stares down at him.

Yes.

I’ll stop running.

The hand on his wrist slides down to hold Miles’ hand loosely with the palm down. Miguel’s thumb grazes over Miles’ knuckles. Like he’s a gentleman about to press a chaste kiss to the back of it.

Miguel is still on one knee. There’s something about the position that niggles something in the back of Miles’ brain. It feels too much like a surreal, distorted version of a proposal.

Miles has accepted something bigger, greater than the watch itself.

Miles wakes up out of sorts. The dream unsettles him, but he can’t exactly place why. Nothing particularly strange or upsetting had happened. But it feels embarrassing to linger on it, to try and put words to it. The tender, soft way Miguel had behaved, had kneeled in supplication before him, was in harsh juxtaposition to reality. He doesn’t want to dwell on it.

He does anyway. It plays in his head, over and over until he has it memorized. When he gets dressed for the day, he tries to leave the watch behind. He changes his mind at the last minute and swipes it off the bedside table. When he slides it into place, it feels as though Miguel’s fingers are wrapped back around his wrist. It really is eerie how perfectly it fits.

“Will you accept it?”

The question lurks in the back of his mind. Miles knows he got lucky when his father didn’t die. Something he did shifted the Canon, but he has no idea what it was. The only reason Jefferson Morales lived was sheer dumb luck. Some small change had redirected the course of Miles’ story, and there was no way of telling what it was. As far as anyone knew, there was still no way to bend the Canon to one’s will.

Spider-Man’s story is a difficult one. Miles knows that terrible things have happened to Spider-People. He also knows that the same things are likely to happen to him, should he continue down this path. He can’t separate himself from Spider-Man’s legacy, Peter’s legacy. Being bitten was a gift he would be selfish to reject. So he has to accept it. The reality of being a hero, of what it means to put oneself between innocents and the things–the people–that would harm them.

For all he knows, his father’s death may only have been delayed. The watch encircling his wrist may as well be written permission for the universe to have another go at him.

I do, Miguel. I think I’m starting to understand.

…

The next few months are mostly uneventful. Miles pushes on, tries his best to be a Spider-Man worthy of the legacy Peter left behind. But it still haunts him; the space in New York where Peter Parker’s Spider-Man used to be. And the knowledge that it was his counterpart in Earth-42 who was supposed to be bitten. Knowing that Peter only died because the spider from Earth-42 was brought here, and bit Miles instead…it aches. It wracks him with guilt.

The timeline righted itself the only way it could. There is only room for one Spider-Man, and the universe made its choice. Miles worried that the universe chose wrong. The only solace he finds is that it wasn’t truly his fault, that he couldn’t have known. It was sheer chance that Miles was in the subway tunnels that day.

But if Miles had known what was going to happen, that Peter was going to die because Miles was bitten, would he have stopped it? If it meant giving up on being Spider-Man, could he have spared the original Spider of Earth-1610? It’s an agonizing train of thought, and Miles knows he’s being cruel to himself. He can’t bring Peter back. Nothing can. But he thinks about it, over and over, picking at the mental wound until it bleeds and scabs over, again and again. Pressing into where it hurts most until the pain becomes familiar.

It helps to remind himself that in another universe, it really was supposed to be Miles, or a version of him, that would become the one and only Spider-Man.

The watch on his wrist is his last bit of comfort. He feels insecure for taking such reassurance in that representation of Miguel’s approval, his acceptance of Miles as a Spider. He doesn’t need it–he doesn’t need anyone’s permission to be Spider-Man–but it helps.

The spectre of Miguel from his dream shimmers in Miles’ head.

Miles finishes the school year. He throws himself into his work, desperate for something to take his mind off everything. When he returned home that night after the Spot was defeated, he told his parents his first blatant lie. Until that point, it had been a year and a half of half-truths. Deflecting and sidestepping. Lying by omission. He changed into some clothes he picked up from his dorm. Roughed them up a bit. Dumped his suit in the trash: it was shredded to bits anyway. Then, covered in cuts and bruises that were entirely too real, he stumbled through his front door.

He told them he had been mugged. It explained why he had lost his phone, which had flown out of his suit pocket somewhere over Nueva York. Why he looked like he’d been beaten to hell and back. And why he broke down sobbing in their arms. He held his father so tightly he felt the older man's ribs creak. He’d never seen his parents so distraught. It was made all the worse by the slimy, dark pool of guilt that settled in his stomach.The whole year he’d had to hide being Spider-Man from his family, he hadn’t felt like a liar.

He did now. The guilt weighs on him. Not only from the lies, but also from knowing he was putting them in danger by continuing as Spider-Man. Miles couldn’t say if retiring would save them from the horrors the Canon had lurking in the future. He couldn’t make that choice, even if he wanted to. He’s seen Earth-42, seen what happens when a universe doesn’t have a Spider-Man protecting it.

So he accepts it.

The Suit is bigger than him. He can only hope to grow big enough to fill it.

He disguises his distress by focusing on school. He becomes the model student, the model son. Hobie visits when he can. Pav checks in, too. And he eventually texts Peter and Gwen. He tells them he’s ready to hear their side, that he’ll listen. He already knows they didn’t think they had a choice. But he lets them speak their piece, and lets them apologize. They start to work things out, though Miles isn’t ready to leave his dimension just yet.

As Spider-Man, he becomes ruthless. Colder, less prone to banter and jokes. Dimmed. But twice as effective. Less sloppy. Honed. Because the next bad guy he lets go could be the next Spot. The next throwaway comment could be just the thing to tip someone over the edge. And Miles can’t risk that happening again.

He wishes he could patrol more, but he keeps himself on a tight leash as the months pass into summer. Despite his abundance of free time now that school is on hold for the break, he tries to keep his patrol schedule to what it is during the school year. Sporadic, with no real rhyme or reason. If he was suddenly out on the streets at all hours, it would be too obvious that Spider-Man is a student.

It’s bad enough that he’s noticeably bigger than he was when he first emerged on the scene. He’s avoided too much scrutiny about his age by avoiding cameras as much as possible. Few as they may be, photos of the new Spider-Man from the time of his debut clearly show his smaller frame. His only saving grace is that there isn’t really a way to discern an accurate height from any of them. He’d have to pose next to a measuring tape for people to do that. Still, it would be easy to deduce that Spider-Man is a teenager by comparing his oldest and most recent photos. Keeping a high-schooler’s schedule would be damning. So he finds himself with an abundance of free time.

One warm summer day when the sun is high in the sky, Miles climbs up to the roof of his parents’ building and considers the watch. It’s made out of a metal he doesn’t recognize. Smooth and matte, it absorbs rather than reflects the sunlight. He’s ashamed to admit he’s worn it every time he’s donned the suit. Even the tone and hue of black matches his costume perfectly.

He remembers what Hobie told him: Lyla’s on there – she’ll probably explain it better if you ask. Miles isn’t sure how to summon her. He’s barely poked around with the watch these past weeks other than setting it to his home universe. The face displays his ID; SPDRMN-1610: MILES MORALES, along with the current time and temperature. When Miguel had called on Lyla, he’d just spoken her name. Tentatively, Miles does the same.

“Lyla?” It’s silent for a moment. A car honks from the street below. A pigeon coos on the railing beside him.

Miles jumps when she materializes in a flurry of golden lights. She stands on the face of the watch like it’s a little stage.

“Miles! I was wondering when you’d call!”

Miles blinks. “Oh. Uh…sorry? I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

She waves her hand. “Not at all! Miguel keeps me busy so I’m plenty entertained. I’m just excited you’re finally using your gizmo!”

Miles huffs out a laugh. “I was just wondering why my watch–

“Gizmo!”

“Gizmo, right–why my gizmo doesn’t look like the others? Hobie said Miguel programmed it differently?”

“That he did! He had to improve its scanning algorithms to accommodate for you being an anomaly. You have two dimensional signatures, so Miguel needed to program the gizmo specifically with that in mind. Makes it so that you don’t get flagged as an anomaly every time you turn it on. It also ensures you get sent back to the correct dimension when you need to portal home. It took him a whole week!”

Miles takes a few seconds to process. Miguel had told him the gizmo was ready barely a week after everything had gone down. Had he been working on it that entire time?

Lyla continues, taking his silence as encouragement to continue. “It’s also more powerful than the other gizmos. They operate as node extensions of the main system back in 928. They need to be returned and synced with the servers in order to remain operational–they don’t have a lot of computational power on their own. Yours is a miniature, portable version of the main system, like Miguel’s. It’s compatible with chargers and voltage from your universe so you don’t need to come to HQ if you don’t want to. It also has a more robust copy of yours truly.” She finishes with a dramatic bow.

That’s…incredibly thoughtful. Bitter as it may be, Miles can’t help but think that the whole thing reeks of guilt. Of apology.

“If Miguel wants to grovel, he should come here and apologize in person.”

“Sure thing, Boss! Calling Migue–

“NO!” His shout echoes across the rooftop. The pigeon starts and flies away.

They stare at each other. For an AI, Lyla’s aghast expression is eerily human.

“I didn’t mean–I don’t actually–want to talk to him. Right now.” Who was he kidding, anyways? Miguel definitely didn’t give a flying f*ck about how Miles was feeling. He probably put all the extra work into customizing the gizmo so he wouldn’t have to deal with Miles coming by his Spider-Clubhouse ever again. Tossing the dog a bone so he’d stop nipping at Miguel’s heels. Run along, kid, shoo.

“Fine by me, Miles. Miguel isn’t available now anyways. He’s been passed out in his lab for the past few hours. He gets grumpy when I wake him up from his power naps so it’s best for all involved to leave him be.”

Miles isn’t quite sure what to say to that. He’s rather tired of this conversation.

“Thanks, Lyla. You can go now.”

She gives him a salute. “No sweat. See ya.” She disappears. Miles powers off the watch.

…

Summer passes by. Miles turns sixteen. His parents throw him a huge party that he has trouble being mentally present for. It’s difficult pretending to care about school and college applications. His dreams of going to Princeton to study quantum mechanics seem hollow and pointless now. He’d wanted to see his friends and he got his wish. Without that goal, that dream didn’t fit anymore. He tries to restructure his plans for the future, with little success; he feels untethered and aimless.

The only thing that keeps him grounded is patrol. Local villains have picked up on his new attitude. He’s designed a new suit to match. His old one made him antsy to look at. Too many memories, too many bad associations. He threw out the one he was wearing that day anyway–the one he’d been using before making the replacement was his shoddy spare. It had only ever been intended as a prototype, so he hadn’t taken as much care in sewing it together and it had never fit quite right. The design and pattern were in need of an update regardless.

His new suit fit like a second skin. He revamped the fit and shape of the legs and hips by using a pattern for Lululemon leggings that he’d illegally downloaded online. Sue him, they knew how to make leggings that fit like nothing else. He ditched the red stripes down the sides, tired of Peter and Hobie’s jokes about bleeding armpits. Now that they’d commented on it, he couldn’t unsee it.

He added sharp red detailing back to the shoulders, the sides of his ribs, and by his hips. Where the red accents on his original suit extended over his shoulders, the newest ones extended from the spider design on the chest and back and cupped under his deltoids in a ‘V’ shape, accentuating their musculature and the width of his shoulders.

He stayed away from any of the ‘classic’ Spider-Man elements, like the webbing details and any hint of blue. He’s Miles Morales, not Peter Parker. He wants to make Spider-Man his own. He is a successor, not a substitute.

He feels powerful in his new suit. Refined. Dangerous. And he feels ready to visit the society. Despite texting them now almost every day, he misses his friends. His wounds have started to heal, to scar over. He no longer feels quite so raw. But most of all, he wants to prove that Miles Morales does not back down. If he doesn’t return now, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the strength to. So two months later, as an autumn chill settles over New York, he powers up his gizmo for the first time. It’s been six months now. He’s waited long enough.

He’s putting in the coordinates for Earth-928 when a notification pops up.

DISTRESS CALL: EARTH 199999

URGENT BACKUP REQUIRED

Well, sh*t. Miles was hoping for a more relaxed reintroduction to the Spider-Society. Something chill, on the down-low. He’s supposed to meet Gwen and Pav in ten minutes. They had agreed to meet outside the building in case Miles hadn’t wanted to go in. Maybe run an easy mission if they felt up to it. Answering a distress page was the exact opposite of chill.

But Miles is Spider-Man. He’s let himself forget that fact too often these past months.

He accepts the page.

Chapter 4: Collide

Chapter Text

They burst through their portals at the same time.

The anomaly fight is happening on a ferry boat, of all places. Miles has fought a lot of villains in countless strange contexts. On the Staten Island ferry is a first for him. The anomaly appears to be a Russian guy in a mechanized rhino suit, equipped with massive guns and glinting blades. It’s raining slightly, and the droplets patter against the lenses of Miles’ mask.

He and Miguel appear from opposite directions on either side of the Rhino, only a few metres apart. When they’re ejected from their respective portals, they’re flying on a collision course toward each other at top speed. Miguel doesn’t move a muscle to avoid it. He just looks straight at Miles (or in his general direction, it’s hard to tell with the mask on) as the distance between them rapidly closes. Asshole. Miles fires a web onto a nearby support pillar, changing his trajectory to avoid a collision. They miss each other by less than half a foot, close enough for Miles to feel Miguel’s warmth as they sail past one another. Miles can almost see the eyes of Miguel’s mask widen slightly.

Miles uses his anchor on the pillar as a fulcrum to whip himself around, keeping his momentum going as he shoots off another web and slingshots himself at the Rhino’s robotic feet. Sticking his legs straight out in front of him, he shoots forward and flies parallel to the ground, mere inches from the wet concrete floor. His feet make contact with the back of the suit’s left foot. The combination of his momentum and super strength crumples the limb like an aluminum can. It also swipes it completely out from under the villain, and the Rhino roars in fury, toppling to the side in a screeching crash of machinery. He fires a round from his machine gun as he falls, punching a line of bullet holes into the ceiling.

Miles’ enhanced senses are helpful, but often overwhelming; the cacophonous sound of machine-gun fire rings in Miles’ sensitive ears and he flinches at the ear-splitting noise. Miles hopes there aren’t people on the upper decks. He doesn’t have time to check, because the Rhino is trying to get to his feet. He lets go of his webbing and rolls to a crouch as he webs all of the Rhino’s limbs to the deck, immobilizing him. He attaches another web to the suit’s machine gun and tears it away for good measure. Miles hates guns. He hauls the dreadful weapon toward him and stomps on the barrel, crushing it.

Miguel appears as a glowing red blur in Miles’ periphery, and pounces on the Rhino in an instant. One, two powerful punches and he shatters the protective glass over the co*ckpit of the suit as the Rhino spews expletives in Russian. With his robotic limbs immobilized, the anomaly is defenceless against the assault. Miguel reaches in with one hand, grabs the villain by the neck, and yanks him from his seat, sending shards of glass skittering everywhere. There are straps securing the anomaly in the co*ckpit, but Miguel is so strong they tear like paper. He throws the villain across the deck of the ferry like he’s a wet towel. He sails through the air and hits one of the support poles with a crack, before sliding down to the ground. He doesn’t get up.

Hissing, Miguel shakes out the hand he’d used to punch through the glass, opening and closing his fingers into a fist. He’d shredded his hand on the shattered glass when pulling the villain out of the suit. Blood runs off his fingertips and onto the floor from countless gashes across his knuckles, palm, and wrist. The bright poppy-red droplets stand out harshly against the dirty concrete floor.

Miles winces. Why had Miguel been so reckless? There were less damaging ways to get into the suit. He doesn’t have time to ponder, though. The Spider who called in the anomaly was struggling to keep a section of the ferry’s upper floor–most of the top level, more accurately–from collapsing on a large group of civilians. Unable to move without crushing them, the vulnerable Spider hadn’t been able to do anything to prevent the Rhino from opening fire on the hero and the people he was protecting. No wonder he’d sent an emergency page. If Miles and Miguel hadn’t answered it, the Spider and the civilians might’ve been dead by now.

Miles dashes over to help him with the immense weight. The Spider’s suit is strangely metallic, with a large gold spider motif stretching across his chest and shoulders. There are four metal spider legs extending from his back, acting as supports for the crumbling level above them. He’s hunched over like Atlas, carrying most of the weight on his shoulders and upper back. He’s trembling from the effort. Miles dives underneath the sagging mess of concrete and metal to help lift it. With Miles’ help, they’re able to lift the collapsing ceiling up high enough for the civilians to escape. They start to pour out from under the debris, terrified and covered in concrete dust.

When the unfamiliar Spider speaks, he has a slight Queen’s accent, and his voice has a warm, boyish quality to it. Miles bets he’s a Peter, somewhere around his age or slightly older.

“Hey man, stellar timing. You new or something?” His tone is playful and friendly, but there’s an underlying tremor to it that gives away the immense effort he’s expending on holding the debris up.

“Not exactly.” Miles grimaces under his mask. This Spider-Man probably joined the society during Miles’ hiatus. Miles has no idea how to explain his unique situation, so he doesn’t bother.

The last civilian crawls to safety. The two Spider-Men inch out from underneath the mass, shuffling their hands along the weight above them to hold it up until they can leap out of the way. It hits the ground in a groaning crash of rubble and metal beams. A giant puff of concrete dust spews out as it settles.

Well, another easy adventure for Spider-Man! Miles can’t help thinking of Pav in that moment, and smiles a little to himself under his mask.

The other Spider sighs, and puts his hands on his hips. He scoffs lightly and shakes his head, glowing blue-white eyes fixed on the ground. “f*ckin’ ferry boats. Why is it always ferry boats? Goddamn nuisance.”

Miles senses the comment isn’t for him, so he keeps quiet.

The coast guard has already arrived and evacuated most of the civilians. The last stragglers are being helped onto the boats, so Miles figures their work is done. Though every step is agony, he walks over to Miguel. Oblivious to the other boy’s internal struggle, potentially-Peter follows.

Miguel is scanning the area with his watch, checking for any more disturbances. Lyla is floating over his shoulder. Her chipper voice is oddly comforting.

“It’s all clear, boss. You guys have it in the bag. Just remember to bring the Rhino suit with you.” She disappears.

The anomaly is still unconscious, wrapped tightly in Miguel’s vivid red webbing and knocked out cold from his collision against the pillar. Miles wonders if he should be concerned about that, then decides he doesn’t really care. Miguel stops fiddling with his watch and finally looks up at Miles. Well…down. The guy is still freakishly tall. But it’s the first time he’s acknowledged the younger Spider, and the weight of his attention settles over Miles uncomfortably. Miguel still doesn’t speak.

Miles suppresses a shiver that tingles up his spine. He blames it on the chilly, rain-scented breeze.

Thrashing mentally under the discomfort of the silence, Miles forces himself to meet Miguel’s gaze through their masks. He co*cks his chin up, pulling his shoulders back slightly.

You first, big guy.

“Miles.” The name comes out flat and emotionless, and drops like a stone between them.

“Miguel.”

The silence pulls, goes taut.

Then it snaps, and Miguel gives in first.

“You have a new suit.” Lame opener. Miguel’s voice is just as velvety-smooth as Miles remembers.

Miles blinks. “Obviously.” If Miguel could see it, he’d have rolled his eyes, but with the mask on there’s no point.

Miguel stares some more. Miles caves, refusing to undergo another second of the odd silence. “You shredded the other one.”

Miguel’s head gives one tiny nod. It’s closer to an aborted jerk. Miles feels he’s won this one. Not that it’s a competition.

Peter whispers under his breath from beside them. “Phew, that is some weird tension right there.” The guy seems to have a habit of speaking to himself. It’s only a little endearing. Everyone there has enhanced hearing, so everyone hears it. No one comments.

Miles is done with this interaction.

“Let’s head out, yeah? I’ve got a meeting I’m late for, soo…” He trails off, speaking to no one in particular. He rocks onto the balls of his feet to dispel anxious energy, then settles back onto his heels again.

Peter, bless him, rushes to open a portal to HQ without further prompting. Miguel tosses both villain and destroyed Rhino suit into it the second it opens wide enough. He leaps through without a glance at his teammates. Miles and Peter share a look before leaping through themselves.

The journey through multiversal spacetime is as stomach-rolling and intense as Miles remembers. He’s glad he has his mask on, because he’s sure he’s making a series of extremely unnattractive faces. The sensation, though expected, is one he hasn’t felt since his journey home the day they defeated the Spot. It isn’t overly upsetting, but it is unpleasant, and it makes goosebumps prickle on his skin.

He’s relieved when they land back in 2099. They come out into an elevator, like last time, but they land on the top of the platform rather than the bottom. Miles supposes it’s because Miguel can’t stick to things like most of the other Spiders can, and wonders how he controls which side of the lift he lands on. He hadn’t even been the one to call the portal.

He turns to Peter. Standing side by side like this, Miles notices with a small degree of happiness that he’s slightly taller than him. By two inches at most, but still. Miles is stupidly proud of the growth he’s done since the Spider bite. Peter’s mask dissolves with a subtle metallic mechanical noise. His four extra spider legs have disappeared too.

The other boy speaks first, holding out his hand. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

Knew it. Miles grins before realizing he still has his mask on. Even Miguel has removed his, though his gaze is fixed firmly forward. Miles tugs his mask off, not wanting to seem rude. He’s still a little unclear on Spider-mask manners, if such a thing even exists. He shakes Peter’s hand.

“I thought so, you seemed…Peter-y. I’m Miles.” Peter’s hand has gone limp in his. His mouth is hanging open, and he stares at Miles like he’s either seen a ghost, shat himself, or a combination of both. Miles’ smile falters. “You okay, man?”

Peter’s mouth opens and closes a couple times. Miguel has tuned in to their conversation, and watches from the corner of his eye. He’s still facing forward, but one eyebrow is raised. Miles secretly resonates with Miguel’s apparent confusion.

Peter closes his mouth, and stammers, “I–yeah, yeah. You just remind me of someone. That I knew…before.”

Miles only co*cks his head. Peter recovers, shakes himself slightly. “It’s nice to meet you…Miles.” His smile is kind, but forced. Something has shaken him. “I really appreciate the assist.”

“Likewise. And it’s no biggie, I’m happy to help.” They’re still holding hands. It’s definitely the longest handshake Miles has ever participated in. They’re not even shaking anymore, they’re literally standing there with hands clasped like a couple of weirdos. Peter’s hand is warm and broad in his. Miles drops it.

The elevator finally, finally, comes to a stop. The doors slide open and the three of them step out. Miles lifts his arm to pull up his texts on his watch. He needs to message Gwen to let them know that he’s already inside. And explain why he’s twenty minutes late. He projects them up to see the small text better, failing to consider what his most recent conversations are. He uses his Spider-phone to text for the most part. For whatever reason, conversations on the phones and the gizmos aren’t synced. Miles guesses it’s because most people just use the watch rather than juggling two conversation threads. The result is that most of Miles’ conversations are on his phone–the watch doesn’t get much use. So there are only three conversations going, and they’re projected right in front of everyone’s faces.

At the top is Gwen, since her message has just come in.

Gwen Stacy (65): You coming? Pav and I are outside.

Right below it is an older text thread with Pav. The most recent text, received on Miles’ end two weeks ago, is harmless enough.

Pavitr Prabhakar (50101B): cheese borger

The last message has Miles’ stomach dropping to his feet. It was received six months ago.

ASSHOLE f*ckFACE (928): Ok

Peter gasps, and his hand slaps over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

Miguel speaks before Miles can do anything.

“That’s real mature.”

Miles nearly shatters his watch with how fast he slaps his hand over the display. It’s pointless. Miguel’s dimension ID was clear as day beside the contact Miles had set it to. It’s the only part of the contact ID that can’t be changed–there’s no one else it could be.

Miles loses any and all ability to produce a rational thought. He just acts. He grabs Peter by the arm and starts running.

“Run!” He keeps a hold on Peter’s wrist as he sprints away, leading him in the general direction of the food court as he weaves through throngs of people. Peter–though confused–seems content to comply, keeping pace without comment. Miles pulls them around a corner and flattens against the wall. His spider-sense is silent, but he peeks back around the corner anyway. Nothing. Only Spider-People chatting and walking leisurely along the sun-filled walkways. Miguel is nowhere in sight.

He ducks back behind the wall. Breathing heavily due to nerves more than physical exertion, he looks at Peter, who’s already laughing.

Miles can’t help but join in when they make eye contact. Peter doubles over, putting his hands on his knees. “You have Miguel O’hara–” His sentence is interrupted by another bout of hysterics. “You have Miguel O’hara as ‘Asshole f*ckface’ in your contacts?”

The entire situation is so absurd. Miles’ stomach hurts from laughing. “Ch–cheese borger.”

“Did you see his face? He looked like someone pissed in his coffee.”

“Was he looking murderous? Did his claws come out?” Miles is only half joking.

“Nah, it looked like he was going to crack a smile right before you evacuated; he definitely saw the cheese borger text, I think.”

Miles heaves a sigh. Everything was going so well. He was playing it cool, making sure Miguel saw him as capable, collected, aloof. Of course he had to screw it all up by waving his childish text conversations in Miguel’s face. Miles had forgotten he’d even changed Miguel’s contact in the first place. It was rude and juvenile; of course it would come back around to bite him in the ass.

He and Peter take a couple minutes to calm down. Miles texts Gwen and apologizes for being late, and asks her and Pav to come to the cafeteria. He turns to Peter.

“I’m meeting some friends for food. Wanna come?”

Peter’s smile is warm and boyish. There’s an adorable cowlick in one of his eyebrows, and Miles notices for the first time that he’s actually quite handsome. Many of the Peters–though not all–looked largely like Peter B. This one seemed to be an exception. His face wasn’t as long, and he had a button nose in place of Peter B’s longer crooked one. His bone structure was fine and classically handsome with a youthful softness to it.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

Gwen’s message directs them to the far side of the food court, beside the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks Nueva York. It’s around two in the afternoon, and warm golden sunlight floods into the large space. It’s not very busy; it’s the middle of the week and many Spiders have day jobs to tend to when not donning their suits. Bills have to be paid, after all.

Gwen and Pav are sitting at a four-person table immediately next to the pristine glass. Miles waves to catch their attention when he sees them. Gwen waves back similarly, but Pav nearly leaps onto the table in excitement. Seeing his friend’s enthusiasm has a grin splitting Miles’ face.

He leads Peter over. “Hey guys! I hope it’s cool that I brought Peter along, we just came back from a mission.”

“A mission? Jumping right in, huh, Miles?” Gwen’s eyebrows rise, but she looks happy at Miles’ confident re-entry into spider-society.

“I only answered Peter’s distress call, I couldn’t leave someone hanging like that.”

Pav’s head co*cks to the side. “A distress call? Are you guys okay?”

Peter pipes up: “Totally! Nothing to be worried about, just a hostage situation that got out of hand. Miles totally saved my ass, though.”

“He’s good at that. It’s his specialty.” Gwen’s voice is fond, and Miles warms at the praise. She had risen when Miles had Peter approached, so all four people were still standing around the table. Her blue eyes drift to Miles. “Are you…doing alright? With everything?”

She seems unsure of where they stand; it’s the first time Miles has seen her in person since the Spot incident. Miles can’t say that he’s forgotten everything that’s happened, and her part in it, but he thinks he’s forgiven her. He grabs her arm and pulls her in for a hug. Gwen hugs back immediately, hooking her sharp chin over his shoulder. She’s a comforting presence in his arms.

“I missed you guys,” Miles admits. “Let’s move forward, yeah?” She only hums at his sentimentality. Then she tickles him. He skwawks and squirms away. Her eyes slide down his torso.

“New suit? That’s a killer design.”

Pav whistles in agreement. “Looking very edgy, Morales.”

Miles’ stomach flutters at their approval. He shrugs, trying to play it off.

“Eh, I needed something fresh. I’m trying to start a new chapter.”

He realizes he’s left Peter standing alone while they have their reunion.

“Oh sh*t, I’m being rude. Gwen, Pav, this is Peter!”

The man (boy?) in question gives a subtle wave to everyone as they finally sit down. Miles isn’t sure exactly how old he is. He could still be in high school, but there’s a hardness behind his eyes, a tightness to his shoulders, that speaks of experience. This Spider-Man has been through something terrible.

“It’s nice to meet you guys. I’m Peter Parker, though that’s probably obvious. I joined the society a month ago, so I’m still getting used to all…” he gestures to the room around them, “this.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter Parker! I must say, you have some fabulous hair–many of the Peters have been cursed with eternal bad hair days.” Miles’ mouth quirks. Pav is entertaining as always. He finds himself agreeing with the observation; Peter’s chestnut waves are glossy and swept artfully off his forehead. There’s even a dashing lock of hair hanging attractively into his eyes. How he manages to keep it looking so good after having a mask on, Miles has no idea.

Peter flushes at the praise, ducking slightly. “Thanks, man. You’re one to talk, though. Is that all natural?” He points to Pav’s head.

Pav’s chest pushes out with pride. “Just genetics and luck, my friend!” He checks his watch. Honestly, if Miguel doesn’t want people calling it a watch, he shouldn’t have designed it to display the time when it’s not being used for anomaly detection or interdimensional travel. Pav stands. “I have an hour and a half before I need to meet my auntie, so we should eat. Are burgers cool for everyone?”

Miles and Gwen nod. Peter gives a double thumbs up, and Pav speeds off.

Miles can’t take it any more. He needs to know, so he asks. “Is your suit tech? It looks metallic.”

“It is. Nanotech, to be specific.” Peter engages his mask, and nanotech particles crawl up his face to form the Spider-Man mask. When it clicks into place, the eyes light up in electric blue. Peter disables the mask again. His hair is still flawless. Damn.

“There’s an AI built into it, too. I call her Karen. She’s really nice.”

Miles leans closer to inspect the suit. The technology looks incredibly advanced. “Did you build this yourself? That’s insane, man, you must be a legit genius or something.”

Peter’s eyes fall to the table. “I didn’t. The man who did though…had a once in a generation intellect. He was probably one of the smartest people on the planet.”

Was. Peter’s countenance is heavy with loss. With loneliness. Miles exhales heavily. “I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t mean to pry–”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, it’s a fair question and you had no way of knowing.” He chuckles sadly. “It’s definitely going to be a problem when it needs a repair. The tech is more than a little out of my depth, and there’s no one I can ask to service it without jeopardizing my anonymity.” He chews on the inside of his cheek.

Gwen pipes up. “This is 2099, there might be someone here, one of the Spiders, even, who could help you out? Miguel might know.”

Peter winces. “Ah, yeah, I don’t think I’m super…at the stage where I can ask him for any favours…he’s still miffed about the Dr. Strange incident.”

Gwen straightens up. “That was you? You’re from,” she pauses to recall the information. “Earth-199999?”

“Er–yeah. My claim to fame, and probaby the biggest f*ck-up of my life. Technically it was only, like, forty percent my fault. The multiverse hole, I mean. It’s not like either of us knew…” Peter trails off uncomfortably.

The awkward moment is broken when Pav waltzes up to their table. He’s holding a tray loaded with four orders of fries and four blue Spider-Man 2099 burgers.

Oh hell no. Pav leaps into a chair and begins passing the food around.

“Pav, are you sh*tting me? I’m not eating a Miguel burger, why’d you pick this?” Miles laces his voice with as much disdain as possible.

Gwen and Pav are already stuffing their faces, and Peter is stifling a laugh as he unwraps his. “Who even designed these? Does Miguel know?”

“I’m pretty sure Lyla authorized it as a prank and Miguel just never noticed–he only ever goes down to the cafeteria for the sh*tty empanadas. Everyone’s waiting to see what happens when he finally finds out,” Gwen says while chewing around her food.

“Ugh, I’m not eating this crap. You guys are so lame for being into it.” But Miles is starving, and takes a huge bite as soon as the burger is unwrapped. It’s actually pretty good. He swallows and takes another.

Gwen finishes chewing and points at him accusingly. “Then why are you still eating it?”

Miles narrows his eyes conspiratorially. “Am I?”

Peter chokes on his food. Miles thumps him on the back. It takes Peter a solid two minutes and an entire can of soda to compose himself, but he’s still red-cheeked and agitated.

He avoids Miles’ eyes when he asks if he’s alright.

“Yup. I just–” He clears his throat again. “Food went down the wrong hole. I’m good.”

Miles meets Gwen’s eyes and her face tells him they’re thinking the same thing.

What was that about?

They all eat contentedly in silence for a couple minutes. Miles will never admit this to anyone, but the burger is actually fantastic.

Peter seems to recover, because he pipes up once more.

“So, Miles, it seems like you have some serious history with Miguel. Are you guys exes or something?”

It’s Miles’ turn to start choking, and his fries nearly come shooting out of his nose as he tries to clear his airway. He stands up so fast his chair shoots backward and falls over with a screeching clatter.

“WHAT?! I–” he coughs again, eyes watering. “No! What the hell, the dude’s like, forty–”

“Ah. So it’s an age difference issue, then?” Peter’s face is frustratingly earnest.

“No! There’s no issue! We’re not–come on, dude, be serious! There’s no…” Miles flails his arms around, trying to illustrate his point. Pav and Gwen are nearly on the floor, they’re laughing so hard.

Miles tries again: “There’s no history like…what you’re thinking of. We’ve had…serious disagreements, that’s all.” He retrieves his chair and sits back down with a huff. Then he pushes the stupid Miguel burger away.

Gwen and Pav are still wheezing from the other side of the table. Their hollering is drawing concerned looks from around the large space.

“Miles, Miles, oh my god, Miguel is only twenty-nine, holy sh*t–” Gwen can barely speak through her laughter, and is interrupted when Pav cuts in.

“Someone go tell Miguel Miles thinks he’s looking middle-aged, I need to see Miguel versus Miles round two! He’s gonna flip his sh*t!”

Miles’ jaw drops. “He’s not even thirty?!”

“Not even thirty.” Gwen repeats seriously.

“Let’s be fair, he doesn’t look anywhere close to being that old,” says Peter. “He looks his age to me.”

Miles has to reconceptualize his mental picture of Miguel. “I don’t know, he just seems so…” He searches for the right word. Experienced? Serious?

Exhausted.

“Mature,” he finally says.

Everyone shrugs, and seems to accept the assessment.

“He has a lot to worry about,” says Gwen.

Miles can’t help but agree, thinking of the visible dark circles under Miguel’s eyes. The blood running down his hand. And the fear, the terror, under the anger that Miles could see in Miguel’s eyes that day he chased him through Nueva York.

They all finish their food and say their goodbyes soon after that. Miles’ foray back into Spider-Society has gone surprisingly well, but he’s tiring quickly. At least he didn’t have a panic attack, which had been a definite possibility.

As they exit the food court, he makes Peter add his ID to his contacts so they can keep in touch. He seems to have gotten over his earlier episode in the cafeteria, and accepts Miles’ goodbye dap up with a grin.

“Keep in touch, man,” Miles says earnestly. “It’s nice to have a Peter our age to hang out with. We know this other one, but he’s a midlife crisis on legs. Don’t tell him I’m saying this, but you’re way cooler.”

A familiar voice pipes up from behind them. “I think your exact wording was ‘Janky, old, broke, hobo Spider-Man, but I’ll take mid-life crisis, that’s way nicer.”

Miles spins around. “Peter!” He accepts the older man’s fist bump. “I didn’t know you heard that. Or that you were coming today. I thought you had to stay home?” Peter isn’t wearing the baby carrier, so he supposes Mayday didn’t come with him.

“We all have enhanced hearing, Miles. I was only thirty feet away when you said it. And Mayday’s with her grandparents for the evening, so I thought I’d stop by. I’m glad I didn’t miss you.” Peter glances behind Miles. “Who’s this?”

“Peter Parker, meet Peter B. Parker. I’m sure you guys have a lot in common.”

Miles lifts his watch and opens a portal; he really needs to get home otherwise he’ll be late to meet his parents. “I’ve got to run, my dad’s cooking dinner and if he’s left to his own devices he’ll burn the house down.”

He gives Peter B. a quick side hug, and gives the younger Peter a joking salute, which he returns.

“See ya!” As he jumps through the portal he catches a snippet of their conversation. “Do you want to see pictures of my daughter? She’s super cute, you’ll love her–”

The portal closes behind him, and Miles soars toward home.

Chapter 5: Cower

Chapter Text

Miguel O’Hara was not ready to see Miles Morales again. Least of all on a mission, out of the blue, in neither of their dimensions; Miles wasn’t supposed to be there. Miguel had no reason to anticipate seeing the teen any time soon. Miguel’s behaviour had seen to that. Shame weighs heavily in his chest just thinking about what he’d done. What he’d said. What he’d almost allowed to happen.

He doesn’t even remember some of it. The memories of those two days only appear in flashes, blurs, impressions. Far away and out of focus. Most of what he remembers is from an out-of-body perspective, distanced, like watching himself live his own life through a window.

He doesn’t recall making the decision to attack Miles on the train. It had just happened, as though someone else had yanked the reins away from him, leaving him powerless as fear and rage took over. It wasn’t his hands, his claws, that raked across Miles’ shoulder. But it was his eyes that saw Miles’ pained grimace when Miguel slammed him into the train. His fingertips, that felt the shape of the wiry, lean arms in his grasp. His nose that inhaled the coppery, sweet smell of his blood.

Too far, he’d thought. I’ve taken it too far, I want to stop this.

But you don’t have a choice, the person that was him but not him had said, the words resounding and shrieking inside his own head. None of us have a choice. We suffer, we sacrifice, so that others don’t have to. That’s what being Spider-Man means. We have to bear it. These are the chains that bind us together.

Miguel lost himself to terror that day. Cold, dark tendrils of panic slid down his spine and took root, took over, filled his head with smoke and panic until he choked on it. Miles had to be stopped, no matter the cost. Otherwise, it would be Miguel’s fault, again. More universes unravelled because of him, his mistakes, his hubris. If you fail now, everyone else pays the price. Everyone else endures your punishment.

He sees it, clearer and more certain than anything; the very last time he held Gabriella in his arms, slipping away no matter how tightly he held on. He sees, he knows, what will happen, should more universes, universes where Gabriella was still alive, start to unravel because Miles couldn’t let his father go.

At least, he thought he knew. Miguel doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel, now that Jefferson Morales certainly isn’t dead. Confusion, or anger, maybe, that his theory was proven wrong. Or relief that an innocent man still lived, and that Miles Morales still had his father.

Miguel hates being wrong. He thought if he was smart enough, worked hard enough, worked long enough, he wouldn’t have to be wrong again. Because a spectre now lurked in the deep recesses of his psyche. If the algorithm was wrong this time, how many other times had it been? How many times had Miguel trusted the number when he shouldn’t have? How many people had Miguel let die that could have been saved?

How much blood was on his hands?

He thought that the numbers, the data, couldn’t lie to him. But he supposes he was wrong about that too. He tries not to linger on it, to redirect his dread into productivity. But as always, the harder he tries, the worse things get.

Ezekiel tells him it’s a telltale symptom of PTSD. The gaps in his memory. The anger. The aggression. The anxiety, the feeling of everything slipping away from him. Of the world itself being tugged violently from under his feet.

He’s been seeing Ezekiel every week, and it has been…okay. Unpleasant, but okay. On the therapist’s orders, he’s been trying to give more responsibility to Jess, to sleep more, to ‘take better care of himself’.

“You’re exhausted, Miguel. Chronically so. Your body’s gone into survival mode. It’s why your heart pounds constantly, why you enter fight or flight at the slightest noise. Why you lash out when things go even slightly wrong. You’ve convinced your hindbrain that you’re seconds away from disaster at any given moment. You can’t carry on like this any longer.” Ezekiel’s voice had been kind, but stern. “Something always gives, eventually. At the rate you’re going, it’s going to be you.”

So Miguel tried. To sleep more, to ‘chill out,’ as Peter B. always said. After he finished making the gizmo for Miles, he slept for three days. He couldn’t let himself rest until it was done. Like an itch at the back of his brain, he douldn’t relax until it was dealt with. Miguel wasn’t a man of words, and had never been the type for heartfelt conversation. In any case, Miles had no reason to listen to his apologies. So he’d made the gizmo instead. He poured his remorse into it, making sure it was perfect. I’m sorry–he made sure it was tailored to Miles’ unique signature, that it would work perfectly. I was wrong–he matched it to the colour of Miles’ suit, made it more streamlined, less bulky, lest it sit awkwardly on the boy’s fine-boned wrist.

Slight as he was, Miles’ lean figure had hidden a surprising amount of strength. Miguel had been on the receiving end of it when they fought. He’d seen stars when Miles rammed his incredibly sharp elbow into his face, three times in quick succession. The bruises had shown up later that night. It’s not every day that an opponent was able to bestow Miguel with two matching black eyes. He’s pretty sure his nose had cracked slightly, too. He can feel a slight ridge when he presses on it, just across the bridge. It had shifted ever so slightly out of alignment when Miles broke it, and had healed before Miguel had a chance to reset it.

“Lyla. Access my suit’s interface and pull the tactile data. Is there enough to make a 3D model of Miles’ wrist?”

Lyla skims through the data. “Sure is. I’m applying it to the gizmo model now.”

Miguel grunts. “Print the frame as soon as it’s ready. And make it black, will you? The new algorithm should be coded by tomorrow. I want to download it to the gizmo as soon as it’s done.”

When the gizmo was finished and painted, it looked so small in his hand. He felt oddly hesitant to part with it, but did so anyway. He needed to make sure Miles received it. Miguel knew it didn’t fix anything, knew it wasn’t an apology. It was more a formality than anything. A concession, really; a sorry-I-turned-into-a-feral-bastard consolation watch. An I-feel-like-sh*t-and-I’m-not-sure-how-else-to-fix-this apology present. His white flag.

He felt like a coward giving it to someone else to be delivered, but he figured Miles would give him another black eye if he stepped foot in 1610. He gave it to Jess, who gave it to Pav, who gave it to Hobie, like he’d asked. The Brit had not been pleased to be serving as a ‘delivery boy,’ which Miguel had expected. Miles had also not been pleased to hear from Miguel and didn’t appear in the weeks after receiving the device, which he’d expected too. Miguel instructed Lyla to notify him if Miles ever came back to 2099 or used the gizmo to leave his dimension. He didn’t let himself think about why this was, or what he would even do if Miles reappeared. If anything, it would give Miguel some warning and an opportunity to hide or otherwise create an opportunity to avoid facing the victim of one of his biggest–and most grave–mistakes.

So, what Miguel had not expected was for Miles to soar out of a portal and into Earth-199999. A vision in crimson and midnight, Miles flew through the air with legs curled toward his chest and arms stretched behind him like wings. He must have answered the same distress call Miguel had. Why he chose that moment, that mission, for a grand entrance, Miguel couldn’t say.

Their portals opened directly across from each other, sending them hurtling toward each other at close range. Frozen, Miguel only watches with mounting panic as the distance between them disappears by the millisecond. As a child, Miguel had once been clipped by a drunk driver while walking home from the park. Overcome with panic and indecision at the nearing threat, he hadn’t been sure of which way to run, and had moved too late despite having an abundance of time.

This is worse. The only one gifted with a spider-sense, Miles moves out of the way at the last second and shoots himself at the villain. He doesn’t spare a glance at Miguel. His suit looks different; there are sharp, angular red lines accenting his shoulders, waist, and hips, and the spider motif is bigger. He looks like he’s grown a little, too. He’s perhaps a little taller, and gained muscle around the shoulders. He’s filled out a bit around the hips and thighs, though his waist is tiny as ever. He’s lean and svelte, like an elite ballet dancer.

Focus, Moron. Miles is doing your job for you.

The boy in question has already toppled and immobilized the mechanized rhino suit. Miguel webs over and smashes the protective glass over the co*ckpit with his fist. He reaches in, grabs the anomaly by the neck, and yanks him out. The glass, which had cut his hand when he punched through it, shreds his hand even more on the way back out. He hadn’t bothered to enable the defensive capabilities of his suit, so the glass slices through it easily. There wasn’t much that could kill him, so there’s no point enabling them. He grits his teeth against the pain and tosses the man away, not bothering to see where he lands. Hot waves of agony pulse up from his bleeding hand, and it gives him something other than Miles’ impromptu appearance to think about.

The young hero has rushed over to help free the civilians from under the collapsing rubble. Miguel decides to leave Miles and the other young Spider-Man to their task. He shakes out his hand and grits his teeth at the pain. Droplets of blood fly off it like water from a wet dog. They land in splatters on the dirty floor. Freed from the stabilizing abilities of the gizmo, some of the little puddles glitch upon contact with the floor.

Miguel strides over to the unconscious anomaly and ties him up with his synthetic webs. He scans the area as Peter and Miles make their way over. Lyla declares it clear, but he fiddles with his gizmo for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, trying to delay having to talk to Miles. Trepidation claws up his spine and fists around his throat.

Miles stops right beside him.

He can’t put it off any longer. He turns off his gizmo. His chest tightens. When he turns to Miles, he’s already looking at Miguel.

The teen’s new suit really is something. His last spider-suit was simple and understated. Classy, if you will. This one has more detail, and accentuates his physique. The red details are elegant and eye catching, but understated. Its style is something not typically seen on other Spider-people. They tended to be…flashy, preferring bold, bright colours and loud designs. Miguel wonders if Miles designed it himself, or if he had outside input. He thought he’d heard somewhere that Miles was an artist, but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t make a habit of asking around after the kid’s hobbies.

Miguel has no idea what to say to him. He’s had an abundance of time to think about what he might say on their first meeting, but he wasn’t expecting it to be so soon. The last time Miguel had spoken to the boy, Miles had been mostly unconscious. It had been easy then, speaking to his small, broken form in the hospital bed without the heavy weight of his brown gaze and the hatred that undoubtedly lurked there. The words had come freely, willingly, in the quiet of that evening six months ago.

“I’m sorry, Miles.”

Miguel had left after that. He’d lingered in the doorway only long enough to get the apology out. It wasn’t enough. He knew Miles probably couldn’t hear it. It was a selfish apology and he knew it; it was more for himself than for Miles. He just needed the weight off his chest, needed the assurance that even if Miles didn’t know, Miguel was sorry.

There are more things, so many more things, that he wants to say. They swirl and clamor in Miguel’s head.

I wish it were different, I wish I didn’t have to make people choose. I hate it. I hate it.

I chose one person over everyone else, over the world, once too. You’ve seen what happened to her. What it did to me. I didn’t want that to happen to you, to your world, why didn’t you listen? Why couldn’t you understand?

I don’t recognize the man I’ve become–I think I hate him, too.

I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want everyone looking up to me, I don’t know why they still do, I don’t deserve it–

He realizes he’s been silent too long, so he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Miles.” He forces his voice to remain even. Emotionless.

“Miguel.” The reply is instantaneous; the younger Spider-Man doesn’t give him any time to organize his thoughts into something coherent. Anxiety swirls through him. He feels like he’s playing verbal hot potato; he didn’t want his turn to speak to come back around so soon. Miguel’s next comment trips and stumbles out of his mouth before he can pull it back.

“You have a new suit.” Way to state the obvious. He forces himself not to cringe. He squeezes his injured hand into a tight fist, digging his claws into the open wounds. The searing pain sings and burns through his hand, grounding him and quieting the clamoring in his head.

There’s a reason why he became a scientist, why he worked his way up through Alchemax at such a young age, and why he spends so much time alone in his office. Miguel O’hara is sh*t at talking to people.

“Obviously,” Miles spits.

Miguel doesn’t know how to respond.

Miles continues: “You shredded the other one.”

The silence stretches. Miles seems intent on giving him a hard time.

Miguel nods slightly, but it’s jerky and awkward. He recalls, as if through cloudy glass, slicing through the left shoulder of Miles’ last suit with his claws, fabric and warm skin parting easily under their sharpness. Miles’ blood had smelled sweet. Lush. He grimaces under his mask, and squeezes his eyes shut so hard that blotches of colour play against the darkness of his closed lids.

The conversation has veered horribly sideways, and Miguel doesn’t know how to steer it back on track.

Peter mutters under his breath. “Phew, that is some weird tension right there.”

No one else speaks for another long moment. The rain patters lightly on the destroyed ferry decks. Miguel’s chest tightens further, and his breath stutters. It’s cold enough outside that his exhalation mists in the air.

Then Miles, thank f*ck, seems to tire of Miguel’s presence.

“Let’s head out, yeah? I’ve got a meeting I’m late for, soo…” He trails off, shifting on his feet.

Peter, probably wanting to be free of the intense awkwardness of the past few minutes, opens a portal for them. Miguel lugs the anomaly and his suit into the bright whirlpool of colour. He’d already attached a tracking beacon to it, so it would be sent directly to the containment bay.

Miguel jumps into the portal. He doesn’t turn to check if the other two Spider-Men follow him.

He disables his mask as he lands on the elevator platform, taking a deep breath of much-needed fresh air. Miles and Peter land lightly beside him, with Miles immediately to Miguel’s right and Peter on the far side to Miles’ left. He tunes them out as they chat, counting down the seconds until the elevator doors open. He flexes his hand, pleased to find that it’s not dripping all over the floor anymore. But it’s still covered in blood and cuts, and the whole thing throbs with searing pain.

He keeps his gaze strictly forward, hoping that if he doesn’t draw any attention to himself, Miles won’t try to continue their conversation. He feels so childish for doing so, but he can’t help it. If I can’t see it, it can’t see me…

There’s a sudden silence in the small space.

Miguel peeks over to his right. Peter is staring at Miles with wide eyes and an open mouth. He glances over to Miles to see what could have prompted such a reaction. He’s taken his mask off, but he looks normal enough. He looks the same as he did the last Miguel saw him, if not a little more well rested and less like someone in imminent mortal danger. His cheekbones have gotten sharper.

Was his ear always pierced?

Miles looks as confused as Miguel is. Peter is still staring.

“You okay, man?” Miles sounds genuinely concerned.

Peter stammers out a reply that Miguel doesn’t listen to, and seems to shake himself out of his reverie. Tch, teenagers. So weird.

The doors finally open, and they all exit the elevator. Miles checks his gizmo. It looks like it fits his wrist perfectly. The black metal looks good against the fabric of his suit. Something warm and satisfied swirls in Miguel’s chest.

Miles projects his texts up off the screen of his watch. For whatever reason, he has his projection mode set to maximum display size. Maybe he didn’t know how to change it? In any case, all of Miles’ text conversations are now hovering six inches from all their faces.

It’s impossible not to look.

Gwen Stacy (65): You coming? We’re all outside.

Pavitr Prabhakar (50101B): cheese borger

ASSHOLE f*ckFACE (928): Ok

Well then.

That little f*cker.

The dimension ID at the end of the contact is unmistakeable. As much as Miles had clearly customized his contact for Miguel, that number could not be changed. Miguel designed it that way to prevent confusion; with so many Spider-People sharing the same name, their dimension IDs were the only way to differentiate people on paper. Nearly 50% of Spider-Society was named Peter, for Christ’s sake.

He feels a smile start to creep up on his face, and against his will a laugh bubbles up in his chest. His lips twist into a grimace to try and contain it. It’s so horribly juvenile, so ridiculous, he can’t find it in himself to be mad. There are worse ways for Miles to take out his anger.

“That’s real mature.” Miguel can’t help but tease the teen about it, not when Miles looks ready to plead for his life. He’s scrambling to cover the gizmo and dismiss the display, and has turned an interesting shade of grey.

Peter looks like he’s witnessing the entertainment of the century.

Miles grabs Peter’s arm and takes off, probably because he expects Miguel to attack him again. He’s not sure why Miles needed Peter to come with him, though. Maybe he just thought Miguel was that psychotic, and would attack anything that moved.

That’s considerate of Miles, to be protecting Peter from one of Miguel’s murderous rages. He’s experienced one first-hand, he could be qualified as a how-to-escape-Miguel-when-he’s-having-an-episode expert.

Miguel stands there for a few seconds, drained by the exchange.

He laughs drily to himself. I’m too tired for this.

He gets back to his lab and flops into a chair. He rummages around one one of the desks, shifting various gizmo parts and tablets aside. Where did he put it?

“Lyla, have you seen my mug anywhere? I want to finish my coffee.”

“You were drinking that coffee over 18 hours ago, Miguel. You left the lab with it last night and weren’t holding it when you came back.”

Well, there goes my mug. Gabriel had given it to him, and he felt like an asshole for losing it, inconsequential as it was.

“How much time do I have before I need to sleep again?”

“None, Miguel. You should be able to tell that on your own.”

He grinds his teeth. A bolt of pain lances through his head. He’s probably dehydrated; the coffee yesterday was definitely the last thing he had to drink.

“How much time do I have before my cognitive functioning starts to decline?”

A grating sound blares out, and an ERROR message flashes across every screen. Lyla’s voice rings out in a robotic tone: “Access denied. Health monitors triggered. System lockout commencing in 5…4…3–“

“No! Goddamnit, why did I ever-” He tries to stop the alarm, halt the lockout process, but it’s no use. He did design it that way. He curses his own system. And himself.

His complaining is halted by a sudden call from Jess. Lyla answers it for him.

“I swear to god, Miguel, I already have one baby to take care of. Why can’t you put yourself to bed on your own? Do you need me to wipe your ass too?”

The mini-projection of Jess bounces her son on her hip while leveling Miguel with a glare. Her curly hair is pulled back and she’s dressed down in a hoodie and leggings. Gerry is chewing on a slobber-soaked chubby baby fist. He looks almost as disapproving as his mother.

“Jess, I–please, I’m going to go nuts if I have to spend any more time in my own head. I just need a distraction, I may as well do something productive and keep working.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m going to go nuts if I get one more alert from Lyla that you’ve gone another three days without food or sleep!”

Miguel begins chewing on a claw. It’s a terrible habit, made more so when he does it in public and accidentally flashes both claws and fangs to poor strangers at the grocery store. His claws are too strong to nibble through, even with his fangs, so it’s a pointless habit. That doesn’t stop him from doing it when he gets antsy.

Gerry lets out a gurgle and reaches toward Miguel, excited to see his familiar face through the call. “Mi!”

When Miguel doesn’t answer, Jess’ head co*cks to the side.

“What happened? I get all the same anomaly data you do, so I know nothing’s gone wrong.”

“He’s back.”

Her eyes widen.

Miguel takes his fingers away from his mouth. “Miles came back.”

She considers him for a moment. Her eyes drift to his hand, then back to his face.

“So how badly did you f*ck it up?”

“Hey!”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re a jittery wreck and you aren’t bothering to deal with your mess of a hand, which is dripping all over the floor, by the way.”

He looks down, and his hand is indeed bleeding considerably once more. He must have opened the cuts up again while biting his claws. Whatever. They’ll close again soon enough. He sighs.

“Did…Miles do that?” She asks.

“Jesus! No, we didn’t fight, Jess. He answered the distress call for a mission I was paged for, that’s all. I don’t know why he chose that moment to show up. My hand will be fine, it’s just sliced a bit from some glass, that’s all.”

Gerry squirms in her arms and she lets him down. Miguel can’t see him now that he’s out of frame, but the call picks up audio of him bashing toys against the hardwood floor and babbling happily. His mother crosses her arms and shifts on her feet. There’s a wet spot of baby drool on her shoulder that Miguel can’t help but notice.

“How was he?” There’s a note of concern in her voice.

Miguel thinks back to the way Miles soared through the air, a blur of electric red against the stormy sky of Earth-199999. Long and lithe, he had kicked Rhino over like it was nothing. He seemed strong. Healthy.

“He looked…good?”

Jess’ eyebrow rises instantly, and Miguel know’s he’s made an error.

“He looked good?” She accentuates the phrase with mocking air quotes. “I meant his well being, Miguel. Does he seem alright? Coping? Recovered?”

“Yes! f*ck, that’s what I meant, he seems fine, Jess. We barely spoke, he had nothing to say to me. But he’s alright. Uninjured. Good.”

Jess seems to accept his assessment. “Alright. Let him return to the Society at his own pace. Don’t do anything rash–I don’t want him left alone with you without supervision, you’ll spook him.”

“Oi! He’s not a deer–”

“And go to bed.”

She ends the call. The lab is silent until Lyla reappears on Miguel’s left shoulder. She places an incorporeal hand on his cheek.

“You know she’s right, Miguel. There’s nothing else to take care of today.”

His shoulders drop. “Can you…can you tell me where Miles is right now?”

She locates his gizmo instantly, pulling up the feed on the screens. The boy in question is seated in the cafeteria with Gwen, Pav, and Peter. They’re surrounded by an array of food wrappers and empty cups. Miles is slouched back in his chair with one foot resting on the opposite knee. There’s a catlike aspect to the way he lounges in the chair, all flexibility and grace. He’s chatting animatedly with Pav while Gwen and Peter look on.

Miguel squints at the screen and zooms in on Peter. He looks distracted. Not upset, but troubled. Spooked. Miles throws his head back and laughs. It’s subtle, but the look on Peter’s face worsens. His eyes go far off, and the corners of his mouth tip down; he’s still looking at Miles.

“What’s that about?”

Lyla hums. “I can’t really say. He’s had it harder than most, you know. He lost everyone he loved, even if some of them are technically still alive. This is likely one of the first friendly interactions he’s had with people his age since the incident with Dr. Strange’s spell.”

“Hmm. You’re probably right.” He pauses the feed on Peter’s face. Miles is frozen mid-grin, speaking to his friends across the table. The sun shines in from the windows beside him, setting his warm skin aglow.

The look on Peter’s face is more than sadness, or exhaustion. It’s a feeling Miguel knows well. He feels it when he sees Peter B. with Mayday, and when he sees Jess with her baby.

It’s grief. Being reminded of what one wants most but can never have is a very particular pain. Having lost someone because of your own mistakes is almost worse than never loving them at all. Miguel wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But looking at Peter when he looks at Miles…it’s impossible to miss.

Chapter 6: Stalemate

Chapter Text

Miles slowly reintroduces himself to Spider-Society. He begins accepting mission invitations from his friends, though not frequently. He has too many responsibilities to handle, what with Spider-Man patrols in 1610 and the increasing workload of his junior year.

Emergency pages come through on his watch sometimes. He doesn’t answer them. It fills him with guilt, wondering if the few seconds he waits until someone else answers the page are ever the reason something terrible happens. But he can’t bring himself to do it. They’re usually answered immediately, anyways.

Miles can’t help but wonder if it’s him that’s picking them up. So, he avoids any last minute missions, and only attends those whose teams are confirmed Miguel-free beforehand.

It’s cowardly and he knows it.

He doesn’t spend much time at Spider headquarters, but he does have quick snacks in the cafeteria with his friends when he has the chance. He slowly gets to know some of the other Spiders, and they’re usually pretty cool. Most understand that he’s trying to put the Spot incident behind him, and respect his wishes not to talk about it. Others aren’t so considerate: Miles sometimes has to make quick getaways to avoid overeager people wanting more juicy details about the legendary villain. The worst though, is when people ask him about being an anomaly, or about 1610’s late Peter Parker. It exhausts him, and makes him want to avoid much of the Society.

There’s also…this other thing. Miles doesn’t notice it at first. It’s not something he can really put his finger on, and he’s still half convinced he’s imagining it. Some of the other young Spider-People have been…really nice. Almost too nice. If he encountered the kinds of behaviour he was seeing anywhere else but the Society, he would assume he was being pranked.

First it was just staring. Subtle and harmless, if not a little uncomfortable on Miles’ end. Eyes that lingered just a little too long, too often. It’s not leering, and it doesn’t make Miles uncomfortable. It’s just…strange. It’s not from just one or two people, either. It’s several; it happens with more people than Miles can keep track of. He noticed it happened most often with the younger Peters in the society.

One tries to give him his place in line at the food court. Others hold doors open for an uncomfortably long time so Miles has to do that weird jog to get there in a polite amount of time. Once when Miles was trying to reach a bottle of co*ke from the top shelf of one of the convencience stores in the food court, someone ran from across the store to get it for him. He even offered to buy it for Miles. He declined, obviously.

One evening after a gruelling fight against a Doc Ock, Miles bumps into someone on the way to the exit hall. Bump is almost too harsh a word; it’s an accidental grazing of shoulders at most. The walkway had been busy and Miles had leapt out of the way of Peter Parkedcar rushing off to god knows where. He stumbled into a young Spider (whom he vaguely recalled being named Parker Peterson), causing him to spill coffee all over his chest.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. sh*t, is that going to stain?” He points to the large wet coffee splotch on the man’s chest.

The Spider is already waving him off as he surveys the damage to his suit, which is a vibrant purple. “Nah, it’s cool! Not your fault-” He looks up at Miles for the first time, and chokes mid-sentence.

The mug in his hand, which reads “HOT MESS” in large lettering, smashes on the ground. Gobsmacked, he stares at Miles.

The puddle of coffee at their feet begins to soak into the toes of Parker’s boots. He doesn’t move.

Miles thinks it’s a severe overreaction.

“Um…is there, like, something on my face? If it’s blood, I promise it’s not mine, I just got back from an anomaly fight and the thing would not go down easily, let me tell ya.” Miles pauses and laughs awkwardly. Parker’s mouth is still hanging open. “Sorry about your…mug?”

The conversation has gone horribly awry, but Miles isn’t sure what he’s done. Thankfully, Parker shakes himself back into the present.

“Sorry! Sorry, jeez, I think I left the, ah, oven on or something?” His voice rises at the end, like he thinks Miles can tell him if his oven was in fact still on. His pale cheeks are bright red.

What’s up with this guy?

“Okay? You should probably go…deal with that, then.” Miles awkwardly pats Parker’s shoulder, and the man stiffens up even more. “Cool. I’m gonna peace out, then. Sorry again about the stain. And the mug.”

Parker straightens like he’s been electrocuted. “It’s okay! Both suit and mug are replaceable! The mug wasn’t even mine, technically I took it from the lost and found, so, no harm done! I’ll clean this up, I’m definitely the one who bumped into you, so clumsy of me.”

Spider-people had superhuman reflexes. None of them were clumsy. Didn’t he just say he’d left his oven on?

“Awesome. Well, I’ll leave you to it-” Miles turns to leave.

“WAIT!”

Oh what the hell.

“What’s your name?”

It feels like a loaded question.

“...Miles,” He answers tentatively.

“Just Miles?” His tone is searching.

What else would it be? “Yes? My last name is Morales, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Parker’s face seems to fall, like that wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. “Right. It’s nice to meet you. Miles. I’ll see you around.” With that, he leaps off the walkway, mug shards in hand.

So weird.

Interactions like this aren’t frequent, per se, but they happen often enough for Miles to take notice.

Miles lets it go on for a few months before he can’t stand it anymore. He and Gwen are sitting on the floor in her room, surrounded by a mess of paints and brushes. It’s December, so with most of the teen Spiders on break for Christmas they’ve been trying to spend more time together. Gwen had roped gim into following a Bob Ross painting video with her. Pav was with them too, but he’d fallen asleep five minutes into the video and was now snoring softly on the floor. He’s not a fan of New York winters, and has wrapped himself on one of Gwen’s blankets like a burrito.

The wintery landscape they’re painting isn’t Miles’ usual style and the tutorial is a bit too easy for him, but it’s funny watching Gwen fail horribly at following the instructions.

He figures now is a good time to ask her.

“Have you noticed that some of the Peters are kinda…weird around me? Like, all awkward and nervous and stuff?”

Gwen isn’t fazed at all. “Mhm. They’re like that with me too.” She doesn’t even look up from her painting. Her tongue sticks out from the corner of her mouth as she concentrates. A streak of blue paint is smeared across her forehead.

Miles’ feet are starting to go numb from sitting on them, so he shifts around to lie on his stomach. “Do they act like that toward everyone? The other day one of them gave me his dimensional ID ‘in case I ever needed it,’’’ Miles accentuates the phrase with air quotes. “What does that even mean? If I ever needed help, I’d just send a distress call through the system!”

Gwen’s pierced eyebrow lifts. “Miles. He was hitting on you.”

Miles shoots to his feet. “I–wha–you–Gwen! I’m being so serious right now! There’s some seriously weird sh*t going on. A couple weeks ago one of them asked me if my last name was Jones and he started crying when I said it wasn’t. Crying, Gwen!”

The pause before she speaks is slightly too long. “Peter Parker variants are some of the most awkward people in the multiverse, Miles. They’re kind and earnest to a fault and couldn’t be charismatic if their life depended on it. The Peter you were talking to the other day was probably…” She seems to change her answer at the last second. “He was probably just going through something. It’s not anything you’ve done.”

It’s an evasive non-answer and they both know it. Miles doesn’t want to push her. Something about his line of questioning has made Gwen uncomfortable and the situation isn’t enough of an issue to keep worrying about it.

“You’re right,” Miles says. “It’s probably nothing.” There’s a flurry of snowflakes beginning to fall outside, and Miles watches them swirl in the breeze. Gwen’s universe is so pretty. The snow is starting to settle and collect on the rooftops, dusting them like icing sugar. The setting sun paints the flakes in pink and gold, making them sparkle like glitter. Miles wishes his universe had snow like this - in 1610 what little snow had fallen had already turned to ice and grey muck. On his way home from his semester exams a turning car had sprayed him with disgusting slush and he’d had to walk to his parents house soaking wet and shivering. He’s pretty sure there’d been like four cigarette butts in the slush-wave. So nasty.

“Hey, how’s Miles from 42 doing these days? Have you talked to him?” Gwen asks, breaking him from his reverie.

“Oh, Miles G.? He’s good, I was able to get him a Spider-phone so we can keep in touch. He’s been sending me memes from his dimension, man they crack me up–”

“Aren’t you Miles G., too?” Gwen’s eyebrows are furrowed in confusion.

Miles laughs. “No! My middle name isn’t Gonzalo, ew. Not having a Spider-Man in his universe sucks, but having a middle name like that is even worse. No hate though, obviously.” He continues working on his painting. Both of them are mostly ignoring the tutorial and are just freestyling at this point.

Gwen seems to ponder for a moment. “What is your middle name, then?”

Miles looks up. “You really don’t know?” She shakes her head. Miles hums, focused on his painting. “It’s Jayden.”

She puts her brush down, pushing herself to a seated position. Her eyes widen, just a little. “So–you’re Miles… J.”

…

Miles gets his wish three weeks later. The temperature drops ten degrees and seven inches of snow are dumped on the city overnight. It’s as if the arrival of some snow makes the entire city forget how to drive, because car accidents increase two-fold over three days. He’s forced to increase patrol because of it. A hydroplaning truck would have crashed through the front of a daycare if Miles hadn’t caught it in time. He’s stopped three other accidents since.

He’s also taken to wearing a jacket or hoodie over his suit; it’s simply too cold to go without it. It’s a pain and it seriously diminishes the effect of the Spider-Suit, but it’s either that or freeze to death. He buys an oversized black hoodie specifically for Spider-Man activities, since most of his sweaters have recognizable graphics on them. If his identity was revealed because someone noticed Spider-Man and Miles Morales wore the same band merch he’d never live it down. He’d had a sobering close call when he’d almost swung out of his dorm in a Visions hoodie before realizing how supremely stupid it was to go out with his school name advertised in all caps across his chest. He cringes just thinking about it.

The sweater in question is thick, soft, and perfectly oversized. It helps cut the wind as Miles is swinging around, and he’s thankful he remembered to put it on. He swings to the top of a high-rise apartment building and pauses to rub some warmth back into his toes. He sits down and curls into a ball, tucking his knees against his chest underneath the large hoodie. He’s blowing hot air over his hands to try to regain some warmth when he sees it.

The flash of light is a burst of technicholor between two buildings. It’s probaby a mile or so away; Miles only sees it because he’s high enough already. The light is only there for a second, maybe two, before it blinks out. The fractals of light are unmistakably a portal, but Miles wasn’t expecting any visitors. He isn’t an expert, but any Spider-Verse business usually came with a heads-up and a mission request. Miles had gotten no such message.

That left only one other option. Miles was wondering when one would show up in 1610. It’s a small miracle this first one had taken so long.

He pulls his hoodie back over his knees and unfurls himself from his tightly curled ball. Warming up would have to wait.

He dives off the high-rise. The feeling of free-fall tugs at his stomach, exhilarating and electric. He lets himself fall for a couple seconds to build up momentum before webbing onto a building and swinging in the direction of the light. It came from the Upper East side. Miles had stopped to rest in Midtown Manhattan, so it only takes him a couple minutes of high-speed swinging to arrive at his destination.

The alley where the light came from is beside an older apartment building, no taller than eight storeys. He lands lightly at the top floor where the wall meets the roof, and sticks to the side while he listens. He closes his eyes and forces his senses to sharpen, allowing his spider-sense to extend its awareness.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He’s springing upward before he consciously registers any movement, and the tiny bomb explodes where Miles had been less than a heartbeat ago. It’s not a large explosion, but it would’ve dealt a good deal of damage if Miles hadn’t moved. He flips once before landing gracefully on the roof.

A maniacal laugh follows another bomb. Green Goblin. Of course.

Miles dives back down the wall to dodge the bomb. He’s gone long before the projectile can come near him, but Miles feels the searing heat of it at his back. He’s very toasty now.

His spider-sense warns him that Goblin’s flying closer. Miles spots him rounding the corner from the far end of the alley. At ten yards away, he’s easily within bomb-throwing range.

Miles moves before the anomaly can get too close, sprinting up the wall as the anomaly shoots after him. The Green Goblin that Miles saw fighting Peter Parker two years ago was much larger, with wings and a monstrous, gargoyle-like physique. This one is still a man. He’s in an acid-green suit and goblin mask. The glider he’s flying around on is wicked-looking, with sharp blades projecting off the front and back.

Miles makes it up to the roof and sprints to the other side of the building. He vaults over the other edge and stops, clinging to the wall. The sound of the propulsors on Goblin’s glider grows closer. Miles looks down–the apartment building is only a few stories tall. There’s a large couch left on the side of the street. Miles webs it and hauls it up to him. He then swings it up and back, hitting Goblin square in the chest just as the villain reaches the edge of the roof.

The anomaly is thrown off the glider, and hits the roof hard. He rolls, glitching and spitting with fury. He recovers quickly and staggers to his feet.

Miles webs the glider to the roof, but it’s a temporary solution at best. He readies himself for another attack, crouching deeply with fingers hovering over his webshooter triggers.

Goblin cackles deeply again, and it sends a chill down Miles’ spine.

“You’re not the real Spider-Man.” Goblin kicks the couch away from him. It screeches across the ground before slamming against the entrance to the stairwell with a loud bang. “Where’s the original? I’m not interested in fighting a copycat.”

A surge of anger flares in Miles’ gut, and he leaps at Goblin. “That’s a shame.”

He goes invisible mid-air. Goblin staggers back a half step in surprise, and it’s all the more satisfying when Miles’ right hook connects square in the bastard’s cheekbone. He’s put most of his strength behind it. Goblin’s head snaps to the side, and the rest of his body follows as he’s thrown instantly to the floor. The lower half of the goblin mask cracks and falls away. Two teeth fly out, skittering across the roof.

“Woohoo!” Miles laughs, “War souvenirs for me!” He kicks the villain in the solar plexus. He hears ribs crack. He flips backward to put distance between them, going visible once he lands a few yards away.

The Goblin pauses for a moment before getting slowly back to his feet. “Well well.” His mouth splits into a sinister grin, and his teeth are stained red by his own blood. “This one’s angry.”

The glider’s jets flare white-hot, and the webbing holding it snaps. It shoots toward its master, and the Goblin jumps on. He rises several feet and hovers there.

“What’s got you fuming so, little Spider?”

Miles dives out of the way of another bomb. He rolls to a crouch and sees the Goblin rear back to throw another. He leaps upward and intercepts it with a web as it reaches the midpoint of its trajectory. He swings it back around at its thrower. The Goblin barely makes it out of the way of the explosion in time, cackling as he zooms away.

“Now this is refreshing.” His voice is jagged and piercing, like broken glass. “Finally, an opponent who fights for real.” He spits a mouthful of saliva and blood off to the side. “Those bombs are designed to kill.” His head tilts, assessing. His grin grows wider, more deranged. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”

Molten rage bubbles up and festers in Miles’ throat. “Do you ever shut up? It’s a wonder your universe’s Spider-Man hasn’t killed you yet.”

He turns himself invisible once more. He shoots a web up to the glider as gently as he can. The Goblin doesn’t notice. Miles begins to pull himself up slowly, hand over hand so the glider doesn’t dip with his weight.

“Oh, that is interesting.” Goblin’s voice drips with venom. “I suspected, but couldn’t be sure. I’d like to stay here, I think. You’re much more fun. Peter Parker is a weak little coward. You’re different though aren’t you?”

Miles reaches the glider and hoists himself onto it. He stands silently. He feels his venom start to surge in his system, nerves singing with power.

“I sure am.”

He drops his invisibility just as he closes his hands around Goblin’s neck. There’s a strip of bare skin just under his jaw, where his mask has fallen away and above where his neck guard stops.

It’s all Miles needs.

He sees himself, burning and sizzling with electricity, reflected in the eyes of the Goblin mask just as he releases the blast. He’s kept it low enough not to kill him. Probably.

The Goblin seizes, then drops like a stone. He tumbles off the glider and onto the rooftop some ten feet below. He lands with a loud thud and doesn’t stir. Still standing atop the glider, Miles lets the silence settle over him and wills the sparks in his blood to fizzle out.

His watch beeps. Miles looks down. He knows what it’s going to say.

MISSION REPORT & ANOMALY CONTAINMENT REQUIRED

Miles’ stomach does a little somersault. Not every anomaly occurrence required a report, but the more severe ones did. Miles knows he can’t decline it. As much as he wants to avoid spending time at HQ, especially alone, he’s not irresponsible enough to avoid these procedures. In any case, he and Miguel have been…okay. Maybe. They still haven’t spoken, but he’s seen Miguel from afar a couple times at HQ. He nodded to Miles once when they passed each other in the hallway, and Miles is still convinced he imagined it. Miguel hasn’t tried to bring up the incident with Miles’ rude contact name, so he assumes the guy doesn’t care enough to make it an issue. Miles is grateful for that.

He takes a stabilizing breath. In. Out.

This is almost worse than fighting the Goblin.

He accepts the alert anyways.

A portal opens automatically, and Miles tosses the unconscious Goblin through. The glider is pushed through right after. Miles waits a few seconds, then follows.

It spits him out just outside the doors to Miguel’s lab. HQ is quieter than usual. It’s the middle of the night in both Miles’ dimension and in 2099, so he supposes most people are at home. The lights throughout the whole building are dimmed, as if the tower itself was growing sleepy. It’s eerie seeing the place so empty.

He pulls his mask off and crumples it in his hand. It was starting to grow damp from the condensation in his breath and he’s grateful for the opportunity to be free of it. Miles only allows himself a second to pause before going in. Hopefully there are some other people working on something with Miguel, so Miles doesn’t have to be in his presence without a buffer.

Please don’t let me be the only one here, please don’t be in there, Miguel, pleaseplease–

Miles is the only one there. He forces himself to walk to Miguel’s platform at a normal pace. The room is even darker than the hallway outside. The platform is down at ground level and none of the screens are on.

Miguel isn’t…there?

“Nice of you to come.” Miles absolutely does not jump at the unexpected voice. It came from the far left. It echoes subtly in the large space.

Miles turns. If he hadn’t had enhanced eyesight, he would have had to squint to see in the gloom. Nearest to the wall, there’s a cluster of desks and equipment he can’t name or make sense of.

Miguel sits cross-legged on top of one of the desks, fiddling with a watch. He’s hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, broad shoulders curled forward and back sloped. It’s an oddly youthful position, making the tall, imposing man seem much younger. Miles realizes at that moment that Miguel really is much younger than he originally thought–he isn’t even thirty yet. Miguel’s popping some sort of chip in and out of the watch, again and again. The movement can’t have any purpose; it’s just a fidgety distraction. It makes a satisfying thwip-click, thwip-click sound.

Miles places his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and co*cks his head.

“You called.”

Miguel slides the chip back into the watch for the last time. When he finishes, he looks up at Miles. His eyes trail from his face down to his feet, then back up again.

“How’d the fight go?”

“Don’t you know?”

Miguel rolls his eyes. “Well, yes, but seeing as you’re here for a report I thought you might want to, you know, do that?”

Miles crosses his arms. “Fine. The Goblin is contained. The whole thing only lasted a few minutes. Nothing I can’t handle.”

The older man smirks, just a little. “Clearly.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Miguel’s eyes glint crimson in the low light.

“So is there a reason you needed me to come to your Spider-lair in person, or did you just miss me?” Miles asks.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

“Sure do. I practice everyday just so I can piss you off.”

“Trust me, you’re succeeding.”

Miles gives an exaggerated bow. He doesn’t smile at their easy banter. He doesn’t.

An impressive sigh escapes from Miguel as he unfolds his legs and hops off the desk.

“I called you here because we’re starting to have…problems with certain anomalies.” He pulls up a few holographic screens and sorts through them, seemingly at random. “There are some who have slipped into other dimensions multiple times, and they’re starting to take an interest in outstaying their welcome.” Miguel seems to find what he’s looking for as he pulls one to the front, zooming in on the feed. It’s dated to one week ago.

The footage is of a dimension Miles hasn’t been to, but the Goblin variant is instantly recognizable. He’s fighting against the local Spider, throwing bomb after bomb as his opponent doges each one. He glitches then, flickering with myriad shades of green.

“Anything worth mentioning?” There’s another question hidden beneath the query, and Miles feels he’s being tested.

“The glitch. It was much more severe a week ago. The one I saw while fighting him just now wasn’t even half as bad.”

Miguel raises his chin. Go on.

“It’s not a coincidence. He’s done something, hasn’t he?”

Miguel nods. “Though he may seem far from it right now, Green Goblin was once a brilliant man named Norman Osborne. He developed the serum that turned him into the creature you fought just now. Sometimes flashes of the man he once was can slip through. His visit to 1610 was no mistake.”

“He’s dimension hopping on purpose.”

“And he’s not the only one.”

Miles huffs out a deep sigh. “Well, sh*t.”

Miguel chuckles a little. “That about sums it up, yeah.”

He feeds through the screens for a few more seconds, pulling up anomaly files marked as ‘A-RANK’.

Among them are Dock Oc, Dr. Connors, and Norman and Harry Osborne. All Spider-Man villains who were exceptionally more intelligent than the rest. Sharp, analytical people who were all likely to take a deep interest in multiversal travel.

The quiet in the lab is almost…comfortable.

“Are we waiting for someone?” Miles asks.

“Peter and Hobie are on their way. They’ve both recently encountered these anomalies, so they need to be briefed too.”

“How new is this development?”

“We first picked up on it four days ago. The pattern is unmistakeable now.” Miguel’s eyes drift over to Miles again. “What’s with the sweater?” It sounds like a genuine question.

Miles gestures vaguely to the sky. “It’s January.”

Miguel only looks at him, so Miles continues. “It’s too cold to patrol in just my suit, I’m not trying to get hypothermia.”

“Why is it so big on you? Doesn’t it get in the way while you’re fighting?”

Miles scoffs. “Calm down, fashion police. I didn’t realize you enforced a mission dress-code.”

“I don’t! Why do you insist on being so annoying?!”

Miles’ next response is incredibly scathing and sophisticated: “You’re the one who’s annoying!” Sick burn. “Grumpy old bitch…” Miles does not intend for his last comment to come out as loud as it does, and he freezes in horror.

Miguel’s eyes narrow into slits. “You little piece of–” He’s cut off by the opening of two portals.

Miles has never been so happy to be interrupted.

Peter B. and Hobie step into the room. Hobie’s in his usual getup, and Peter has thankfully left his pink bathrobe at home, so he appears to be taking the mission seriously. Peter’s face lights up when he sees Miles.

“Hey-hey, padawan! Who’d you steal that sweater from, Rubeus Hagrid?”

Ugh. Peter clearly brought the typical Spider-Man charm to work today.

The corner of Miguel’s mouth quirks up.

Hobie cackles merrily and flips the hood over Miles’ head. It’s so big it obscures the top half of his vision. Miles whips it back off.

“You’re hilarious, Peter.” Miles ensures his tone is bone-dry. He turns to Hobie: “How do you even know who that is? Aren’t you from the seventies?”

Hobie laughs again. “Gwenny showed me the movies. They were a crock of sh*t, but Peter’s got a point, mate.”

Miles tears the sweater off and whips it at Peter’s face. It lands square on his head. The man just laughs and removes it, tossing it onto a nearby desk.

“You’re one to talk, Peter. You wear a pink bathrobe and slippers on the reg, that’s so much worse–”

“As thrilling as this conversation is,” Miguel interrupts, “We have actual work to get done. So if you all could focus for two minutes, that’d be great.” Miguel strides over to his platform and fires up the main display.

“I called you here because anomalies are starting to notice what’s going on. I’m loath to admit that there are several anomaly variants that are too smart for their own good.”

Miguel pulls up a frame taken from Miles’ fight with Green Goblin, not twenty minutes ago. It’s paused just where the Goblin was glitching, and it’s obvious now–it should have been much more severe. A flare of anxiety, as well as something darker, flickers in Miles’ stomach. Barely a year after the Spot, and already trouble is stirring again. Miles won’t allow it to go further.

“What has he done?” Miles’ voice is uncharacteristically cold.

“He’s experimenting on himself. It’s likely he picked something up from his last dimension excursion and is using it to study cellular decay. He’s trying to figure out a way to stop glitching,” says Miguel.

Peter frowns. “Why have you called only the three of us here? Shouldn’t this be a larger announcement?”

“So far only the three of you have come into contact with these repeat-travellers. It could turn out to be nothing. The likelihood of one of these anomalies suddenly cracking multiversal travel is slim to none. It’s technically not a problem yet, so it’s on a need-to-know basis only.”

A flare of anger cracks through Miles and he starts forward. “This doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’. The Spot came out of nowhere, and we were almost too late to stop him. Tons of these variants come from universes with colliders, we need to do something now!”

“What is there to do, Miles? Technically none of these anomalies have done anything out of the ordinary. Goblin is being examined right now, but there’s nothing we can do until they do something first. It’s not like we can memory-wipe them,” Miguel says.

“Not even if we hit them hard enough on the head?”

Hobie laughs and tries to cover it up by coughing when Miguel glares at him dissaprovingly.

Lyla’s voice filters into the room: “Blunt trauma to the head hasn’t been shown to be an effective method for targeted memory loss, not without also causing severe side effects such as brain bleeds and death–”

“Thank you Lyla!” Miles scrambles to backtrack. “I was mostly joking, let’s all just forget I said that.”

Peter claps him on the back, and Miles shrugs him off. “It was a brilliant suggestion Miles, I love the enthusiasm.”

“Full anarchy, I like it,” Hobie adds.

“For f*ck’s sake, dealing with you three is like herding cats, I can’t get even one of you to stay on track for more than thirty seconds. Get out of here before I have to give myself a brain bleed.” Miguel scrubs his hands over his face and hair, tousling a few locks of his dark hair.

They all stare at Miguel.

“Go, piss off!” He waves his hands at them. “That’s all I have for you. Go back to doing whatever it is you do in your respective dimensions, and try not to do anything stupid in the meantime. Just keep an eye out and report anything suspicious.”

“You piss off, wanker,” Hobie scoffs.

Miguel narrows his eyes, but allows the comment.

Hobie grins at Miles and flips Miguel off before stepping through his portal. Miles is thankful that Miguel doesn’t see Hobie flipping him the bird–he’s sensing they’ve all gotten on his nerves enough for one evening. Don’t poke the bear, and all that.

“Well, Miguel, it’s been lovely as always.” Peter opens his arms wide to give Miguel a hug, but the taller man dodges gracefully and pushes Peter away by the forehead. Peter accepts the apparent rejection, and gives Miguel a light fist bump to the shoulder instead. “I have to say though, this meeting could’ve been an email. If you wanted to spend time with me, you only had to ask. My door is always open.”

“You can shut up now.” Miguel immediately opens a portal for Peter, apparently terrified of another attempted bro-hug.

After Peter portals away, Miles is once again left alone with Miguel O’hara.

“Hey.”

Miguel turns to Miles. He looks almost surprised to be addressed. Miles can’t be sure, because he’s still huge and muscular, but Miguel looks like he’s lost weight. His bold cheekbones look even sharper than normal, and he looks…diminished.

“Would you have come, if the fight with Goblin went sideways?”

Miguel’s brow furrows in confusion. “Of course.”

Miles considers his response before answering. “If backup is ever needed in 1610…make sure it isn’t you.”

Miguel’s eyes close off. His shoulders drop infinitesimally. “You have my word.”

Someone who knew Miguel well could have recognized the sorrow behind the blank coldness he tries to portray. But Miles doesn’t know him at all.

“Good.”

Miles is reminded suddenly of his dream, and the phantom memory of Miguel sliding the watch onto Miles’ wrist. The setting, the dim, warm lighting, the look in Miguel’s eyes are all eerily similar, and he’s struck with a strange sense of deja-vu. His hands look just as big as Miles remembers. He turns quickly and stalks out of the lab so he doesn’t have to say anything more.

He doesn’t realize he’s left his hoodie behind.

…

Life goes on, and Miles recovers.

He enters his final year of high school, and his graduation draws ever closer. He decides he wants to go to university in New York; he can’t fathom operating as Spider-Man anywhere else. The city was in his blood, his bones. It raised him, and its friendly neighborhood hero can’t be parted from it.

He doesn’t see Miguel again.

But he does see the others. He meets Gerry, and coos with Gwen and Peter over the baby’s adorable chubbiness. That’s another thing; Miles becomes quite close with the younger Peter Parker, from 199999. They all settle on calling him Peter, and his older counterpart Peter B. They’d initially been calling them Peter the Younger and Peter the Elder, which turned out to be a too much of a mouthful. So younger Peter was just Peter. Older Peter was ‘Old Peter’ for a while, but he whined about the nickname so much that they stopped calling him that.

Miles likes Peter's earnest kindness, and his stupid jokes. His genuine nerdiness. Being friends with Peter is frighteningly easy. Out of all of Miles’ closest friends, his and Peter’s universes are the most similar, and they enjoy talking about all their favourite things about Brooklyn and the rest of New York.

Peter’s eyes still go far off sometimes, and Miles knows something haunts him. He doesn’t press, and lets Peter talk about things on his own time. One evening, though, Miles can’t help but ask. They’re standing on the Brooklyn bridge, facing into the sunset. They’re both in civvies so they can have the privacy to walk around the city unbothered. A cool breeze blows off of the East River, caressing Miles’ face.

“Hey, Peter. I know you’ve been through some…stuff. But I can’t help but feel like sometimes I do things that…upset you? I’m worried that I’m doing things that trigger something for you. Maybe I’m imagining it but–I’m just kinda concerned, is all.”

Peter’s eyes go wide. “Not at all! Miles, you’re not–” Peter pauses and looks off into the setting sun on the far horizon. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m sorry if I’ve been acting weird.” He pauses for another long minute, hesitating before he continues.

“You just…you remind me of someone I lost. Someone I loved. Love.” Peter laughs to himself and rakes his hands through his hair, mussing the dark curls. “It’s the weirdest thing. You’re so different–you don’t even look alike. But sometimes the things you say, the things you do…it’s just like her. And I know it has to be me just missing her, seeing her everywhere I look. But you…”

Peter takes Miles’ hand by the wrist and holds it up into the light, splaying his fingers. The sun shines through his spread fingers and casts shadows across Peter’s face. “You have the same hands.”

He lets go of Miles’ wrist, and Miles looks down at his own hands. “We have the same hands?” He repeats dumbly.

He opens them and considers the palms, then flips them over and looks at the backs, the sharp knuckles. His fingers are on the longer, slimmer side, with narrow palms and a slightly crooked left pinky. The nails are short and blunt, but well kept. Miles can’t say that he’s ever held much of an opinion about his own hands before; they were just there.

Peter leans his forearms on the railing. “Yeah. MJ broke the left pinky falling off her bike as a kid, and it didn’t heal quite straight. It looks just like yours.”

So, Peter has an MJ. Had.

The outline of a suspicion begins to form at the back of Miles’ mind, but he dismisses it as coincidence. “Mm. I broke mine trying to learn to skateboard a couple years back. I actually didn’t realize it was broken at first–I just thought it was badly sprained, so I never bothered going to the hospital. Hence the, y’know.” He wiggles the pinky in question. It’s barely noticeable, but when compared to the right, it bows inward ever so slightly, and doesn’t quite align with the others when Miles curls his fingers into a fist.

“Strange,” is all Miles can add.

Peter hums. “Yeah. Strange.”

End of Part I

Chapter 7: Evade

Chapter Text

Part II: Pas de Deux

Let’s do this again.Properly, this time.

My name is Miguel O’Hara.

I thought I knew how things were meant to go. I didn’t.

I’m different from the others. He is too.

I didn’t want to hurt him. But I did.

I thought I had no choice. Now I know…that I always do.

We always do. Because our destinies belong to us, and us alone.

I was on my own. Now I know that I don’t have to be.

This is my desolation. My penitence.

My salvation.

…

Present day; Earth-928. Nueva York, 2104.

For sixty blissful seconds, Miguel doesn’t remember the events of the night before. Nor does he have any idea why he’s sleeping in his bed at home instead of at his HQ apartment. It’s late morning, and the sun streams in bright golden beams across his bedroom. Dust motes twirl in the light, and he watches them bob and float in the movement of air. Miguel was at home so rarely that the place had gotten concerningly dusty. He was so out of it that he’d forgotten to lower his blackout curtains before he went to bed. No wonder he’d woken up; the sun was bright enough to feel hot on his skin.

He winces when he moves to sit up. He must have slept in the same position all night, because his left arm is entirely asleep. He’s wriggling it around, trying to regain the feeling in it when the memories of the night before slam into him like a tidal wave.

Jamie. The dead symbiote. Peter.

Oh no. No, no no no–

“Lyla!” He lurches to his feet and stumbles to his door like a drunkard, head spinning with the sudden change in position. His kitchen-living area thankfully has the blackout curtains drawn shut. It’s blissfully dim compared to his bedroom and he blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust to the darkness.

“Lyla! Can you respond when I’m talking to you–oh.” He’s been gone from his apartment so long that he’d forgotten he’d shut the power off. No wonder the curtains in his room hadn’t come down; they were on an electronic timer. He stalks into the hall closet to flip the switch. When he does, his appliances all come to life and Lyla’s voice bursts through the room.

“-guel? Miguel! My god, you were completely off-grid, I couldn’t reach you!”

“Sorry, Lyla. I forgot I shut the power off. I need you to look something up for me.”

“Yes?”

“The symbiote host from last night. Who was he?”

“...Are you sure you want to know?”

“I have to, Lyla. I murdered him. I need to know his name, so I know who it was I killed.”

“If you’re sure. I have his file ready if you want to read it.”

He drops down into his desk chair to pull it up. Where a dining table was meant to go, Miguel had a mini lab station. He didn’t need any more dining space than the kitchen island, and it’s not like he was ever hosting dinner parties, so having a dining area seemed like a waste.

With his heart in his throat, he opens the file.

He nearly sobs with relief as he reads the first line.

Carnage symbiote host Cletus Kasady is a convicted serial killer diagnosed with psychopathy and sadism. He has committed dozens of homicides, beginning with his own family members in early childhood. After bonding with the Carnage symbiote, his victim count grew too high to count and likely now reaches into the hundreds. Kasady first bonded with the Carnage symbiote in prison following an interaction with Venom host Eddie Brock…

Miguel doesn’t bother reading any more. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, breath stuttering in his chest. He breathes in deeply, holds it, then releases it.

It doesn’t excuse it. He knows it doesn’t. But Cletus was arguably one of the most irredeemable villains in the arachno-multiverse; of all the anomalies Miguel could’ve murdered, he was likely the best choice. Bothersome as they were, most anomalies weren’t killers, and didn’t deserve to die. Many were just troubled, flawed people who had undergone tragic, terrible things. Miguel feels disgusting for feeling it, but he’s relieved.

He’s so relieved he feels weak with it.

Lyla’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Miguel?” He’s never heard her sound so tentative. Apprehension swirls in his chest.

“What’s happened?”

“Well…nothing yet. But I’ve been working on the new influx of data. The algorithm is still updating, but we have another canon convergence incoming.”

Please, no. Miguel can’t handle another death. “So soon? Which Spider is it for?”

“Um–it’s…you?”

He goes ice-cold. Something in his core cracks, splintering like glass, fragile and razor-sharp. There’s something karmic about it; all these years he’s told other people they need to let their loved ones die, and now it’s his turn.

You finally get what you deserve, hmm?

Another Spider is going to be killed because of him. He’ll die before he lets that happen.

“What?” He’s gripping the edge of the desk so hard that the wood starts to crack.

“It’s event ASM-319. The current projection has confirmed that the subject will be another Spider-Person. It’s an unmistakeable canon convergence–”

His brain stops. “Huh?”

“It’s ASM-319.”

“That’s–that’s MJ.” He collapses back in his chair.

“Yes.”

“I don’t even know an MJ.”

“There are around thirty who are already members of the Society. You’ve run into a few of them already, though not at length. And there are countless more from universes we haven’t made contact with yet. You’d be surprised how many universes have an MJ variant as their Spider.”

“But I’m–” He presses a knuckle into the space between his eyebrows. “I’m not a Peter Parker?”

“In almost every universe, Spider-Man falls for MJ. The event isn’t isolated to Peter; Jessica’s husband is an MJ variant.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no? It’s not up to you, Miguel.”

“I won’t allow it. Which Spider is it, and when does it happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?!” he yells. “The algorithm is designed to predict these things!”

“The algorithm isn’t compatible with the new data! We need more time for it to update. All it can confirm right now is the event and the universe. Which is yours.”

“But I can’t–I’m not–I’m not like the others. The same things, they don’t apply to me, they can’t!”

“They do now.”

He starts ripping his desk drawers open, frantically rifling through the contents. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he stands and stalks back into his bedroom.

Lyla appears next to him again. “You can’t run from this, Miguel.”

“Watch me.” He swats at her. She frowns, affronted, but reappears farther away. He yanks his closet open, nearly ripping the door from the hinges by mistake, and grabs a box off the top shelf. He tosses the lid away and peers inside. Bingo.

Lyla stomps her foot. Given that she’s a floating animation, it has less of an effect than she probably wanted it to. “Don’t you dare try to prevent this. You know what will happen if you do.”

He whirls on her. “Of course I do. But I have no idea who this person is; I don’t think I’ve met them yet. Which is…good, that’s good, because I can’t–I don’t–” He scrubs his hands over his eyes, and his chest constricts.

“I can’t deal with this right now. So in the meantime, I’ll do something productive while I pretend that I don’t have to go through this. Now get out of my face.” He storms away from her.

He pulls the gizmo out of the box and turns it on.

Nothing happens. He smacks the side of it, and it finally comes to life. It was one of his earlier prototypes, so it looks a little different than the gizmos do now; a little clunkier, a little more rough around the edges. But it should work fine.

Probably. Hopefully.

Miguel used it for months without any problem, so it should work just as well as it did before. He’ll just service it a little to get it up and running. He’ll also have to hack back into the system to get it connected to the anomaly detection program. It’s not registered under him like his other one is, so Jess shouldn’t notice, and it should bypass the system lockout he’d triggered. It’s his own program after all; getting back in shouldn’t be too much of a struggle. And even if it is…he’ll make it work eventually.

He doesn’t have any other option–the gizmo was his ticket out of this hell of a leave. Three weeks of no work, no anomaly monitoring? Over his dead body. He’ll just do some maintenance here, a little multiverse protection there. Jess doesn’t need to know.

Truth is, Miguel doesn’t really know who he is anymore. He doesn’t know when it happened, but he’s starting to lose sight of the person he once was, the man beneath the Spider-Man moniker. He works because…he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t have anything else, no other reason to get up in the morning. Telling him to stop working is akin to telling him to stop breathing. It’s simply not possible.

The edges of Miguel O’Hara and Spider-Man have grown overlapped and blurry, and he can no longer distinguish one from the other. Like a perverse, cancerous symbiosis, the two halves of himself have become so entangled, so entrenched, that if he tried to separate them, to cleave one from the other, he wouldn’t survive it. One can’t exist without the other. And Miguel O’Hara without Spider-Man would be nothing at all.

So now, with Peter’s death, with the canon mutating beyond his control…he’s terrified. Because his work–his anchor, his rock–has grown treacherous and unfamiliar beneath him. He’s barely keeping his head above water as is, and now that the once-steady rhythm of being Spider-Man, of keeping everything in balance, has become a maelstrom of uncertainty, he’s about to be dragged under. If that happens…he doesn’t know if he’ll have the strength to surface again.

The algorithm keeps universes safe. Keeps the Society safe. Without it, he’s operating blind, with nothing but his own instincts to rely on.

Miguel doesn’t like that.

So he distracts himself the only way he knows how.

It takes him the rest of the day to get the old gizmo operational. It’s shoddier than he would’ve liked, probably from sitting in a box for over six years. But it’s his way out of 928, and that’s all he needs.

The sun is setting by the time he hacks into his own system and connects the gizmo to the anomaly detection software. The device starts to run uncomfortably hot on his wrist; it was never intended to run so many programs, as it had only ever been intended for dimension jumping. But it’s the only option he has, so he’ll have to run with it.

The second an anomaly appears, he locks its location and deletes the alert before it can make it to the mission assignment feed at HQ.

“Sorry, Jess.” He says to himself. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

If the portal he opens looks more unstable than it should, he pretends not to see it, and jumps through before he can second guess himself.

Miguel is on his third anomaly of the evening by the time he realizes he may have made a…slight mistake. The first mission went off without incident. The second was mostly flawless too, at least until his gizmo shorted out for a brief second. It had steadily been growing hotter and hotter on his wrist, until it gave out completely and the screen blinked out. He had a heart attack for about two seconds before the gizmo switched itself back on. By that point, the responsible thing to do would have been to return to 928 and call it a night. But Miguel was past the point of responsibility. When a third anomaly pops up, he portals to it instantly.

Miguel curses himself the second he emerges in Earth-1599. The anomaly is an S-class Lizard, a villain that would typically require at least a three-person team to take down safely. The system was able to detect and analyse what type of threat each anomaly was, but the old gizmo Miguel was using simply didn’t have the processing power for it. This Dr. Connors must have been something else, because Miguel has never seen a Lizard of this size before.

He’s already drained from hours of combat and still shaken from losing Peter the night before; he’s not at his best and he knows it. And the Lizard he’s looking at right now…he knows Spider-People have fought villains of its calibre and won. He has too. But it’s always a close thing, touch-and-go to the extreme.

He never should have come.

His gizmo chooses that moment to shut itself off again, and he feels himself start to panic. He shoves the feeling down, clamping on his self control to keep his emotions in check. Miguel webs himself up to a concealed spot and opens the control panel. As fast as he possibly can, he connects the gizmo’s wiring to his suit. A wave of relief washes over him when the gizmo turns back on.

“Lyla, direct power from my suit into the gizmo. Disable whatever I can live without in order to keep the gizmo running, you hear me?”

“On it. I’ll leave you with webbing and the arm blades; there’s nothing else I can spare, this gizmo is a mess. You have five minutes, tops, otherwise you’ll be stranded here.”

His stomach sinks as he reconciles with the very real possibility of getting stuck in 1599. To make things worse, no one knew he was there; he’d prevented the anomaly alert from reaching the main system.

He was entirely on his own.

You stupid son of a bitch.

He peeks out from his hiding spot to check on the Lizard. He looks just in time to see the green beast pick up a car and toss it directly at Miguel. He dives out of the way just as it sails past him and hits the building with a crash. His heart pounds a deafening, staccato rhythm in his chest; he was hardier than any regular human, but getting hit by a car at that speed isn’t something he could just walk off.

He was seriously f*cked.

“Lyla, focus on getting a portal working as fast as you can. Get this anomaly back into the main system so someone sees it, then get me out of here.”

“Heard, boss. Give me two minutes.”

Two minutes. He can do that. He hoists the now-destroyed car over his head and hurls it back at the villain. It’s a perfect throw, but his stomach sinks when the car bounces uselessly off the lizard’s back. He may as well have thrown a tin can at the thing–all he’s done is piss it off and reveal his location.

He starts running. He’s not above admitting that sometimes the best plan is to save your own ass, and hightail it out of there.

The next two minutes are a series of near-misses as he barely keeps himself out of the Lizard’s claws, alternating between a mixture of swinging and running on foot. With his suit’s power being redirected into keeping his Gizmo on, he’s severely limited in the amount of webbing he can use. It’s all he can do to manage to keep himself uninjured. Until he doesn’t.

“Lyla! Time?”

“Thirty-seven seconds. Prepare for jump.”

“Open it the second it’s read–” His foot slips out from under him. He steps directly in a small puddle and his heel skids on impact, making him lose the three-foot distance he’d gained from the Lizard. He only wobbles slightly, but it’s a fatal mistake. To think, Spider-Man 2099 done in by a puddle? He shouldn’t be taking the time to find it funny, but he does.

It’s good I’m doing this under the radar, because I’ll never live this down. I’ll need to ask Lyla to make sure this isn’t uploaded to the mission footage archive. Hobie will probably die of laughter–Miguel’s cause of death: puddle.

The large claws make contact with him before he can finish the thought. At over a foot long, each massive claw scores through skin and muscle like a knife through butter. He roars as blinding pain tears through him, and it’s so overpowering he almost doesn’t notice being picked up and tossed through a brick wall.

The wind is knocked out of him on impact, but it’s nothing compared to the flames of agony coming from the claw marks across his torso. He staggers to his feet and keeps running, nearly slipping over the bricks and rubble as they shift under his feet. As unpleasant as it was, the Lizard’s throw had given Miguel precious distance from the monster.

Another wave of pain hits him, and he feels wet warmth spreading rapidly over his skin, staining his suit with crimson. He’s bleeding too much. Way too much. A warning pings at the back of his brain; at this rate, you’re going to bleed out. It’s a miracle he’s still on his feet, even with his mutations.

“Lyla?” His breath comes in deep pants, and it’s all he can do to keep going. He webs himself up to a strip of mid-level apartments and nearly trips when he lands. He forces himself to keep running–one foot after the other, come on. He knows he’s lost most of his speed; he’s more stumbling than running. Dark fuzziness starts to close in at the edges of his vision, and he shakes his head to clear it. The Lizard is gaining on him–he can feel its massive body collide against the building, then begin to climb.

“Nine seconds. There isn’t enough juice to get you back to 928; I’ll take you to the next closest dimension.”

“Take me anywhere–just drop me off as close as possible to the local Spider so I can use their gizmo.”

“Done. Portal opening.” The whirling shape emerges directly in front of him, tiny and flickering. He has to dive through headfirst, and it’s almost too small to fit the breadth of his shoulders. He feels the movement of air at his feet where the Lizard’s maw snaps closed millimetres from his toes. Then the portal closes, and it’s a herculean effort to stay conscious. Inter-dimensional travel with life-threatening wounds is agonizing.

He’s ejected from the portal, limbs flailing, and he registers warm evening air and the dewy, green smell of the outdoors. He doesn’t even have time to take a breath before he collides with something hard. His ears pick up the crumbling of stone and the burbling trickle of running water.

Darkness overtakes him, and he blacks out.

Chapter 8: Fallen

Chapter Text

Present day; Earth-1610, New York, 2024.

The sun is setting over Central Park when Miguel O’Hara falls out of the sky.

The leaves at Miles’ feet begin to stir and levitate, heralding the impending arrival of a multiversal gateway. The portal opens face-down and forty feet above the ground. It’s glitching and whirring unstably, looking ready to sputter out at the slightest gust of wind. Then the one and only Spider-Man 2099 tumbles out of it and into the open air, turning head over heel. He falls directly into Bethesda Fountain. It’s a small miracle no one’s around to see it, given that it’s a beautiful August evening. It’s warm and muggy, and the buzzing hum of cicadas fills the air.

Bethesda fountain has a large statue of an angel atop it, you see. Dating to 1873, it’s an elegant figure with flowing robes and outstretched wings that caress an invisible breeze. Miles remembers reading something about it being an allusion to the Biblical Pool of Bethesda, which was supposed to have gained healing powers after an angel blessed it.

Miguel collides with the angel statue on the way down. His shoulder and head smash through one of the angel’s outstretched wings as he falls past it, sending it crumbling into the water in pieces. The splash that erupts from the shallow water when he lands in it is quite impressive–a substantial volume of water sloshes out onto the cobblestones, along with several lily pads.

Miguel is splayed on his back, mostly submerged in the water when Miles hurries over to him. He skids to a stop at the edge of the pool, nearly banging his knees against the wet stone.

“Jesus, Miguel! What the actual f*ck–” Miles cuts himself off. Miguel is suspiciously still. “Lyla, disable his mask please.”

Miguel’s mask creeps away to reveal his face. He’s completely unconscious. Miles doesn’t know if he was already out when he fell, or if he was knocked out when he hit the wing. In any case, Miles supposes he doesn’t want him to drown. He sighs and steps into the cool water to pull him out, wincing when he’s submerged up to his knees.

There are hundreds of coins at the bottom of the fountain. The waning sunlight glints prettily off their metallic faces, and they shift and slide under Miles’ feet as he steps on them. He supposes it’s bad luck to step on so many people’s wishes. Then again, it’s probably worse luck to let someone die on top of them.

“Come on, big guy, let’s go.” Miguel is lying on his back, so at least his face isn’t in the water. Miles really isn’t in the mood to be giving CPR to a half-drowned Miguel O’Hara. He hooks his forearms under Miguel’s armpits and hoists him up so Miles can pull him to the water’s edge. Miguel’s head lolls back against Miles’ chest, and Miles notices a large bleeding gash along his hairline. Definitely a head injury then.

Miles heaves him up so Miguel’s upper body is above the water, and starts walking backward, trying not to slip on the coins. With Miles’ enhanced strength he isn’t heavy, per se, but dragging the dead weight of an unconscious six-foot-nine Spider-Person is incredibly awkward. They’re too out in the open for Miles to use his powers to carry him, so dragging is the only feasible option.

Miles sometimes forgets how big Miguel really is. They’re rarely ever close enough to tell, and they haven’t spoken in years. At 5’10, Miles isn’t short, but next to Miguel’s considerable bulk he feels bird-boned and small. The man’s back and legs drag roughly on the edge of the stone basin as Miles hauls him out, and he grimaces in silent apology. Hopefully Miguel was unconscious enough not to feel that.

Miles finally gets him all the way out of the fountain, though not without drenching himself in the process. He carefully lies Miguel down on the cobblestones, making sure not to drop his head. He taps his forehead gently, trying to rouse him.

“Hello? Anyone home? Naptime’s over, man.”

His eyes stay closed.

He puts his hands on Miguel’s shoulders and shakes him, a little harder this time.

Nothing.

“Come on,” Miles pleads, “you’re starting to freak me out, big guy.” A pang of worry starts to wriggle its way up Miles’ throat. He bites a short fingernail and surveys the damage more carefully.

Miguel is covered in long, deep gashes, including the one across his forehead. It doesn’t look like there’s too much blood on him, but when Miles looks back at the water, it’s tainted red. Like, really red. There’s a sizeable cloud of blood lingering at the spot where Miguel was lying. Miles looks down at his front, and he’s covered in red too. sh*t.

Miguel has probably lost a lot of blood, and has a head injury to boot. He doesn’t know how long Miguel has been bleeding like this for, but the fact that the wounds haven’t already clotted is alarming. Miles isn’t equipped to deal with this level of injury, not by far. A hospital is unavoidable; Miguel’s in no state to dimension-jump back to the Spider-Society’s medical wing.

Could he call an Uber? No, he doesn’t want to maneuver Miguel into the back of a cab. Miles is worried about the head injury too, so he doesn’t want to jostle Miguel’s spine any more than he already has. And, the fact that he’s still unconscious is worrying. Most Spiders bounced back from head injuries pretty fast; it was hard to knock them out for long.

An ambulance was the only way.

After making sure Miguel doesn’t have any water in his lungs–this entailed simply listening to his breaths, which sounded deep and even–Miles dials 911 and waits. He sits back on his knees next to Miguel’s prone form, but he keeps his fingers on his pulse the entire time. It beats steadily, yet slowly. The underside of Miguel’s sharp jaw is warm and soft against Miles’ fingers.

When the paramedics arrive, they ask an irritating amount of questions.

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

“Did you see what happened?”

“No.”

“How did he get there?”

“I don’t know, I just found him.”

“Why is he soaking wet?”

“He was in the fountain.”

They seem to accept that Miles either won’t or can’t give them any more information, so after ensuring his vitals are stable they load Miguel onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. They don’t even comment on his strange red-and-blue attire. One of them does raise an eyebrow when Miles clambers into the back of the ambulance with them, trailing droplets of water and blood.

“I thought you didn’t know this guy?”

“I don’t. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to make sure he’s okay.” He stares them down, daring them to put up more of a fuss.

Both paramedics just shrug and keep doing…whatever it is that paramedics do. A lot of flitting around, bandaging, worrying about the head wound. They don’t seem worried about any serious complications, because Miguel’s eyes were dilating normally when they checked.

It’s rather cramped in the back of the ambulance. With four fully grown adults (one of them being of near-gigantic stature) in there, there isn’t much room to breathe. Miles is squished against the right side along the wall, and has to flatten himself to accommodate the paramedic’s movements.

The stretcher isn’t long enough to accommodate Miguel’s legs, so his feet hang off the end awkwardly. If he’d been even an inch or two taller, they wouldn’t have been able to close the ambulance doors.

The paremedics start cutting the top half of Miguel’s suit away from the hips up. Miles winces when the extent of the damage is revealed. Miguel is covered in deep, gigantic claw marks; it looks like he was mauled by a velociraptor. Large mottled bruises wrap around his ribs and shoulder, and his arm is broken. Miles can’t tell what the rest of the damage is from, but he’s pretty sure the broken arm and at least some of the bruising are from Miguel’s crash-landing into the angel statue.

They arrive at the hospital, and Miguel is wheeled in. Miles goes with him, because he isn’t sure what else to do. He waits in the hall until they finish patching him up, and wracks his brain for any reason to explain Miguel’s strange and sudden appearance. Why come to 1610? Why wasn’t Miles paged? Why was Miguel fighting alone? What was he doing? Considering the damage he took, whatever he was fighting must have been putting up a hell of a fight. Miguel should have called for backup long before he got so injured.

Everything about it was baffling. Miles’ stomach drops when he remembers a crucial detail.

Have they taken Miguel’s watch off?

He shoots to his feet and is about to sprint into Miguel’s room when the doctor opens the door. Miles almost runs her over and has to come to an abrupt stop, bracing his arms on the doorway. She’s quite petite, and blinks up at him with wide eyes.

“Checking on your friend, I assume?”

Miles opens and closes his mouth a few times before he can come up with a response.

“Uh…yeah. Is he…?” He trails off.

She shuts the door behind her and leads him a couple steps away.

“He’s going to be fine. We’ve set his broken arm and stitched him up. He’s waking up now, but he’ll need to be monitored until tomorrow at least.”

Not happening, Miles thinks. Miguel will likely start healing within the hour. By tomorrow he’d look to have several days’ worth of improvement; they needed to sneak him out before that happened. Not to mention, Miles has no way to pay for a hospital stay (thank you, American healthcare system) and doubts Miguel has inter-dimensional insurance. Miles only needed someone to tend to the worst of the injuries and stop the bleeding enough for Miguel to heal himself. Bad blood between them or not, it’s not like Miles wants the guy dead.

The doctor continues: “We were sure he was going to have a concussion, given that he was knocked unconscious. By some miracle, he doesn’t; I’ve never seen anything like it. But we’ve given him painkillers, so he’s a little groggy.” She gestures to the door with her clipboard. “You can go in if you like.”

Miles nods and pushes past her.

Miguel is lying in the hospital bed. They’ve put him in a hospital gown, and his watch is thankfully still on his left wrist. The screen is smashed to bits, though. It probably broke when he fell into the fountain. A cast is wrapped around his right arm from hand to just below his elbow.

It’s a miracle they didn’t take the watch. Miles assumes there wasn’t an injury close enough to the area to warrant its removal. It’s likely they hadn’t known how. The watches are designed to not come off easily–they would have needed a saw to cut it off. Miles has no idea what they would have done if Miguel started glitching uncontrollably right in front of a team of medical professionals.

He’s awake–barely–and squinting at the ceiling. When Miles comes in, his head turns slowly toward the sound of the door opening. The even beeps of Miguel’s heart monitor fill the silence. Miles comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, bracing his hands on the bar.

Miguel frowns slightly, and blinks once, twice, three times, slowly and heavily like a big cat. His eyebrows furrow a little more.

“Miles?” His eyes move sluggishly around the room, then back to Miles. “What are you doing here?” He looks down at himself then, and seems to realize for the first time that he’s in a hospital. “What the hell am I doing here?” His confusion is almost endearing.

Miguel is definitely not all there.

Miles only shrugs. “This is my dimension. What are you doing here?”

Miguel thinks for a few seconds too long. “I…my gizmo broke. Lyla sent me here.”

That doesn’t clear things up.

Miles decides to let it go for now. They must have Miguel on some good stuff, because he’s clearly out of it, and trying to answer Miles’ questions seems to be giving him a headache.

Miles walks over to the seat beside the bed and plops down into it. Miguel’s half-lidded eyes follow him sluggishly.

“Did you take me to the hospital?”

“You were about to die from blood loss, I didn’t have any choice.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Miguel frowns a little more before his eyes slip shut again.

“I need to…get out of here…before they notice…”

“Way ahead of you, man. I’ll worry about that. You just need to sleep those meds off–“

A soft snore cuts Miles off.

“…Right. Try not to die in your sleep.”

Miguel sleeps for another three hours.

Miles pulls his sketchbook and art supplies out of his bag to pass the time. He’d been sketching in the park when Miguel had exploded into his dimension, and he wanted to finish lining his work before the image of the flowers he was drawing faded from his mind. He finishes after several minutes and flips to a new page. He wriggles around in his seat, drawing his legs up to his chest. Hospital chairs were seriously uncomfortable–his left leg was starting to go numb. With a lack of anything else interesting to draw, he begins to sketch Miguel.

He draws him as is, knocked out in the hospital bed, injuries and all. He’s frustratingly fun to draw, with his bold cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and full mouth. He’s an artist’s wet dream. Miles refuses to allow this thought to fully form. There’s simply nothing else worth drawing in the bland hospital room, that’s all.

Miguel’s head is tilted to the side, facing Miles, and his long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. His good hand rests on his belly, and he sleeps peacefully despite his injuries. He doesn’t move at all save for the subtle rising and falling of his broad chest.

The night stretches on. The quiet is interspersed with the beeps of the medical equipment and the scratching of Miles’ pencil. The clock on Miles’ phone tells him that it’s just past three in the morning. The sun will be rising again in just under three hours, but Miles doesn’t feel tired at all, suspended in the quiet, peaceful bubble of Miguel’s hospital room.

Miles’ pencil stops moving.

The ghost of a tickle whispers at the back of his neck, and it feels like his spider-sense but…not. In that moment, Miles is struck by the feeling that he’s on the precipice of something. Call it intuition or something else–it’s a distinct feeling, the type that lies beyond mundane perception, that something has irrevocably shifted. Like a change in the direction of the wind, or the charge that builds in the air before the first raindrop falls, before the first bolt of lightning strikes.

Miguel wakes then, and he does so with a start, eyes snapping open as his head jumps off the pillow as if startled by something. The painkillers are definitely starting to wear off, no match for Miguel’s mutate metabolism. The man in question looks around, blinking rapidly. He squints blearily when he sees Miles slumped in the chair.

“What are you still doing here?” His voice is deepened and raspy from sleep. “You could’ve left hours ago.”

Miles finishes shading in a section of drawing-Miguel’s hair.

“Oh I know, I just like sketching people in crisis.” He flips his sketchbook around to show Miguel the page. Miles has added cartoonish “zzz”s coming out of Miguel’s mouth, and taken care to include his dark circles. “See? That’s you.” Miles chuckles.

Miguel scoffs and rolls his eyes. He flops back down on the mattress.

“Stop pouting. I’m doing you a favour.”

“I don’t pout, sh*thead.” Miguel grabs a pillow with his good hand and chucks it at Miles. There must still be some medication in Miguel’s system, because it’s a terrible throw. Miles doesn’t have to move an inch, and it slams into the wall beside his head.

“That’s real mature,” Miles retorts. A corner of his mouth quirks up against his will. He’s reminded suddenly of that day nearly five years ago in the elevator, when Miles had accidentally revealed Miguel’s contact name.

That’s real mature, Miguel had said, seemingly so tall and imposing at the time.

He doesn’t seem so scary now.

Miles flips his sketchbook closed and shoves it in his backpack. “Seriously though, we need to get out of here. I’m going to go find you some clothes, unless you want to walk out of here in that hospital gown.”

Miguel gives him a vague, go on, then, gesture and returns to staring at the ceiling.

Miles strides for the door and turns invisible just before he crosses the threshold.

He has to walk around for a while before he finds a supply closet with hospital-issue clothes. He isn’t surprised to find that they only have that awful disposable stuff, but it’s better than nothing. He grabs a top and pants in the largest sizes before making his way back to the room. He has to crawl on the ceiling for most of the way, lest he be run over by a hospital gurney or the code team.

Miguel is looking drowsy again when Miles returns, but he’s still awake. He lobs the clothes onto Miguel’s chest and the man starts slightly when they land, blinking rapidly.

“Wakey wakey, sleepyhead. We need to get going.”

Miles turns and walks back out into the hallway to give Miguel privacy.

A few minutes later, when Miguel’s changed, they deliberate.

“Can you climb walls right now?” Miles asks.

“Not with my arm like this, no.”

“Hmff, fine. We’ll need to sneak you out the normal way then.”

It turns out that sneaking out of a hospital isn’t hard at all. It’s nearing the middle of the night now, so there aren’t many people lingering in the hallways. It’s simply a matter of waiting until the coast is clear and walking out a back door.

Miguel doesn’t have any shoes, so Miles calls an Uber.

The ride is silent and strange; do they make small talk? Should Miles ask Miguel to explain what the hell is going on? When Miles looks over at him though, he looks close to falling asleep again.

Miguel’s slumped down in his seat with his head draped back over the top of the headrest. He’s so tall that even while slouched the back of the seat is much too short for him. His long legs are folded tightly to accommodate for the seat in front of him. He looks like he’s sitting in a seat designed for children rather than grown adults. Miles wonders how Miguel moves through the world at all; nothing is designed for people of his stature.

Wordlessly, Miles leans over to adjust the front passenger seat and push it forward as far as it goes. Both he and Miguel are sitting in the back, so there’s no one in the front to complain about it.

Miguel’s legs unfold slightly, relaxing into the new few inches of extra space. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes open a little, and he and Miles make brief eye contact before they slip closed again. Miles read somewhere that cats communicate their appreciation of people through blinks. Maybe Miguel does the same? These painkiller-induced sleepy blinks make Miles think of the lions at the zoo, dozing in the sunlight.

The driver drops them off in front of Miles’ apartment, a ten-storey 1920s era building with traditional New York fire escapes. The elevator is broken, but Miles thankfully lives on the fifth floor, and thereby will not have to drag a semi-conscious Spider-Man variant up too many flights of stairs.

Miguel is able to make it up easily enough, though he keeps his good hand on the railing to keep his balance.

When Miles opens the door to his apartment, Miguel looks around curiously. Miles is only able to afford the rent for the two-bedroom because Ganke’s parents own it—he’s quite sure they’re lowballing him on rent by at least $500 a month. Ganke’s parents adore Miles, and would do anything to maintain the good influence he has on their son.

The door swings shut with a slight thunk. Miles twists the lock, then shimmies around Miguel to lead him to Ganke’s room, tossing his keys on the foyer table as he passes. He thanks every deity he knows that he made Ganke clean up his considerable mess and change his sheets before leaving for Korea.

“Right, so Ganke’s away for the next couple weeks. You can take his room, I guess.”

“Ganke?”

“My roommate.”

“Oh. Isn’t it hard to…carry out Spider-Man activities if you live with someone?”

“He already knows. He found out I was Spider-Man about…” Miles pauses to recall the timeline, “a day after I was bitten. So that ship sailed ages ago.”

Miguel’s eyebrows furrow slightly. “I see.” He looks down at himself. “Do you have anything else I can wear?”

Miles looks Miguel up and down incredulously. “Uhm…the bedsheets?”

Miguel groans and throws his head back. “Miles, seriously, if I have to wear this disposable sh*t for another minute I’m going to claw my own skin off.”

“I’m being serious! Have you seen yourself? Ganke’s not much bigger than I am, the chances of finding something in this apartment that’ll fit you are basically zero.”

“Can you just look?” Miguel asks petulantly.

They have a ten second staring contest before Miles caves.

“Fine. Gimme a minute.”

He strides irritably into the laundry closet and rifles through Ganke’s basket of clean things. He settles on a large pair of basketball shorts that fall below Ganke’s knees when he wears them. They might work—Miguel is probably thinner than Ganke around the middle, now that he thinks about it.

He darts back out of the laundry room and throws the shorts at Miguel, who snags them out of the air. He holds them up, and appears to deem them acceptable, because he doesn’t have any outward reaction.

Miles steps into his room and pauses. The shorts were the easy part. He truly doesn’t think he has anything that’ll fit Miguel’s giant f*cking shoulders. Honestly, who gave him permission to go and grow that big? He starts rifling through his shirt drawer, more to go through the motions of looking than really putting in any effort. Miles knows what he owns; there’s no way.

He’s about to go tell Miguel he’ll have to deal with being shirtless when he sees it on his bed. It’s his sleep shirt, tossed in a rumpled pile from when he’d taken it off that morning. Miles slept in it because the seller had accidentally sent him a 3XL instead of a medium, and it was laughably too big on him. It’s easily the biggest piece of clothing in the apartment.

Miles picks it up and shakes it out. He gives it a sniff test. It just smells like his deodorant; he’d washed it only two days ago. He considers the graphic on the front. He nearly throws it back on the bed and resigns to telling Miguel he doesn’t have anything. He hesitates for a minute, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then he balls it up, spinning on his heel to return to the foyer.

Whatever.

“Here. This is all I have.” He throws it at Miguel much harder than is probably polite.

It hit’s the older man’s chest with a thwip and nearly falls down to his feet before Miguel catches it. He unfurls it and holds it up by the sleeves. A few seconds pass as he regards the shirt.

“Who is this?” Miguel asks.

Miles was expecting judgement. Teasing, maybe. A snide comment or two. He narrows his eyes.

“What?”

Miguel turns the shirt around so the graphic on the front faces Miles. “Who is this? Is she a celebrity?”

He can’t believe it. “Is she–a celebrity–can you read? That’s Beyoncé, Miguel. Y’know, the best performer of this generation? Her name’s written right there at the top in all caps.”

Indeed it is. In large gold lettering at the top of the black t-shirt, just under the neckline is ‘BEYONCÉ’ stamped overtop several images of the singer herself. The shirt is limited edition, and Miles is very proud to have gotten one, even if it’s the wrong size.

Miguel is still considering the shirt very seriously. His head tilts to the side slightly.

“Solange’s sister?”

“SOLANGE’S SIS–” Miles cuts himself off, scrubbing his hands over his face, “Okay, what the f*ck is going on in 928 that you know Solange but not Beyoncé?”

Miguel blinks at him. “I don’t know much about early twenty-first century music, but Solange had a more successful career. I think her sister left the business after Destiny’s Child broke up. She may have married Jay Z, but I don’t really remember.”

What the f*ck.

Hearing Miguel gravely explain the career–or lack of–of Earth-928 Beyoncé was not what Miles was expecting to do that day. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Right, well, I guess it doesn’t really matter. Wear the shirt or don’t, I don’t give a sh*t. Just…don’t ever refer to my time as the early twenty-first century, that makes me feel really weird and…old, okay?”

“That’s just what the time period is called–”

“Shut up,” Miles interrupts. “You need to go to sleep, and to stop saying weird sh*t.” He points an accusing finger in Miguel’s direction. “We’ll talk about why you’re here tomorrow. Ganke’s room is that way. Goodnight.” Miles spins around and speeds into his room, slamming the door behind him. He backs up against it and heaves a large sigh.

A chill breeze blows in from his open window. He pads over to shut it, cursing when it gets stuck, like it always does. He finally forces it down, and it slides into place with a loud thunk. Peeling his sweater off, he collapses on the bed. None of his lights are on, but his enhanced eyesight ensures he can still see perfectly, so there’s no point in turning them on.

What was Miguel doing in 1610? What was he doing that got him so beaten up? Miles feels irritation rise in his throat. In the five years that have passed, Miguel has never once set foot in 1610. Miles made his wishes clear, and Miguel always respected them, until now. 1610 is Miles’ home, Miles’ responsibility, his safe space. No one entered without his express permission. Miles drew the line in the sand, and it was upheld as sacrosanct. For Miguel to come here now…there must be something wrong. There had better be. Otherwise Miguel was getting the boot tomorrow, injuries be damned.

Miles rolls over and curls his knees into his chest. He was thirsty, dammnit. He doesn’t have any water in the room; he’ll have to go into the kitchen and risk running into Miguel. He hesitates. Can he handle another weird conversation with him? He’s pondering the pros and cons of suffering in thirst until morning when a loud snore sounds through the wall.

Miles freezes. Is that…?

Another snore, unmistakeable, follows the first. Okay then. He guesses it’s safe to leave his room. He stands and tiptoes to the door, inching it open. He winces when the hinges squeak softly. He winces again when a floorboard creaks under his foot.

The snores don’t stop. Miles slaps himself mentally. This is his house, his dimension. f*ck Miguel’s sleep.

Miles prances into the kitchen, making no effort to soften his footsteps. He pulls a can of Pepsi from the fridge and pops it open. He chugs half of it gratefully, then looks over at Ganke’s door. It’s still open.

He pads over and peeks inside. Miguel is splayed out on his back like a starfish, completely asleep. He hasn’t bothered to get under the covers. Miles has to stifle a laugh at the way his feet hang off the end of the bed by a solid eight inches. He has to slap a hand over his mouth to prevent a giggle when another atrocious snore escapes from Miguel’s nose.

Turning around, he unlocks his phone and sets it to selfie mode.

The picture he takes is of Miguel unconscious on the bed, with Miles making a deeply confused face in the foreground.

He sends it to the group chat, and the replies come through immediately.

Peter (199999): Um??????

Gwen (65): I’ve never been more confused

Hobie (138): LMAOOAOAA

Pav (51010B): He’s meditating guys

Hobie (138): He’s died

Pav (51010B): Shavasana 100

Gwen (65): Namaste

Peter (199999): Miles did you kill him fr

Miles (1610): Idk he just showed up

Miles (1610): He’s definitely still alive

Miles looks up from his phone at the sound of another snore. He must have a death wish, because he tiptoes closer.

“Psst.”

Miguel doesn’t stir.

“Hey.”

Another snore.

Determining it safe, Miles slowly, ever so slowly, places his half-full can of Pepsi on Miguel’s forehead. He makes sure it won’t tip over before pulling away. He snaps another picture, closer this time. He sends that one to the chat too. It blows up instantly with a barrage of crying laughing and skull emojis. Miles chuckles to himself before shutting it off. He retrieves his Pepsi from Miguel’s forehead.

He co*cks his head as he considers the sleeping Spider-Man.

“I heard you were an insomniac, so I have to say this is a surprise. I guess they must have really dosed you, huh? What’d they give you, oxycodone?”

Miguel doesn’t answer.

Not for the first time that night, a tiny flicker of worry emerges in Miles’ chest. He tries to squash it, but it only grows larger. His final question comes out as a whisper.

“What’s happened, Miguel?”

Miles wakes up to the sun streaming across his face. Given his Spider-Man window accessibility needs, Ganke had relinquished the room with the largest windows to Miles, and he’s eternally grateful for it. It’s only nine, but he showers and dresses as soon as he gets out of bed. He’s a little uncomfortable with having Miguel O’Hara in his space, and doesn’t feel relaxed enough around the man to leave his room in his pajamas.

He pads out into the living area in socked feet, peeking into Ganke’s room as he passes. Miguel is still asleep, but he isn’t snoring as loud; if that’s an indicator that he isn’t sleeping as deeply, he’ll probably be waking up soon. He makes himself a bowl of cereal and a pot of coffee, and if he happens to make enough for a second cup, he pretends that it’s accidental. And if Miguel happens to want it, at least it won’t go to waste.

As if summoned by the smell, the man in question drifts out of Ganke’s room, squinting heavily at the morning sunlight. He doesn’t seem sure of where to go, because he pauses in the middle of the living area, peering around curiously. The borrowed shirt fits him surprisingly well.

Miles shifts uncomfortably in his seat; there are signs of him all over the apartment, from his art hung all over the walls to pictures of him, Ganke, and their friends and family stuck everywhere. He doesn’t like having his life bared so honestly in front of Miguel.

Uncomfortable with the scrutiny of his living space, Miles breaks the silence to pull Miguel’s attention from Miles’ personal effects.

“So, the dark lord rises.”

Miguel jumps slightly and snaps his head toward Miles. He has to suppress a grin at Miguel’s startled face; he assumed the man had noticed him sitting at the kitchen island. He always forgot Miguel didn’t have a spider-sense.

Miles can’t resist the urge to ruffle Miguel’s feathers.

“You’ve got drool on your face.” He gestures toward Miguel’s chin. He doesn’t, but Miles giggles internally when Miguel starts scrubbing around his mouth to remove the nonexistent drool stains.

Miguel shoots him a scathing look. Miles decides to give him a peace offering.

“There’s coffee if you want it.” He points to the pot.

The older man walks into the kitchen wordlessly. He hesitates and looks back at Miles.

“Mugs are in the cupboard to your left.”

Miguel opens the correct cabinet and grabs the closest one. He pours himself a cup, and seemingly lacking anything else to do, sits down across from Miles. Miles can’t help but notice that Miguel’s hair still looks flawless. When he’d looked into Ganke’s room, Miguel had been in the exact same position he’d been in when Miles went to bed the night before. Had he not moved the entire night?

Miles remembers Gwen’s first description of Miguel as a Vampire Spider-Man, and smirks a little to himself at the knowledge that Miguel sleeps immobile on his back like that. All he’s missing is the coffin.

“Something funny?” Miguel speaks for the first time.

Miles wipes the smile off his face. “No.” He clears his throat and straightens on his stool.

“No, actually. There really isn’t.” He pins Miguel with his gaze, and the older man stares back, unflinching. “You need to tell me what you’re doing here. And it better be good, otherwise I’m kicking you to the curb.”

Miguel rolls his eyes. “I assure you, this isn’t a social visit–”

“Then what is it?” he spits.

Miguel’s jaw clenches. “My gizmo malfunctioned. I was almost stranded in another dimension, and only had enough power left for one trip. Your dimension was the closest. I’m…” His eyes drop to his mug. His large hands are wrapped around it, dwarfing the cup. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for showing up unannounced. I know that I’m not welcome here.”

Miles leans back, caught off guard by the apology. He lets out a small sigh.

“Okay.” He digests the information, and takes a stabilising sip of his coffee, staring at the flecks in the granite of the kitchen island. He drums his fingers on the table.

“Okay,” he says again. “My watch is kinda on the fritz right now, so I’ll call Jess to pick you up.” Miles starts tapping at his watch, but jumps at the sudden screeching sound of Miguel’s seat flying backwards as the man shoots to his feet.

“NO, don’t!”

Miles freezes and stares, startled at Miguel’s panicked shout. They look at each other for a heartbeat, each equally wide-eyed.

The call goes through, and Miguel dives behind the kitchen island and out of the call’s visual range. He’s nowhere near fast enough.

“Hey, Miles! How’s it going? Is that–” Her face turns murderous. “Miguel O’Hara. You come out this instant.”

Miguel stands slowly, eyes glued to the floor.

“Hey, Jess.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me, you sneaky bastard. What the hell are you doing in 1610? I thought I confiscated your gizmo.”

Miles’ eyes snap to Miguel, who’s still avoiding Jess’ eyes. Miles has never seen him look so chastised. Was Miguel not supposed to be dimension hopping? He looks to Miguel’s wrist, where his watch sits. Now that he’s paying attention to the device, he notices how different it looks compared to the standard model.

“Yeah, I had a, um…spare?”

Jess crosses her arms and purses her lips. “Clearly. I was wondering why the system was acting so weird last night, I guess you thought you’d take a few unauthorised trips and got yourself into a bind?”

Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. “That about sums it up, yeah. If you could call a portal for me, I’d appreciate it.”

“No.”

Miles’ stomach drops, and he turns to her projection, affronted. “Hey, what? This guy is not staying here, at least get him home where you two can deal with whatever this is on your own.”

Jess’ attention turns to Miles. “I’m sorry Miles, but this genius over here,” she jerks her thumb at Miguel, “is supposed to be on leave. Obviously he can’t be trusted to respect orders so he’s staying there where he won’t have access to another gizmo.”

Miles and Miguel speak at the same time.

“No! Jess, please. I’ll do what you want, just let me go back to 928–”

“This isn’t a home for wayward pets, why do I have to deal with him–”

“Hey! Don’t be a dickhe*d–”

“You’re the dickhe*d! This is my apartment, asshole–”

“SHUT IT!” Jess yells, causing both men to turn to her projection with shocked expressions. “Miles, I’m sorry this is being dumped on you. Miguel doesn’t have to stay at your place, I wouldn’t ask that of you. What he does and where he goes while he’s in 1610 doesn’t need to be your concern; he just needs to stay in that dimension until his leave is up. That’s a medical order.” She directs her last comment at Miguel with a pointed glare.

She sighs. “I expected more of you, Miguel, I really did. This is for your own good; don’t disappoint me again.” She ends the call.

There’s a beat of silence.

Miles turns to Miguel with a smirk. “You’re in trouuble,” he sings, extending the word cheekily.

“Shut up.”

“Mr. Big Bad Spider-Man 2099 has been put on time-out, huh?”

Miguel reels on him. “Miles, there are serious things we’re dealing with right now, you have no idea–”

“Hey chill!” Miles holds his hands up placatingly. “I’m just messing with you, man. It’s whatever.”

It most certainly is not ‘whatever’. But Miles can tell something is off; whatever the context, medical leave sounds serious. Miles has never seen Miguel act so spacey and weird. Whatever happened must have been bad. Really bad. Miles considers kicking him out, and immediately chastises himself. What kind of Spider-Man would he be if he left a colleague out on the street like that? Miguel doesn’t even have any shoes; all he has is his broken watch and Miles’ pajama shirt. Miles may not like him, but he’s not that much of an asshole.

He sends Jess a text.

Miles (1610): Can u drop off some of Miguel’s stuff? He doesn’t have any clothes.

Miles (1610): Or shoes

Miles (1610): Or anything

Jess (616C): It isn’t good for dimensional stability to have too much stuff sitting in the wrong universe. I’ll send over a Spider-phone–he can use it to buy whatever he needs (does 1610 have Apple Pay? It’s compatible with that)

Miles (1610): Yes

Miles (1610): And shoes pls he won’t fit any of mine

Jess (616C): K

A tiny portal opens up a moment later, and a phone and a pair of black sneakers drop out of it. Miguel swipes the phone out of the air before it can hit the ground, but lets the shoes clatter to the floor. Intrigued by the sneaker styles of the future, Miles regards them for a moment. They aren’t particularly outlandish–they could easily pass for a pair of Yeezys or Jordans. They’re also f*cking huge, because Miguel is f*cking huge.

Miles glances at Miguel’s bare feet. Yep. Very big. He can’t help but notice that Miguel has rather elegant ankles. It’s a bizarre observation and it catches Miles completely off guard. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind, but it lingers in his head nonetheless: Miguel O’Hara has pretty ankles.

His chain of thought is broken by Miguel’s voice. By the tone of his question, Miles guesses this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get Miles’ attention.

“Hey. Yo. Hello?? The wifi?”

“Huh?”

Miguel waves the phone in Miles’ face. “The wifi. Which one is it?”

“Oh. It’s GLMJM2024. Password is the same but all lowercase.”

Miguel types it in without further comment. It must work, because he doesn’t ask for any more information.

Miles’ stomach gives a subtle growl. He’s already had cereal, but his appetite needed much more than that to be sated. He doesn’t have much food in the fridge, so a bodega sandwich will have to do.

“Are you hungry?” Miles asks.

Miguel doesn’t look up from his phone. “I guess.”

Miles stands and makes for the front door. “I’m going to get something to eat. Come with or don’t, but there’s hardly anything to eat here, so…”

Miguel seems to get the memo, because he rises and toes on his shoes. The sneakerhead in Miles dies a little when Miguel doesn’t bother undoing the straps to put them on; he just shoves his feet in, crushing the backs in the process. Miles has to clench his teeth together to keep himself from saying something stupid.

Inner peace, Miles. Inner peace.

The walk to the bodega is surprisingly comfortable. It’s a warm August day, too early for the sun to become unbearable. Then Miles ruins it, because he’s a reckless idiot.

“Do you know you snore really loud?”

Miguel frowns, but keeps his eyes looking straight ahead. “I don’t snore.”

“You do. I could hear it through the walls. The whole apartment was practically vibrating with it.”

“I don’t snore,” Miguel repeats again. “Someone would have told me by now. My brother especially so.”

Miguel has a brother? Miles files that tidbit away for later consideration. When he looks at Miguel, he’s surprised to find genuine confusion on his face. Maybe he really didn’t know?

Miles kicks a small pebble on the sidewalk, and it skitters ahead of them. “Well, maybe you should get a second opinion. It sounds like you have a deviated septum, or something.”

Miles halts when they get to a crosswalk, and has to place a hand on Miguel’s chest to stop him from stepping out in front of traffic. He obeys and stops immediately.

Miguel’s pensive expression deepens and he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “I…I broke my nose a few years back. It’s possible that’s what’s causing it. Sorry if it kept you up.” His gaze is fixed on the ground.

“Oh,” Miles looks up at him and co*cks his head. “Why didn’t you get it checked out at the time?”

The light turns green, and they continue walking.

Miguel continues to avoid his eyes. “There was…a lot going on that day. The med-bay doctors had too many patients, people with injuries much more serious than mine.”

Miles processes this information. The only time that he knew of when the med-bay was completely full was five years ago, right after the Spot. If something else had put that many Spiders in the medical wing, he’d have heard about it.

Then a memory wriggles free, and something in his chest catches. A train, a chase, and the feeling of ramming his elbow into Miguel’s face, multiple times in a row. Then a small crack on the last hit, right before Miguel threw him off. Shame rises in his chest for bringing it up, and he stays quiet. He’s thankful that the bodega comes into view so he doesn’t have to continue the conversation.

The door chimes merrily when Miles pushes it open, and the muffled sound of a pop radio station drifts out into the street. They step inside, and Miguel leaves Miles to go walk amongst the small aisles, seemingly in pursuit of a toothbrush.

A voice sounds from below the counter. “Miles, my favourite cousin! What can I do for you, my man?” A head of dark loc’d hair pops up from over the deli display.

The young man stretches to extend his hand toward Miles, who daps him up over the counter with a grin. “Hey, Richie. Two bacon, egg, and cheeses, will ya? Make mine extra cheesy, like usual.”

Richie gets to work on the grill, setting out ingredients and twirling his spatula with practiced grace. “You got it, cuz.” He side eyes Miguel, who’s now examining a stack of Monster energy drinks. Richie switches into Spanish: “Where’d you find this gringo, Miles? He your sugar daddy or something?”

In the span of one second, Miles sees Miguel’s eyes bug out of his head, and they make astonished, horrified eye contact. Miguel drops the can he’s picked up, sending the top layer of the stack toppling to the floor with a loud clatter. He catches a few of them and gets to work hastily shoving them back in their spots, disappearing behind the aisle as he does so.

Miles feels his soul leave his body, and his insides liquefy into a nauseating amalgamation of embarrassment and rage. He has never wished for a quick death as much as he does in that moment. “Richie!” he scream-whispers in English. “Can you not be a f*cking weirdo for once in your life! He’s not–we’re not–”

His hands fly to his hair, and he grabs fistfuls of the curls, pulling at it to expel his overflow of mortification.

Miguel reappears, apparently finished re-stacking the cans. Miles watches with wide eyes as he saunters up to the cash. He looks Richie up and down, pinning him with his unimpressed stare. “Who’re you calling a gringo, kid?”

His fluent Spanish has Richie turning an interesting shade of green. He turns to Miles, and in a whisper that would be audible even if Miguel didn’t have enhanced hearing, says, “He’s wearing your pajamas, Miles.”

Oh god, kill me now, f*ckf*ckf*ck. “He’s um…you see, he’s…subletting. From Ganke. While he’s in Korea.” He coughs into his fist. “Yeah. He’s my–” He looks at Miguel. Miguel stares back at him. “He’s my…coworker.”

Richie hands the sandwiches over without further comment. Miles snatches them out of his hands with a glare.

“I’m not paying for these, you sicko; that comment is worth a week of free breakfast easily.”

Richie only nods, and shrinks in on himself while pressing his lips into a thin line. He’s very deliberately avoiding looking in Miguel’s direction.

They leave the bodega in silence. Miles tosses Miguel his wrapped sandwich, and he catches it easily.

“So, coworkers, huh? I think it would be more accurate to say that I’m your boss.”

Miles’ face twists. “You’re not my boss, I’m my own boss. I’m more of a freelancer, anyway; it’s not like you have me on payroll.” He unwraps his food and takes a bite, chewing furiously.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

They chew in silence for a couple minutes. Miles begins to lead them back to the apartment.

Miles can’t keep it in any longer, and the guilt forces the apology out of his mouth. “I’m sorry about your nose.”

Miguel stiffens. “Don’t apologize. It was self defence.”

“Still–”

“I don’t want to hear it, Miles.” His cold, clipped tone leaves no room for dispute.

Regret slithers its way around Miles’ ribs and tightens like a vice.

Miles hadn’t realized at the time the damage he’d dealt. He’d been too riled up with fear, adrenaline, and anger. Looking back now, he’s ashamed of it. Miguel had hurt him, yes. But when he’d driven the point of his elbow into Miguel’s face…he’d wanted to cause him pain, to make him suffer for it. Consumed by his emotions, he’d let his strength get the better of him. And now, Miguel had to live with the consequences.

A phantom pain simmers across Miles’ shoulder. He usually healed too fast to scar, but the claw marks Miguel had left in his skin were still there, even now. Nearly invisible, they’d left thin, translucent scars that were only noticeable in certain lighting. But they were there nonetheless.

It seems they had both left their marks on each other that day.

Chapter 9: Asylum

Chapter Text

So begins the strangest day of Miguel’s thirty-three years of life.

Being in Miles Morales’ presence for the first time in four years hit him like a punch to the stomach, mostly because it made absolutely no sense. Waking up in a hospital bed was deeply disorienting, not only because his last memory was of jumping through a portal, but moreso because Miles, of all people, was standing at the foot of his bed. He’d been convinced Miles was a drug-induced hallucination, because the thought of him waiting around for Miguel to wake up was, to put it simply, ludicrous.

Miguel blinked, hard, trying to clear his vision. When the image of Miles stayed put, he did it again. But he was still there, and was looking at Miguel with something like concern and no small degree of befuddlement. Miguel was convinced the other Spider-Man was a mirage or a sleep paralysis demon, at least until he showed Miguel his drawing a few hours later. It was the most Miles-like thing he’d done all evening, so it wasn’t until Miguel had been appropriately made fun of that he allowed himself to accept Miles’ presence as reality.

The rest of the evening was spent in a groggy haze. The painkillers made it nearly impossible to stay awake and alert. When combined with weeks and–let’s face it–years of sleep deprivation, they’re more effective than a tranquilizer dart, and Miguel sleeps like the dead. A full orchestra could have performed in his room and he’d have stayed asleep. He doesn’t fully come back to himself until he’s coming to the next morning after what was arguably the deepest and most restful sleep of his adult life.

When he exits his room and enters the main living space of Miles’ apartment, he has to stop and stare. The space is awash with colour, with vitality. With life. Miles has impressed his stamp upon every available surface, and it’s a sight to behold. The apartment is thrumming with evidence of his personality. Every available space is hung with art, pictures, and memorabilia. For a student’s apartment, it’s coherently decorated. It’s, for lack of a better word, cool.

On the wall opposite the two bedroom doors, just above the large, plush couch, is a massive collection of photographs. There are several photos of Miles and a brawny asian boy Miguel assumes to be Miles’ roommate. A few look pretty old, because the Miles in them looks even younger than he was when he and Miguel first met. With his big brown eyes and lanky frame, he’s kind of adorable.

There are faces Miguel recognizes, too. Peter B., Gwen, Hobie, Pavitr, and even Mayday have made the cut. Miguel does a double take when he sees a photo of Miles with his mother, because the resemblance is staggering; Miles is a taller, sharper, masculine carbon-copy of Rio Morales.

His gaze is drawn finally to a large easel on the left, by the corner near the window that spans the far wall of the living space. Painted on a wide canvas is a half finished cityscape of New York, brightly and skillfully rendered in blues, purples, and pinks. Miguel heard through the grapevine that Miles was artistically inclined, but he had assumed it was more of a hobby. What he’s seeing before him is a true artistic talent, not that Miguel has the authority to identify it. He can barely draw stick figures, so he can’t help but be impressed.

It’s a stark contrast to Miguel’s apartment back in 928. Scarcely furnished, cold and impersonal, it hardly looked like anyone lived at Miguel’s condo. It’s part of the reason why Miguel was rarely there: it just felt so…empty. It was silent and lifeless. He was more comfortable at HQ where there were almost always people walking around; Jess checking in, Peter B. bothering him. And, Miguel wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but he also stayed at HQ on the off chance that Mayday or Gerry would be brought in for a visit by their parents, and he could begrudgingly (happily) agree to look after them.

He’s so intrigued by the rich visual landscape of the apartment that he doesn’t notice Miles sitting at the kitchen island, and startles slightly when he speaks. Dealing with the younger man was a constant case of whiplash. One second he was teasing Miguel for his drool stains, and the next he was offering him coffee. Miguel just…can’t parse Miles’ behaviour, can’t figure out where they stand. He’s not sure if Miles hates him, tolerates him, or just enjoys making fun of him. It was probably a combination of all three. It was almost like his dislike for Miguel was warring with his innate kindness, and the two sides were teeter-tottering wildly back and forth.

Miguel folds himself onto one of the kitchen stools and sips at the black coffee, even though he usually doesn't like it that way. He can’t bear the thought of bothering Miles to provide milk or sugar, even though he put the likelihood of Miles acquiescing at about sixty percent. That, however, still left a forty percent likelihood that Miles would try to throw a carton of dairy at Miguel’s face, so he settles for bitter coffee–it’s better than no coffee.

Being in Miles’ personal space, at his whim was…uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. Miguel was already mildly humiliated at needing to be rescued. Being at the mercy of Miles’ home and hospitality was even worse. And it was just one humiliation after the other, as he was forced to undergo one of Jessica’s scoldings right in front of Miles, who Miguel is sure would have enjoyed the spectacle more if not for the side effect of being saddled with Miguel for the next three weeks.

Then, following a strange and exceedingly embarrassing encounter with some kid who was apparently Miles’ cousin, Miguel takes his first bite of food in two days, and nearly melts with relief. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, used to ignoring his hunger pangs. His metabolism had revved up due to the calorie burn of healing his injuries; he’d have to work on eating more, otherwise he wouldn’t heal well.

Miles and his cousin bore absolutely no resemblance–the Richie moron was irritating and unlikeable, whereas Miles was only irritating, and frustratingly likeable. He even tries to apologize for breaking Miguel’s nose, which Miguel is having absolutely none of. He’d done much worse to Miles: a slightly misaligned nose was nothing worth losing sleep over.

Miguel finishes his food and is formulating plans to get a larger meal when Miles stiffens beside him.

Miles goes ramrod straight, before snapping his head upwards. As if on cue, gunfire sounds from down the street, followed by screams. Miles grabs Miguel’s wrist and starts running, dragging the larger man behind him. Startled by the sudden contact but lacking cause to break away, Miguel stumbles along without comment.

“That’s my cue; duty calls,” Miles announces. He leads them into a narrow alleyway, shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, and pulls his backpack off. “Stand guard, will you?” He unzips his bag before tossing it on the ground and going invisible.

“Miles, wha–” A shirt becomes visible mid air, then falls to the ground, shortly followed by a pair of shorts. Miguel balks. “Why are you taking your clothes off?!”

“Can you chill? I’m just getting changed, gimme a minute.” Miguel can almost hear Miles’ eye roll. Miles’ red and black spider suit emerges from the biggest pocket in his backpack, then turns invisible as Miles steps into it. Miguel perks up at that, unfamiliar with the specifics of Miles’ invisibility power. Could he turn anything he was touching invisible at will, or did he have to be wearing it? Did it only extend to clothes? Miguel makes a mental note to ask him about it later.

“Y’know, even though I’m invisible, the fact that you’re staring at me while I change is more than a little weird, dude.”

Embarrassment and irritation fizzle through Miguel’s veins. “I wasn’t! I can’t even see where you’re standing right now.” He balls his hands into fists to hide the involuntary unsheathing of his claws, then points an accusatory finger in Miles’ general direction. He truly isn’t sure where Miles’ exact position is. “You’re the one who started stripping!”

Miles laughs and pops back into sight, fully clothed and masked. “I know, I’m just giving you a hard time. Catch.” He chucks his backpack at Miguel, who scowls but catches the bag when it collides with his chest. “You can head back to the apartment, it’s unlocked.” He dashes back to the alley opening, slapping Miguel’s chest with the back of his hand as he passes. “See ya, chump.”

He shoots off a web and swings away.

“What the hell–Miles!” Miguel jogs after him, but Miles is already gone.

A quick glance down at himself negates the possibility of going after him. He’s still wearing Miles’ borrowed clothes, and a t-shirt and gym shorts are hardly appropriate apparel for going up against a shooter. Even though he’s not in his own universe, Miguel would still like to keep his identity a secret, and without his suit, there’s little he can do to help. The cops would be there any second, so Miguel would probably be turned away for looking like a lunatic civilian with a hero complex and a broken arm. Not to mention his still-healing claw gouges, which twinge painfully as he moves.

At a loss for what else to do, in an unfamiliar dimension with nothing but a Beyoncé shirt and Miles’ backpack, Miguel decides to go shopping. He may as well pick up some clothes and necessities to get him through the next few weeks, because the lack of proper clothing is a severe problem. Since Miles hadn’t given him any underwear, he’d been forced to go commando. To make matters worse, the baggy shorts are too big around the waist, and Miguel had nearly pantsed himself when he’d dropped his phone into the pocket, as the sudden weight had nearly yanked them down to his ankles before he caught them as they passed his hip bones. He’d thanked every saint he could name that Miles’ back had been turned at the time.

He slings the backpack over one shoulder after loosening the strap. Before he goes anywhere, he pulls out his phone and types ‘what does chump mean 2020s slang’ into the search engine. He taps on the first result.

Synonymous with loser, ‘chump’ refers to a foolish or easily deceived person.

A muscle by his eye twitches. If Miguel gets through the next three weeks with his sanity intact, it’ll be a goddamn miracle.

Using the map on his phone, Miguel finds some basic clothing stores. It seemed like Miles lived in an incredibly convenient area of his New York, because he finds everything he needs within a five-block radius. He gets a few stares from people, but he brushes them off, used to the attention. Being as tall as he was, he was accustomed to towering over most people, and his size drew eyes naturally.

Most didn’t stare long or with too much concern, which was good. Being in a different dimension was like being in a foreign country; differing customs and social protocols often made it hard to pass as a local. There was no way of telling if he was doing something wrong, like walking on the wrong side of the sidewalk or transgressing some other similarly miniscule but noticeable social rule. Then again, Spiders have gotten away with pretending to be foreign before, so it’s not hard to explain away. The truth is hardly believable anyways.

Miguel hopes the lingering eyes aren't because of the shirt–Miles had seemed embarrassed to give it to him, though Miguel couldn’t really say why. It smelled nice, so it definitely wasn’t dirty, and the fit was almost perfect aside from some tightness across the shoulders. He wasn’t familiar enough with the fashion of 1610 to know if it was acceptable to wear outside the house, though Miles’ cousin did say that Miles wore it to bed. In any case, he couldn’t find issue with the piece of clothing given his utter lack of context. If anything, it seemed to be gaining positive attention. A couple of teen girls had giggled and pointed when they saw him, whispering and tittering to each other behind their hands.

“Ohmygod, so cute!”

“I’m obsessed. Absolute serve.”

Miguel hadn’t understood the slang, but based on their tone, he assumed it was positive. Teen girls could be rather mean, so to have garnered a good reaction from them had to be a good sign.

When he gets back to the apartment, he’s managed to find himself everything he’ll need for the next three weeks. It isn’t a lot; just toiletries, several t-shirts, some jeans (which were too short, but there was little to be done about that), and boxers. Clothing from his dimension looked pretty different, so he’d focused on getting the plainest, most basic things he could find.

He rushes to the bathroom to shower, desperate to shave and get rid of his stubble. He hated looking scruffy, even more so after Peter B. had once accused him of ‘stealing his brand’ after catching Miguel on his–entirely unintentional–third day of scruff. Thankfully, the room he’s staying in has an ensuite bathroom, and he’s pretty sure Miles’ room does too. Having to fight over a bathroom with Miles Morales for the next three weeks sounded like his own personal hell.

The space is small enough as it is; it’s a standing, narrow cubicle shower that’s barely wide enough to close with Miguel inside it. The showerhead is lower than his head, which is a giant pain. The spray of water hits him in the chest, and it isn’t detachable, so he has to hunch awkwardly to wash his hair. He also bangs his elbows painfully on the walls about eight times during the ten minutes he’s in there. Combined with the difficulty of trying to keep his cast dry, he’s one inconvenience away from punching a hole clean through its stupid frosted glass wall by the time he gets out.

Cataloguing his appearance in the bathroom mirror, he’s satisfied with how his wounds are healing. Many of his stitches fell out under the pressure of the water, which was a good sign that his healing factor had overtaken their usefulness. A wiggle of his fingers confirms that his arm is healing nicely, so he figures the cast can come off. Extending a claw, he slices it down the length of the cast from wrist to elbow, and the stiff material splits easily.

He goes to pry it off when a flash of colour catches his eye. He holds his arm up to the mirror and squints at it, leaning in for a closer look. On the outside of his elbow, at the precise spot that’s hardest to see on one’s own arm, is a rectangular name tag sticker. “MILES WAS HERE” is written in graphic bubble letters, just above a chibi doodle drawing of Miguel in his spider suit. Miles has drawn in mini arm blades, and a little Lyla floats by Miguel’s shoulder.

When the hell did he put that there?

Being left unconscious in Miles’ presence for hours was clearly taken as an invitation for petty tricks. Miguel is honestly surprised Miles didn’t draw a moustache on him while he was asleep. His irritation at being so successfully pranked is a little dampened by amusem*nt. The specificity of the placement is admittedly clever, as it’s stuck at a spot that was hard to see on your own body yet entirely visible to everyone else. Miguel is a little, just a little, endeared.

He carefully peels the sticker off. Strangely unwilling to throw it out, he sticks it onto the glass at the top corner of the bathroom mirror.

After exiting the bathroom and dressing, he re-enters the living area. Faced with the quiet of the apartment, Miguel isn’t sure what to do. Even if he were in his own dimension, he was never stuck at home like this; he was always at HQ. When he wasn’t working–which was rare–he was spending time with Jess, being harassed by Peter B., or babysitting Gerry and Mayday. To top it off, he has no idea when Miles is coming back. It could be in ten minutes or ten hours–it’s not like Miles gave him a copy of his schedule.

Overcome with restless nerves, he puts his shoes back on. Now in his own clothing, he feels more comfortable going outside, even if it’s not in his preferred getup. He’d much rather swing around, but without his suit, he was limited to walking on foot. Not for the first time he curses his lack of sticking powers. Having only claws and blades to climb with always left damage, not to mention making him easily trackable. He envied other Spiders’ easy ability to crawl around wherever they wished without having to worry about repairing drywall.

The stairwell in Miles’ building is tiny and winding, with layers upon layers of chipping paint over what was likely once tasteful wood panelling. In Miguel’s opinion, having a building without a functional elevator was positively Victorian, not to mention an accessibility issue. It strikes him how different his and other Spider-people’s times are. It’s strange to think that the dimension he’s in now is only a few generations removed from the nineteenth century and the invention of electricity.

The curling wrought iron design of the railing gives him pause, and he crouches to admire it. Painted a dark green, the wrought metal curves and twists, reminding him of the architecture in an ancient city like London or Paris. It’s a stark contrast to the Nueva York he hails from, where everything is aggressively modern, with sharp, hard angles; glass and concrete, steel and plastic. Even below the surface, the gritty underbelly is modern, mechanical, and dreary. All remnants of the past have been torn up and replaced, obliterated by a monolithic veneration of technological efficiency.

He traces a finger along the curls of the railing’s design, and hums thoughtfully. Where 928 feels cold and jaded, 1610 feels as though it has…a soul, cultivated by the generations of people who have lived, loved, died in it. Miguel isn’t usually one to ponder these things, but it hits him; the number of hands that must have brushed along this railing alone through the decades, how many lives must have been lived in this building.

Tilted off kilter by his own sentimentality, he stands, knees cracking, and continues downward. He flinches when he emerges onto the street, shutting his eyes against the glaring sunlight. It’s midday now, with the sun at its highest point, and it’s much too harsh for his sensitive eyes. He decides then that sunglasses are an essential if he’s going to make it through the next three weeks without going completely blind.

He sets off in no particular direction, content to wander. The city is abuzz with noise; traffic, buskers singing, birds chirping, and the ever-present hum of cicadas. There are murals and street art everywhere, vibrant and exploding with colour. Of course, there are also the less glamorous aspects of the city. Left in the hot sun, the garbage bins lining the street are starting to stink, and the pavement is crumbled and cracked in many areas. But it’s alive, and brimming with energy, culture, humanity.

A rectangular spot of colour catches his eye atop a lamppost. He pauses to scrutinize it, and smirks when he sees what it is. It’s another generic name tag sticker, crammed edge to edge with graffiti-style graphics and ‘MILES MORALES’ written across it in large stylized letters. It seems Miles has left his stamp upon his city in more ways than one.

Miguel wanders for the next couple of hours, content to go wherever seemed most interesting. He keeps the location of Miles’ apartment at the back of his mind, mindful of how far he’s walked, but there was always the maps app on his phone if he got lost. That was the ingenious thing about the Spider-phones; connecting them to any wifi network would sync them instantly to that universe, uploading them with universe-specific apps and data.

He had to admit, Miles’ Wifi name confused him. Miles seemed like a straightforward, practical person–his continued use of the ‘Spiderverse’ title for the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse attested to that. But his Wifi network just looked like a key smash–Miguel couldn’t make sense of whatever GLMJM2024 was supposed to mean, aside from, of course, the year tacked on the end of it. He ponders it only for a second, before dismissing it as unimportant.

Miguel finds himself in a large park a good distance from Miles’ apartment. He’d entered it relatively close to where Miles lived, but the green space was so large and filled with various pathways, gardens, and ponds that he’d wandered quite deep into it without realizing it. He’s watching a pigeon walk lazily along the path when the thought hits him, and he comes to a sudden stop. Someone bumps into his back, then continues on with a glare when he doesn’t move.

The MJ for his canon event will be a member of the Society. The Society that’s back in 928. Miguel is in 1610, and will be for weeks. No one comes to 1610 except for Miles and his close circle of friends, none of whom are an MJ variant. What seemed before a mere prison reforms itself in his mind; in 1610, he’s completely isolated from the rest of Spider-Society, and therefore all of its MJ variants. This isn’t an incarceration. It’s a safehouse, guaranteed MJ free. In a staggering stroke of luck, Miguel has accidentally bought himself three extra weeks to figure out how to prevent his canon event.

Even better, the MJ of 1610 will be of no danger to him. Before his death, the first Spider-Man of this universe had been engaged to 1610’s Gwen Stacy. Peter had never met his universe’s MJ, and that canon event was never fulfilled for him. It might’ve in the future, but it doesn't matter now. In any case, if this MJ fell into Miguel’s lap tomorrow, it would make no difference, because Miguel’s event was a canon convergence–it was going to be a Spider-Person. The only other Spider in contact with Miguel now was Miles, who was, obviously, Miles Morales, and not Mary-Jane or Michelle Jones or whatever other MJ names usually popped up.

With this revelation in his back pocket, Miguel feels lighter than he has in days.

It’s early evening by the time he gets back to the apartment. A quick look around confirms that Miles still isn’t there. He even checks in Miles’ bedroom just to be sure, though he doesn’t linger long–peeking in there in the first place feels like too much of an invasion. He has no idea what Miles is still doing, if he’s been patrolling all day or if he had other commitments. Miles’ wallet and keys are in his backpack, so he’ll have to come home eventually, even if he’s trying to avoid Miguel, which is likely.

He’s poking around the apartment, familiarizing himself with the layout and the space when he sees it. He hadn’t noticed it before, but with the sun dipping lower in the sky the soft lighting of a fish tank is now visible. It’s behind Miles’ large canvas and easel, which he moves aside carefully to get a better look.

Inside the large tank are four clownfish. Elation and curiosity spring up in Miguel’s chest, and he leans forward to get a better look. In his time, clownfish are long extinct. He doesn’t know when they died out, and it hadn’t occurred to him that they’d still be plentiful in other dimensions. He’d studied them for a class in university, and had found them fascinating. This was partly due, of course, to the fact that they no longer existed, but he’d also thought it was cool that they were all born male, and could change their sex later on in life.

He settles down on his knees and sits back onto his feet, bringing his face level with the tank. He folds his arms on the table and rests his chin in the crook of his elbow.

“I’ve never seen one of you in real life before.” The burbling sound of the water filter is a comforting noise, filling the silence of the room.

Memories of Peter’s death and Jamie’s bone-chilling scream flash to the forefront of his mind, and unease circles in his stomach. He watches one of the fish weave through the tank plants and follows the movement with a finger.

“Do you think it was my fault? Was Peter’s death preventable?”

The fish don’t reply.

“I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if it can be fixed; I think it’s too late, for me at least.”

He’s not strong enough to say it, not even to the fish, but he’s scared. He’s really scared. Event ASM-319 is a good thing for some Spider-People. For those lucky few, MJ ends up becoming the best thing in their whole world. But for a lot of them, it doesn’t last. Or worse, MJ dies. It’s a small comfort that MJ’s death isn’t part of the canon event; in the rare universes where it does happen, it’s just a tragic coincidence, a side effect, a hazard of loving Spider-Man.

But for the rest, MJ simply doesn’t stay. Nine times out of ten, it’s because Spider-Man f*cks it up. It’s not a question of love, because the canon event is just that; the Spider falls hopelessly, irrevocably in love with MJ. But it doesn’t work the other way. In some universes MJ never loves him back. In lots of them the feelings are mutual, but too often the demands of being Spider-Man tear them apart. In even more, the relationship falls apart because Peter Parker is a bona fide idiot with the emotional intelligence of a teaspoon. In that at least, Miguel thinks he might have a little advantage. Probably.

But one thing is certain. In the universes where things don’t work out–and there are a lot of them–Spider-Man is completely destroyed by it. 199999 is only one example; Miguel doesn’t know that specific Peter Parker well, but he’ll probably never recover from losing his MJ. Miguel has seen it in the footage. Peter’s grieving, lovelorn peeks into the coffee shop where MJ works, his sad eyes when he orders a coffee and the love of his life doesn’t even remember that he existed, or what they meant to each other.

So, based on the numbers, Miguel’s chances aren’t looking too good. Because on top of the canon data, every other time he’s loved someone, truly loved them, he’s f*cked it up. This one will probably go the same way, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

He sighs and returns his attention to the fish. The soft blue lighting in the tank ripples with the movement of the surface of the water, casting pale lines of light across his face.

“You guys are really pretty.” He places his pointer finger on the glass, right in front of the sole black clownfish. “I like you the best. You’re not like the others–you’re unique, aren’t you?”

“Is talking to fish something that people usually do in your dimension? Because I’m sorry to tell you that the fish in 1610 can’t understand human speech.”

“f*ck me!” Miguel jumps and whirls around, eyes wide. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.” Miles chuckles. He’s maskless, but hasn’t taken his suit off yet, and the darkness of its fabric blends into the gloom of the apartment. The last rays of sunlight have disappeared below the horizon, and Miguel has yet to turn the lights on. He doesn’t even know where any of the switches are.

Miguel scowls. “Can you go bother someone else? I was having a much nicer time talking to the fish. They listen better than you.”

“I do listen. It’s just that whatever you’re talking about is usually a load of horsesh*t, so I choose not to pay attention.”

“Hmf. You spend too much time with Hobie.”

Miles co*cks his head. “What’s with your fascination with them anyways? They’re just clownfish.” He steps closer.

Miguel’s eyes follow the biggest fish, watching it follow a smaller one lazily around the tank. He never realized how tiny clownfish were; he thought they’d be a few inches long, at least. He rests his chin back on his hands. “They’re extinct in 2104.”

“What!?” Miles exclaims, slapping his hands over his ears. “No! Take that back right now!”

Miguel shrugs.

“Ugh, my day is ruined, sh*t. No wonder you’re such a mopey bastard, your era sounds like a barren apocalyptic hell.”

“I don’t mope.”

“You’re moping right now.”

Lacking the energy to counter Miles’ statement, Miguel keeps his attention on the fish and stays silent. A large red clownfish is following the little black one around the tank. It’s the second time in the last few minutes that Miguel has seen that pair behave that way. “Why’s this big one always following the dark one around?”

Miles joins him in kneeling on the floor, much to Miguel’s surprise. “Dunno, he always does that. I think he just likes him.”

Soothed by the unexpectedly comforting atmosphere, Miguel asks when the question pops into his head. “I didn’t know there could be black clownfish. Are they common?”

Miles’ mouth twists with mirth, and Miguel sees the comment coming a mile away: “That’s kinda racist, man.”

For f*ck’s sake, Miles was quick on the draw; he never allowed Miguel more than a moment’s peace. The slightest misstep, and Miles was on him like a viper.

Miguel shoots him the darkest glare he can muster. “You know what I meant.”

“I know, but you walked right into that one, I couldn’t resist.” Miles smiles at him then, and it crashes into Miguel like a blow to the gut. His breath catches. He’s never seen Miles smile, really smile, in his presence before. Seeing it up close, and directed at him, makes a fluttery feeling erupt in his chest. After the start they got, with their brawl on the train–the screaming, the violence, the rage–Miguel didn’t think Miles would ever stand to be in the same room with him. So to see him smile at Miguel like that…it’s like seeing the impossible come true, having absolution creep an inch closer. Miguel stares dumbly, long enough for Miles to clear his throat and stand stiffly.

“Well, um, I’m gonna get changed. We can order takeout or something if you want?”

Miles doesn’t meet Miguel’s eyes as he says this, as he seems to have remembered who exactly was sitting in his living room. He continues on, clenching his jaw. He finally meets Miguel’s stare with his own honey-brown eyes. “By the way, you’re not going anywhere else until you explain to me what’s actually going on. This is my turf, you play by my rules, got it?”

Miguel can only blink, then slowly nods his assent.

Miles nods once, then spins on one foot and retreats into his room, shutting the door with a soft click. Miguel hears the sound of running water, presumably the shower, and tunes it out, returning to staring at the fish. He isn’t sure how long he sits there, but Miles comes back out after what feels like only a few minutes, dressed in a t-shirt and track pants.

He has no idea how he didn’t notice it before, but Miles is covered in harsh looking scrapes, the kind you get from being tossed across concrete. He’s also walking gingerly and his breathing is shallow, as if he’s trying not to expand his lungs to their full capacity.

Miguel stands abruptly, and Miles shrinks as the taller man walks over.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Miles looks down at himself as if shocked to find the injuries there. “Oh, this? Eh, it’s nothing, just a couple of scrapes–” Miguel reaches forward and firmly pokes him in the ribs, and Miles flinches, curling in on himself with a loud hiss. “OW, what’d you do that for? You come into my house and disrespect me like this?”

He slaps Miguel’s hand away. Miles must put a little of his venom into it, because sparks crackle at the contact, and a tiny bolt of electricity zings up Miguel’s arm, making him jolt and grit his teeth at the uncomfortable sensation. The hairs on the backs of his arms stand on end, and he shivers.

Miguel shakes out the affected hand and raises an eyebrow. “That looks like a lot more than a couple of scrapes, Miles. You have broken ribs and probably a few other things. What happened?”

Miles pouts at him. “I’ll tell if you tell. But only after we eat; I’m way too hungry for this.” Miles pulls out his phone and starts poking around on it. “Is pizza okay?”

Miguel just shrugs. He’s embarrassingly bad at feeding himself, so pizza is a better meal than he’s had in days. He’s often so busy working that he forgets to eat, and when he does, it’s often takeout or whatever’s being served in the cafeteria at HQ. It’s not that he can’t cook either: he just doesn’t have the time or the reason for it.

Taking his shrug as an affirmation, Miles orders for the both of them. They sit on the couch in silence for a while, both messing around on their phones. It’s a little awkward, but Miguel can’t tell if it’s just him being socially inept or if Miles feels the same way. He hasn’t looked up from his phone in at least twenty minutes. Miguel is almost convinced Miles has forgotten about him until his phone dings, and he speaks again.

“Can you go downstairs and get the food from the driver? I think I uh–” He stretches out his leg and circles his socked foot tentatively, wincing as he does. “I think I f*cked up my ankle and I don’t wanna take the stairs.”

Miguel stands instantly. “Sure.”

He jogs down the five winding flights of stairs quickly enough that he starts to get dizzy, and is grateful once he reaches the bottom. He accepts the boxes from the delivery boy and is about to start his way back up when a voice stops him.

“Excuse me, young man?”

He turns in surprise at the sound. It’s coming from the open door to one of the ground-level units, where a tiny old woman leans. One of her wrinkled hands rests on a cane while the other places a pair of large-framed glasses atop her head. Her white hair is twisted and piled up in a bun at the crown of her head, secured in place with a long paintbrush.

“Yes?”

She smiles warmly at him. “I’m sorry to bother you, but could you help me bring this package inside?” She taps the outside of a large cardboard box with her cane. “It was delivered this morning but it’s much too heavy for little old me to carry.”

Miguel stares, wide eyed for a second before starting forward to help her. He sets the pizzas on top of the box before lifting everything together. It’s heavier than he thought it would be, though it’s nothing his enhanced strength can’t handle. He makes a show of struggling slightly with its weight, just in case.

“What’s in here?” he asks. “It’s heavy.” He sets the box on the dining room table at her direction.

She waves a hand toward a pottery wheel. “Oh, I’m sorry about that, I hope it wasn’t too much. It’s clay; it comes in a dry powder that’s very heavy in larger quantities.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” It had felt like the box was full of sand–no wonder she hadn’t been able to bring it inside.

“Did you move in recently? I haven’t seen you here before.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m just staying with my, uh…” he tries to recall what Miles said about his roommate, “friend while his roommate’s in Korea. I’m…subletting.” Miguel hopes that his answer didn’t sound like a giant lie. It wasn’t even technically untrue.

The woman’s face lights up, crow’s feet crinkling. “Oh, with Miles! He’s just a gem, isn’t he? So talented too, a beautiful artist, wouldn’t you say?”

Miguel’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, unused to such friendly warmth from a stranger. “Uhm, yes?”

She rambles on, oblivious to his confusion. “You seem like such a nice boy; will you tell Miles Mrs. Moreno says hello?”

He can only nod slowly at her.

She pulls a five dollar bill from her purse and tries to hand it to him: “Here, for your trouble.”

“Oh, no, I can’t–”

“I insist!”

“No, really, it was no problem–”

“Come now, boy, it’s a gift!” She catches him off guard by reaching up and patting his cheek with a tiny, warm palm. She has to rise onto her toes to reach. Blinking rapidly at an unbidden swell of childlike vulnerability, he’s so shocked she’s able to push the bill into his hand.

She flits her hands at him. “Run along now, we don’t want to keep Miles waiting. Appetite of a lion, that one.”

She ushers him out of the apartment, and he exits in a daze, but not before leaving the money on the table by the door when she’s not looking.

Soft, soulful jazz music is playing from an old record player when he gets back upstairs. Miguel has never seen or heard one in person before. From what he understands of Miles’ dimension, record players should be old, obsolete technology by now. Miles’ ownership of one piques his interest, and he eyes the device with curiosity as he crosses into the living area.

He must have an odd expression on his face, because Miles has no trouble commenting on it.

“What took you so long? Did someone try to kidnap you while you were down there?”

Miguel sets the food down on the coffee table. “In a sense. An old woman tried to give me five dollars. I get the impression you know each other?”

He drops down onto the couch, and the movement makes Miles jolt slightly as the sudden weight fluffs the cushion underneath him.

Miles nods, already reaching eagerly for the food. “Sometimes we paint together–she’s really sweet. She tries to give me money every time I see her. No matter how many times I tell her I don’t need it, she refuses and tries anyway, so I just slip it back in her purse when she’s not looking.” Miles pauses mid-bite to glare at Miguel. “You didn’t accept it, did you?”

Miguel rears back, offended. “Of course not! What do you think I am, a conman?!”

“I’d hope not, but you can never be sure. Aren’t you like a bajillionaire, anyway?” Miles co*cks his head at him, eyes wide, as he takes a giant bite of pizza.

Miguel scowls at his pizza, unable to meet Miles’ stare. “Something like that,” he grumbles.

“So,” Miles sets his pizza down and dusts his hands off. “You promised me you’d explain what’s actually going on–why Jess has you on time-out.”

Miguel pins him with a glare. “It’s not a time-out, sh*thead. It’s a mandated leave.” He has to close his eyes and heave a deep breath to get the next part out. “A Spider-Man died on a mission two days ago. Everyone present was given three weeks of mandatory leave, myself included.”

“Who?” Miles goes still, all traces of his joking mood gone. He’s staring very hard at the floorboards, bottom lip caught in his teeth.

“A Peter Parker variant. Older guy, in his fifties.” Miles’ shoulders slump in relief, and he puts his head in his hands. “Miles,” Miguel starts hesitantly, “if it was one of your friends, we would have told you. You’d have been notified right away.”

Miles’ face twists, and he looks up sharply. “Oh? Because you have a great track record with that, right? Telling me when someone important to me is in danger instead of just leaving me in the dark?” His eyes are piercing, accusatory.

Miguel deflates. “That was…” He swallows hard and shifts in his seat. “That was different.”

It seems Miguel couldn’t go ten minutes without pissing Miles off.

Miles only nods silently, jaw tight. “And this has never happened before? A Spider dying on an anomaly mission, I mean.”

Miguel shakes his head. “This is the first. It was…shocking, to say the least.” Appetite gone, dark guilt swirls in his gut. He considers telling Miles about the canon evolution, then decides against it. It’s so new, Miguel barely understands it himself. There’s no need to saddle Miles with something that doesn’t concern him.

Miguel can feel Miles’ eyes on him. “So…you’re put on leave. I’m assuming Jess took your main watch. Then you figured you’d go against orders and run some missions with, what, some sh*tty replacement you had at home? Which broke and left you running to 1610, the next closest dimension. And now you’re stuck here with me.”

Miguel leans back into the plush cushion, surprised at the accuracy. “That’s the gist of it, yeah.”

“You really are a workaholic.” Miles shakes his head and continues eating. His pizza’s nearly gone now; Mrs. Moreno wasn’t kidding about his appetite. Miguel doesn’t know where he puts it all. Miles is decently muscled, but he’s long and lean with a tiny waist. He’s grown a little taller since they first met five years ago, but not by much, and his head barely comes up to Miguel’s chin, even at his adult height.

Miles seems content to keep eating and pretend Miguel isn’t there, so the older man clears his throat.

Miles side-eyes him, annoyed. “What?”

“Our deal? I told you what happened, now you tell me what got you all banged up today. It wasn’t that shooter, was it?

Miles shakes his head. “Nah, that was nothing. They weren’t shooting live rounds, they were just trying to scare people off so they could rob a bank. They gave up the second I got there.” He looks down at himself. “This was later, just a couple of hours ago. I may have been a little, uh, hit by a truck?” He rubs the back of his head self consciously.

“You were a little hit by a truck,” Miguel deadpans. “Was this a forgetting-to-look-both-ways before you cross the road incident, or something deliberate?”

“No, they came directly for me; they were looking for Spider-Man. They–” Miles fiddles with his gizmo. “They tried to take the watch.”

“What?” Miguel’s stomach sinks.

Miles just nods, tracing the shape of his gizmo with a fingertip. Its screen is dark.

“Wait,” Miguel begins. “Didn’t you say your gizmo wasn’t working? What happened to it?”

Miles looks up. “I fried it with a venom blast a couple days ago. I haven’t been able to get it to turn on since. I was going to ask someone to portal me to HQ so I could get it serviced, but then you sort of fell out of the sky and derailed my plans.”

Miguel extends his hand out, palm up. Miles slides the gizmo off and hands it over. It’s warm when he presses it into Miguel’s palm, heated from the proximity to Miles’ skin.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t turn on when Miguel presses the power button. He frowns and co*cks his head when a strange detail presents itself.

“If it doesn’t even turn on, why are you still wearing it?”

Miles’ mouth gapes slightly. “I–uh–” He blinks a few times, and he breaks eye contact to stare at his hands, picking mindlessly at his nails. “Habit, I guess. I dunno,” he finishes with a shrug.

Miguel opens the gizmo’s control panel and resets it, disconnecting and reconnecting the battery. He isn’t surprised when the screen remains dark. He brings a claw to his mouth and starts absently biting on it.

“It’s completely shorted out. You said your venom blast caused this?” His words are muffled slightly by the claw in his mouth.

When Miguel looks up, Miles is staring at his mouth distractedly. Miguel realizes what he’s been doing and quickly removes the digit from his mouth, sheathing his claws.

Miles’ eyes drift back up once Miguel puts his claws away. “Yeah, a few days ago. It was a pretty big one and the watch was wet at the time, so…” he trails off.

Miguel frowns. “I designed it to be resistant to your bioelectricity.”

“Mm, yeah, it’s been fine before this. But this was a bigger blast than usual, I had a lot of energy charged up.”

He leans back, digesting the new information. He’d modified the gizmo with Miles’ bioelectric power in mind, and had set its electricity resistance to a level he’d thought was more than cautious. He didn’t know Miles was powerful enough to exceed that and then some. He’s contemplating how to fix the issue when Miles pulls him out of his thoughts.

“There’s more.” Miles nibbles harder at his lip, a contemplative look on his face.

“Hm?”

“The people who were trying to take the watch. They hit me with the truck because they were trying to subdue me enough to remove it. When I got back up, well…”

Miles stands and disappears into his room. He comes back out a second later with something in his hand, and Miguel’s stomach sinks when he sees what it is.

“They tried to shoot me with this.”

The dart in his hand is small, yet unmistakeable. The cartridge in it is still full of a nondescript clear liquid, most likely a tranquilizer.

“They didn’t hit you with this, did they?”

“No, no, I caught it before they could. I escaped quickly after that once it was clear they were only there for me.”

“f*ck,” Miguel exhales.

“Yeah, f*ck.” Miles agrees. “I think they wanted the watch badly. They came there with a plan, equipment, everything. They were willing to kill me to get it.”

Miguel holds the dart up to the light, but there’s no way to tell what it is without more specialized equipment. He turns to Miles.

“Do you have a microscope?”

“No?” Miles answers puzzledly. “Do you expect me to have one just lying around my apartment?”

Miguel raises his eyebrows at him.

Miles continues: “Do you have microscopes just lying around your place?”

Miguel shrugs. “A few.”

There’s a beat of silence as both men sit with their thoughts, considering the implications of the attack.

“I don’t have a microscope here.” Miles repeats. He turns to Miguel, and there’s a spark of determination in his amber eyes. “But I know where we could get one.”

Chapter 10: Shadow

Chapter Text

After leaving Miguel in the alley, Miles stays out the entire day. Truth is, he had no idea how to behave around Miguel. Though they’d officially met years ago, they’d probably only spent hours, if not minutes, in each others’ presence until their reunion the previous day.

With nothing but bad blood in their history, Miles was having difficulty parsing his feelings about the man. He’d never liked him, that was clear. But he also didn’t know Miguel, and his dislike was rooted firmly and solely in their…disagreement five years ago.

His state when Miles pulled him out of the fountain was distressing. So was Miguel’s shadiness about what was going on. But Miles’ worry was real, and genuine. He could tell that something was wrong, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

So, under the guise of being busy Spider-Manning, he hid. He swung around the city aimlessly after stopping the not-shooter. It really was a beautiful day; Miles wished he could swing around maskless and feel the warm August air on his face.

He also kept tabs on Miguel. It wasn’t on purpose. Miles just swung around patrolling the busiest areas of Lower Manhattan, and Miguel kept popping up everywhere. If Miles stopped to hang out on a nearby rooftop while Miguel was inside a store, then it was entirely coincidental. It should’ve been an incredibly boring day, but watching Miguel was inexplicably fascinating.

All the man did was pick up a few changes of clothes and some toiletries. Uninteresting, basic stuff. And he walked around a lot. Spent a weird amount of time looking at pigeons and other random city sights.

Miles had rolled his eyes when a pair of teenage girls had started giggling and making goo-goo eyes at an oblivious Miguel. Unbidden irritation had risen in his chest at their typical teenage-ness, confident that his two-week tenure as a twenty-year-old definitely gave him the authority to look down on them for such things. Honestly, the blushing and the fluttering of their eyelashes while gushing about his height, his shoulders, his “bedroom eyes” was seriously over the top. Miguel didn’t have bedroom eyes, Christ.

Suddenly very done with shadowing Miguel’s movements, Miles had jumped up and swung home. He got detoured by a civilian scuffle in Times Square, so by the time he’s done dealing with the public disturbance (honestly, where were the cops when he needed them) it had been a while since he and Miguel had parted ways.

He swung up to his building while invisible, like he always did (it could never hurt to be too cautious) and landed softly outside his bedroom window.

A loud thud caught his attention, and he froze, halfway through his window. Silent and immobile, he strained his ears to listen. Another thud, then Miguel’s unmistakeable voice, muffled from inside Ganke’s bathroom.

“Ow!”

Miles crept back out his window, shut it, then crawled over to Ganke’s side of the apartment.

He stopped at Ganke’s window, and after confirming that the room was empty, slid the window open to leave a two-inch gap at the bottom.

There’s the unmistakeable sound of the shower running, then a bang, followed by another thud, and the sound of shampoo bottles clattering to the floor.

“Motherf*ck! f*cking tiny ass shower, what moron designed this piece of sh*t–”

Miles covered his mouth, stifling a laugh, and closed Ganke’s window. Not quite ready to be confined in an apartment with Miguel once more, he leapt off the building and swung away.

...

After getting hit by a truck, swarmed by henchmen in SWAT gear, and nearly shot with a mystery substance, Miles was really wishing he’d just stayed home. Because several hours of sleep and a weirdly relaxing morning later, Miguel is way too excited at the prospect of using Miles’ campus lab to analyze the vial, and is, to put it plainly, getting underfoot as Miles is trying to get ready for his art class. Miguel is also on his fourth coffee of the day, and if Miles didn’t know any better, he’d say that the guy is developing a bad case of the zoomies.

“Why can’t we just go now? You’re a student there, right? Don’t you have the access we need?” Miguel puts his empty mug in the sink, then turns and pins Miles with an expectant gaze as he leans back against the counter. He crosses his arms, making his biceps bulge obscenely in his white t-shirt.

Miles pretends not to notice this detail, and swings his backpack over his shoulder.

It’s so strange seeing Miguel dressed in anything but his Spider-Man suit, which covers every inch of him. He feels like a Victorian maiden when his eyes linger on the exposed skin he’s never seen before; Miguel’s bare arms, hands, and the soft skin of his throat and collarbones. Miguel’s suit covered him all the way up to just below his jaw, making him seem larger than life and more severe, more imposing. Seeing him dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt was like seeing an actor out of costume.

Miles pats his pockets, looking for his phone. He finally responds to Miguel’s question, realizing he’s ignored him a little too long.

“No, there will be classes running in there ‘til this evening. I’m an engineering student, anyways–I don’t have keycard access to the building we need. We’ll need to sneak in after it closes.”

He paces to the couch and runs his hands along the cushion creases. Unearthing his phone from the pillow crack beside his usual spot, he straightens and shoves it in the pocket of his jeans.

Miguel’s mouth twists with impatience. “So we’ll go after your class?”

“Yeah. I’ll be out at six–”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll come to the class and sit at the back or something.”

“You–no.”

“Why?”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You just can’t.”

Miguel tries to make his intimidation face; he tips his head back slightly so he can glare down his nose, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips.

Miles meets it with a glare of his own, squaring his shoulders and co*cking his head.

Try me, bitch.

Miguel breaks first, and switches tactics. “You said the NYU buildings close just after six, which is when your class finishes.” He gestures animatedly with his hands as he speaks. “If we’re both already there, we don’t need to break in: we can just slip inside and wait until the building clears.”

Miles continues to stare him down.

Miguel switches tactics again. He rakes his hands through his hair and groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “f*ck, Miles, I’m going to go insane if I have to spend another second cooped up in here. I haven’t even been in this dimension for forty-eight hours and I’m already ready to start chewing through the walls. If I have to go another second with nothing to do I am going to lose it.”

His eyes are frustratingly earnest.

Miles hates that it works on him.

“Fine,” he spits. “Come on, I’m gonna be late.” Miles strides for the door and Miguel rushes to the foyer. Miguel leans down to grab his shoes just as Miles reaches him.

Miles makes sure to very deliberately kick Miguel’s left shoe out of the other man’s reach as he passes.

“Oops.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“You’re more annoying. Come on. Don’t make me change my mind.”

Miguel seems to be trying very hard to shoot lazers out of his eyes with how hard he’s glaring at Miles. It’s not very effective, because he’s still hunched over awkwardly and tugging his shoes on.

Miles’ mouth twists with mirth.

“Don’t laugh at me, sh*thead,” Miguel spits. He finishes sliding his shoe on and stands.

“But you’re so funny–mmf–” Miguel puts his palm over Miles’ face, dwarfing it, and shoves his head away. He doesn’t pull his hand back fast enough, because Miles licks a long, wet stripe up his palm.

Miguel recoils and rips the limb away. “Gross! What are you, five?” He wipes his palm vigorously against his shirt.

Miles laughs. “It was self defense, man! You started it.”

“You’re a lying bastard and you know it.”

Miles just rolls his eyes and pushes Miguel out the door.

Miles lives close to the NYU campus, so they reach the correct building within a few minutes. They enter, and Miles leads them toward an auditorium on the first floor. Stopping when they reach the door, he turns to Miguel, who’s following so close behind Miles that he nearly steps on his toes. Miles has to put a hand on his chest to stop him from going further. Miguel’s chest is very warm, and very firm. Miles pulls his hand away as if burned.

“This is as far as you can go.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only registered students are allowed in.”

“It’s a big class, isn’t it? No one will notice–”

“It’s a live figure drawing class.”

“So?”

Miles wants to throttle him. “So, there are live models.”

Miguel opens his hands in confusion. “Okay?”

“They’re naked.” Miles blurts.

Miguel stares.

“It’s for their safety, and it’s just…courtesy. They’ve been promised a controlled and professional environment, I can’t just bring spectators in. We’ll both be thrown out.”

“Oh.” Miguel blinks rapidly. “Oh. Okay. Right.” He points a thumb vaguely behind him. “I’ll just…”

Students are starting to stream into the class now, and are casting curious looks at the two of them.

“Yeah. I’ll meet you here after. Do whatever, just don’t, like, break anything while I’m in there. I’ll tell Jess if you do.”

Miguel is already turning to walk away, but not without presenting Miles with a farewell middle finger.

Miles can’t concentrate. Jackson is the model today, and Miles usually likes drawing him; long limbs, lean muscles, and a decent face to boot. Jackson was a diver on the university’s varsity team, and was brought in to help students learn to render musculature.

His mind wanders to the vial, and the substance he’d almost been shot with. He’d tried to play it cool when explaining what happened to Miguel. But the truth is, Miles is spooked. Really spooked. If he’d been even a millisecond slower, the shot would have hit him square in the neck.

His strokes of charcoal start growing darker, more severe. Black dust flakes off and smears on his fingers.

Only his spider-sense had saved him, and just barely. It was too close for comfort, especially without knowing what the substance was. It could be a simple sedative, or much worse. The likelihood was veering toward worse. Because whoever those guys were…they looked professional. Organized and efficient, with quality armour and equipment.

The charcoal stick snaps in his hand.

He drops the shards into his kit and picks up a new piece.

Jackson’s form begins to take shape on his paper, and Miles’ thoughts wander away again. What was Miguel doing right now? There was another hour and a half left in the class. Miles couldn’t say how waiting outside a lecture hall was preferable to waiting at home, but Miguel had been insistent. If he was going to be this irritating the entire time he was here, Miles would probably end up killing him before the three weeks were up. Miguel was just so bossy, and demanding, and full of himself, with that holier-than-thou, I-know-everything attitude always visible on his remarkably striking face–

The charcoal snaps again, this time into several tiny slivers that clatter to the ground. Black powder puffs into the air and smears all over the page and Miles’ hands, obscuring Jackson’s half-sketched face and shoulders. Miles slumps back and regards the drawing. The lines are incredibly dark and severe, angry and jagged. He’s pressed so hard in some places that he’s torn through the page.

“Dude.”

Miles jumps and turns to the girl next to him. He can never remember what her name is, probably K-something, but recalls that her last name is Murakami. It’s easier to remember, since they’re assigned seating alphabetically, and are next to each other on the attendance list. He feels pretty bad for forgetting it, since this is probably the third class they’ve had together.

She pops a giant bubble of chewing gum, and Miles feels less bad about forgetting her name. He can’t stand the sound or smell of bubblegum. He didn’t know how she got away with so obviously chewing it in class when it wasn’t allowed.

Her eyebrows rise, disappearing under her blunt black bangs. “Are you good? That’s like the fourth one you’ve broken in the last hour.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Miles’ shoulders rise in embarrassment. “I’m just kinda stressed, I guess. Sorry if it bothered you.”

By the time the class ends, Miles hasn’t gotten anything done. He’s glad he’s not taking the course for credit, otherwise he’d have to submit the drawing for grading.

As an engineering student, he didn’t have the room for fine arts classes during the academic year, but he was happy enough auditing them over the summer. He preferred keeping his art as a hobby for himself anyways. If he had to force himself to produce constant work for grading he thinks he might start hating it.

The arrival of six o’clock is a welcome reprieve. Miles stands quickly, stuffing the ruined drawing into his portfolio without concern for smudging. After stashing it in his assigned drawer at the back of the studio, he makes for the door.

Caught in the bottleneck at the entrance, he’s one of the last students to step into the hallway. He doesn’t see Miguel anywhere.

A familiar figure falls into step beside him.

“Hey, Miles. You coming for drinks tonight?”

Miles turns to his seatmate apologetically. Her name makes a timely return to his brain. “Sorry Kaya, can’t tonight. Maybe next time?”

Miles isn’t really upset about skipping the get-together. He had difficulty relating to his peers, and wasn't inclined to spending much time with them. To live a life like he did, with the nightly crime fighting, self-sacrificing, and general danger of being Spider-Man, it was impossible to turn around and pretend to be a regular twenty-something come sunrise. He felt terrible for viewing his classmates this way, but their conversations about school, who was dating who, and when they were going clubbing next, just weren’t interesting to him.

He knew that he came off as reserved and hermit-like to his classmates. And he was aware of the strange reputation he’d garnered; that he was friendly and personable yet closed-off and flighty. Unreliable. He hardly ever accepted invitations to hang out, always citing some commitment or other. There was even a rumor floating around that he was a male escort, which explained why he was never available for drinks, never dated around the school like the rest of them did.

To everyone he knew from university, he was basically a ghost. And he liked it that way. The only person outside of the Spider-society that he was close to was Ganke. Aside from that, it was impossible to get close to someone when the looming spectre of Spider-Man stood between Miles and the rest of the world.

Spider-Man and Miles Morales were one and the same. He was one in eight billion. It follows that he had to leave his dimension to find people who understood him.

Kaya pops another large pink bubble, pulling Miles from his thoughts. “Boo, you whor*.”

“Who’s a whor*?” Jackson, now fully clothed, saunters up to them. Students weren’t permitted to speak to the models during the class, but they were allowed to interact outside class hours if they knew each other as friends, which they did.

“Miles is. Says he can’t come with the group for drinks, again.”

Jackson turns imploring blue eyes to Miles. “Aw, really? Like twelve of us are going to be there, you’ll be the only one missing!”

“Sorry guys, I’ve got stuff to do…” Miles trails off as a tall, imposing figure steps up beside him. Miguel’s head obscures the illumination from the harsh overhead lighting and casts a shadow over the three students.

Kaya’s mouth drops open, and her gum nearly tumbles out and onto the dirty linoleum floor. “Is that,” she points to Miguel, “what you mean by stuff?”

“Umm,” Miles hesitates, scrambling for an excuse that’ll allow them to make a quick getaway. He’s sidetracked when Kaya reaches out a hand, as if entranced, and runs it reverently down Miguel’s bicep.

“Lord have mercy,” she exclaims in a hushed whisper. “D’you think you could model for us?”

Miguel, reaching to nudge her hand off, freezes when he registers the comment. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline and his eyes bug out comically. “I–wha…no!”

“Oi! This isn’t the petting zoo!” Miles smacks her hand away for him, offended on Miguel’s behalf. “You can’t just grab people like that!”

Jackson’s eyes are wide with admiration. He steps back and ogles Miguel like he’s a Greek statue. “Dude, how much can you lift? You’ve got some seriously epic muscle definition going on. Wait–let me guess. You do calisthenics? Or maybe powerlifting? A bit of both, probably. That V-taper is insane.”

Miguel just stares blankly at him. Jackson takes this as permission to continue.

“Modelling for the drawing class is a nice gig honestly, you just sit there, look pretty, and get paid for it. And trust me, you’d get paid a lot–” Miles elbows him roughly, cutting him off.

“Thank you, Jackson, I’m sure he appreciates the wise career advice.” Miles takes Miguel by the arm, turns him around, and starts pushing him toward the door. “We have somewhere to be, so if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be going now.”

When they step outside, Miles drags his hands down his face and groans. “Ugh, god–why am I surrounded by people like this?” Miguel stays silent and expressionless, as is his usual, so Miles continues. “Sorry about that, that was rude of them, mega-innappropriate. I guess you get comments like that a lot though, given your…” Miguel raises an eyebrow. “Given your um, you know, your, you’re very…” Miles’ face heats up, and he finds himself unable to continue.

Instead of trying to salvage that line of conversation, he sets off at a brisk pace, leading them to the proper building.

Miguel’s mouth quirks up, and he finishes for Miles as he falls into step beside him: “My seriously epic muscle definition?” He repeats Jackson’s wording, accentuating the phrase with air quotes.

Miles tilts his chin up with a huff. “Well, there’s no need to be full of yourself about it.” Miguel is eyeing his face strangely, and Miles tilts his head. “What?”

Miguel gestures to Miles’ face. “You’ve got some, ah, charcoal. On your…everywhere.”

“Oh god–” Miles yanks his phone out of his pocket and turns on the front camera. He gasps and stiffens with mortification when he sees himself. “OH MY GOD!” He whirls on Miguel, gesturing to his charcoal-covered face. “You! Were you just going to let me walk around like this?!”

His face is covered in the black substance, like he’s a Dickensian chimney-sweep orphan. There are visible finger-streaks left from dragging his hands over his face.

The picture of wide-eyed innocence and saintlihood, Miguel holds his hands up with a tiny smirk, as if to profess his lack of blame. “To be fair, I don’t let you do anything, let’s not pretend that I have any control over you. And second, how was I supposed to know that you didn’t know? Maybe it was a fashion statement–” Miles rounds on him with narrowed eyes, and Miguel’s smile drops. “Wait, stop–” He takes a hasty step back, but he’s not fast enough.

Miles rears up and drags both hands down Miguel’s cheeks and neck, smearing the black dust everywhere. Miguel catches him around the wrists, keeping his hands from spreading the charcoal any further, but the damage is done. Miles smirks, satisfied with the effect. Miguel has a sooty five-fingered mark starting at each cheekbone and trailing down his neck.

“You little sh*t!” Miguel exclaims.

“You started it, jerkface!”

“Did not, f*ckhead.”

“Did too, dickwad!”

“Are we having an insults competition now, is that what we’re doing?”

“Maybe!” Miles cringes at how petulant he sounds.

He looks down, and realizes Miguel still has him trapped. His large hands encircle each of Miles’ wrists, dwarfing them. Chest to chest, they’re standing close enough for Miles to see the flecks of crimson in Miguel’s red-brown eyes. He clears his throat and steps back. Miguel seems to notice their proximity at the same time Miles does, and releases him instantly. Miles’ wrists feel chilled by the loss of the warm hands around them.

“Come on,” Miles says quietly. He tugs briefly at the hem of Miguel’s shirt. “Let’s wash this off and get going.”

After rinsing their faces off in one of the public washrooms, they arrive at the lab building. They make it inside with only a couple minutes to spare. The hallways are thankfully empty already. Though summer classes were running, there weren’t as many students on campus as there would be during the fall and winter semesters, and what few students were there tended to clear out quickly, intent on catching the last few hours of late-summer sunlight.

Leading Miguel toward the lab wing, Miles’ spider-sense alerts him to a presence moving down the hallway toward them. He tries the nearest classroom door, but it’s locked. The footsteps draw closer, and Miles darts to the next door.

Locked as well.

He sprints across the hallway, and tries the last door. Whoever it is–probably one of the cleaners–will see them at any second. The last time Miles had snuck in to use the labs with Ganke to work on his web fluid, he’d used the excuse that he’d forgotten something in a seminar room. To his chagrin, the janitor had offered to help him look for it, then led him out of the building once Miles had apparently ‘given up’ with his search. If it was the same cleaner, Miles knew he would look suspicious.

Thankfully, the door opens. Miles doesn’t bother checking what kind of room it is. He just shoves Miguel inside, and the man goes in without question. Miles follows a second later.

Quietly closing the door behind him, he listens as the footsteps pass by. Backing further into the space, it quickly reveals itself to be a very small closet. He steps on something and nearly trips before he catches himself on the wall. The darkness is thick enough that he can’t see at all. He tries to shift away from the obstacle, but nearly trips again as his heel meets another one. He kicks at it, trying to shift it out of the way, and Miguel grunts. Miles starts at the noise–the other man is much closer than he thought he was.

“Man, what is this?” he whispers. He kicks at it with more force, trying to clear a space to stand comfortably. Miguel grunts again, and places a large hand against Miles’ belly, gently pushing him away.

“That’s my foot. I’d appreciate it if you'd stop standing on it.”

Miles steps away and flattens himself against the wall. “Oh. Sorry.”

With both of them backed against opposite walls, there’s only a couple feet of space between them. Miles can’t help but appreciate Miguel’s clean, masculine scent. It’s nothing particularly special—just shampoo and deodorant, but Miles finds himself savouring it nonetheless.

He’s trying to identify the notes in the scent–maybe sandalwood–when Miguel speaks again.

“So, are we ever going to make it to the lab, or are we going to stand in here with the brooms all night?”

Miles starts, and his face heats up. “Hey, we’re only in here for your sake. I could’ve turned invisible anytime I wanted, it’s your sasquatch self that made this more complicated.”

“Sasquatch? That’s a new one.”

“Thanks. I try.” Miles peeks through the slats on the door. There’s no one in sight, and he can’t hear any footsteps.

“I think we’re good. They’ve probably locked the entrances by now.”

He pulls the door open and leads them into the hallway. Blinking at the sudden bright lights, Miles makes for the staircase. One flight of stars up and three doors down is the lab. It’s unlocked when Miles tries the door.

Of the many lab spaces on campus, this one was the least busy. It had less equipment and was quite small, with only a handful of work stations. But it was the least likely to be occupied, so it would have to do.

Miguel strides in like he owns the place and makes a beeline for the first workstation. He eyes the equipment critically.

“Satisfactory?” Miles inquires.

“Mm. Dated, but it’ll do. Did you bring the vial?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course I did.” Miles pulls the vial from his pocket, dropping his bag to the floor as he does so. Sensing they might be there for a while, he drags a stool to the workstation and plops down on it, across from Miguel. A smudge of black catches his attention; there's a smear of charcoal that Miguel hadn’t washed off, just above his collarbone.

Miles tears his eyes away and considers the dart in his hand. Encased in a black cartridge, it looks like the clear tube could be removed from the dart mechanism. He pries the back off and slides the vial into his palm.

Miles turns it to the light. LERNA is stamped on the side of the tube in blocky silver lettering. He scoffs. f*cking amateurs.

“They have their company logo stamped on the side of this. Man, that’s embarrassing.” He hands it to Miguel, who takes it wordlessly.

Miguel nods in agreement, turning the tube over in his hands.

“So cliché.”

“So cliché.”

They speak exactly in unison, as if rehearsed.

They whip their heads toward each other and stare, shocked.

“The f*ck?” Miles says. “That was kinda impressive. Jinx.” Very slowly, he holds out a fist for Miguel to bump. Crimson eyes narrow at it suspiciously. “It’s not going to bite you. It’s bad luck to leave me hangin’.” Miles shakes the offered fist enticingly.

Miguel rolls his eyes, sighs in an unnecessarily exaggerated manner, and returns the fist bump.

While Miguel prepares the slide for the microscope, Miles leans back against the wall and props his feet on the lab station. With his leg still aching from the attack yesterday, elevating it alleviates the pain somewhat.

He considers offering to help, but Miguel seems like the type of control freak to not appreciate any interference with his work, so he lets him do his thing.

Under the guise of keeping hismelf busy, he retrieves his sketchbook and a pen from his bag. He flips it open to a blank page, but only doodles random squiggles. Really it’s so he can pretend to draw while he watches Miguel. The man seems right at home, looking infinitely more comfortable in this random university lab than he does at Miles’ apartment.

He starts making notes once he grows bored of doodling.

Do they know what the watch does?

What do they need it for?

Thinking back to the attack, with the number of people they’d had and the attempt to shoot Miles with the dart, he adds another line.

What do they want with me?

He finishes writing his last point and glances at Miguel from the corner of his eye.

Miguel places the prepared slide under the microscope. Before he peers into the eyepiece, he eyes Miles with distaste.

“Could you take your feet off the table.” It’s spoken flat and heavy; a demand, rather than a request.

“Why?” Miles shoots back.

“It’s disrespectful.”

Miles scoffs. That's rich, coming from someone who threw a trashcan at him at their first meeting.

“To who?" He counters. "You? I didn’t realize you were such a paragon of decorum, your highness.”

Miguel doesn’t move from his hunched position over the microscope, but his eyes slide up to pin Miles with an unimpressed stare. If he wore glasses, it would be the perfect opportunity for a teacherly over-the-rims glare. But Miguel doesn’t wear glasses, so the effect is lessened. He holds the stare for only a couple seconds, before returning his attention to his work. Whatever he’s seeing on the slide must be interesting enough for him to allow the blatant attempt to rile him up to pass him by.

Miles wonders if Miguel wore glasses, before…whatever it was that gave him his powers. The image of Miguel wearing spectacles and outfitted with a lab coat and a pair of slacks rises into Miles’ brain, and he can’t help but smirk at the thought. The grin drops instantly, however, when Miguel swears and shoves the microscope away.

Miguel scrubs a hand over his face and shuts his eyes. The ringing silence is unnerving, and Miles sits up, dropping his feet to the floor with a thud.

“What is it?”

Miguel looks back up at him, and he looks tired. So, so tired. The dark circles under his eyes are as stark as ever, and the fading scar from the healing cut along his hairline glints silvery under the fluorescent lighting.

“It’s a sedative. But it’s also a mutant gene inhibitor, albeit a rudimentary one. They’re more common in my time, given the rise of mutants and mutates over the course of the twenty-first century. We’re lucky you’re not a mutant, because this formula doesn’t work well against the genetic abnormalities found in Spider-people.”

Miles nods solemnly. “Do you think it’s Alchemax?” He jiggles a knee to dispel nervous energy.

“No. I’d know if it was–I worked on their mutation inhibitors for years. This is something else. I can think of a couple possibilities for who could be behind this; we’ll need to ask around.”

Miles can only nod again, apprehension building in his gut. He supposes that a benefit of having Miguel around is that the guy’s a walking encyclopedia of Spider-Man's enemies.

Standing abruptly, Miguel begins clearing the station. He’s handling the equipment so roughly that Miles is worried he’s going to break something, but he can’t find it in himself to say anything. As inclined as he is to push Miguel’s buttons, he knows when it’s best to leave someone be.

They leave the lab in silence, stuck in their own heads.

Somehow, Miles is comforted that he’s not dealing with this alone.

They leave the building using the fire exit, which is never alarmed. Miles turns to lead them out of campus, but freezes when a shiver runs down his spine. Hackles rising, a spike of adrenaline courses through him when he notices a nondescript black sprinter van parked across the street.

He latches on to Miguel’s wrist, yanks him around the corner, and flattens them both against the wall. He might use a little too much of his strength when he shoves Miguel back, because the man’s head cracks backward and thunks against the wall when they hit it.

“Ow, the f*ck is your problem?”

“It’s the truck.”

“The wha–”

“The truck that hit me! Black, with tinted windows.”

Miguel peeks around the corner, then returns to his spot against the wall. “That’s a van, not a truck.”

“Are you serious? You wanna mansplain car models to me?”

“It’s important to be specific–”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s the same one that hit me: I memorized the license plate.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow–he was really very good at that. “You were about to get hit by a van so you stood there and memorized the license plate?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Miguel’s eyes trace his face for a moment. “Yes, actually.”

They both look back to the van, but remain with their backs against the wall. Miles sets his jaw, considering their options.

“There’s no proof they know who I am–it could be a coincidence. If we act all shady about it we’ll only draw attention to ourselves. Regular pedestrians wouldn’t look twice at it, so we should do the same.”

Miguel’s eyes slide back to Miles. “My thoughts exactly. Lead the way, then.”

Miles takes them around the other side of the building, just to be safe. When they step onto the sidewalk, Miles’ spider-sense stays quiet. No one follows them, and the van stays parked. He’s pretty sure there was no one in the driver’s seat, but the encounter sets him on edge regardless.

Lower Manhattan is quiet and peaceful. The blistering heat of midday has faded into a balmy warmth, the kind that makes it hard to tell where your skin ends and the air begins.

The sound of a deep inhalation catches Miles’ attention, and he looks to Miguel just in time to witness a truly massive yawn. The action reveals a set of four sharp, white fangs. Miles does his best not to stare, but fails.

“Tired?”

Miguel blinks sleepily at him. “Mm. I need more coffee.”

“It’s seven in the evening.”

“So?”

Miles shakes his head dissaprovingly. “You have a problem, dude.”

The Starbucks he takes them to is warm and inviting, with plump lounge chairs and dark wood panelling. “Put Your Records On” is crooning softly from the speakers. The cake pops call to Miles from their little display, and Miguel is a warm, distracting presence at his shoulder.

They pause to consider the menu.

Miguel squints at the myriad options. “What’s Nitro Cold Brew?”

Miles looks up at the menu, then over at Miguel. The man is stanced with his feet shoulder width apart, hands on hips. He’s scritinizing the coffee menu like it’ll reveal the secrets of the universe. “It’s iced coffee, but it has more caffeine than regular cold brew,” he answers.

If Miguel were a dog, his ears would have perked straight up. It’s subtle, because his face doesn’t move a muscle, but he lights up. “That’s fantastic. I want that.”

Because he can’t help it, Miles laughs at him. “Sure man, whatever you need.” He orders for the both of them, but squawks when Miguel elbows him roughly out of the way when he tries to pay.

“Hey!”

“I’m paying.”

“Okay, then say that, damn.”

They collect their orders, then sit at one of the tables. Miles exhales loudly when he plops down into the soft armchair, splaying out. He watches Miguel chug his cold brew at a frankly alarming rate. He doesn’t get more than five seconds of peace, however, because his phone starts ringing.

He digs it out of his pocket, and grimaces when he looks at the caller ID. “This better not be about what I think it is,” he mumbles to himself. With a sigh, he accepts the call. “City Morgue, front desk speaking.”

Miguel lets out a sudden barking sound, but cuts it off sharply when he chokes on his coffee. If Miles didn’t know any better, he’d say it was a laugh. He shoots Miguel a confused frown, but the other man is avoiding his gaze, focused on clearing the coffee from his windpipe.

“Y’know Miles, if you don’t want to talk to me you can just not answer the phone.”

“Well, maybe you were dying or something, then I’d feel bad if I didn’t answer.”

“I’m not dying, but I do need a favour.”

“Ugh, Benny, for real? I asked you to teach me to DJ because I thought it would be fun, not so you could train someone to fill in for you every time you bail on a job.”

“I haven’t even asked you yet, it might not be about a gig.”

Miles stays silent.

“Fine, it’s about a gig. But it’s not my fault, my dumbass agent double booked me. I’m just doing him a solid because I’m responsible and sh*t.”

“When is it?”

“Tonight.”

“You’re joking.

“‘Fraid not. I know it’s last minute, but my agent’s waiving the agency fee on this one for whoever takes it, because it’s his mistake. So you’ll get paid 30% more.”

“Fine. But not for the money, it’s because I’m a shining beacon of selflessness, you got it?”

“Thanks bro, I owe you one. I knew you’d come through.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Text me the details. See ya.”

Miles ends the call and tosses his head back. He allows himself fifteen seconds of silence before heaving himself to his feet.

Miguel raises his eyebrows in silent question.

Miles just shakes his head. “There’s something I’ve got to do tonight. Come on.”

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised that the DJ job is at the same shady club as last time. Lenient with their ID checking, and equally lenient with their security, Deviant was the preferred spot for underage college students who couldn’t hold their alcohol. Word on the street was that one of their regular DJs recently walked away from his set with a black eye because some wannabe gangsters didn’t like his playlist.

Miles had called Benny back the second he’d received the texted venue details.

“Are you f*cking with me?”

“I know, I know. Look, I’ll pay you an extra twenty percent, how’s that?”

“This isn’t about pay, Benny. Did you hear what happened to their DJ last month?”

“Yeah, but that was a one-off. Just bring Ganke like you did last time. Have him stand there looking burly and bodyguard-like and that’ll be enough of a deterrent for anyone who gets too excited.”

“Ganke’s not here, remember?”

“Oh. Can you ask someone else?”

There was a long silence as Miles considered the predicament. While popular and well known, Deviant was infamous for having an assault problem, sexual and otherwise. He could obviously handle anything if something went awry, but it was the principle of it, the atmosphere of the place. Miles didn’t like it there, and it was difficult to focus on his set while also keeping an eye on the crowd. The last time he’d filled in for Benny, no less than three girls had asked him for help because of handsy creeps on the dance floor.

The owner was also a giant douche.

Miles shakes his head in defeat, though Benny can’t see it. “It’s…it’s fine. I’ll figure something out. Sorry for getting pissy–I know this isn’t your fault.”

“Thanks, Miles. Break a leg out there.”

He ends the call and tosses his phone on his bed. Turning back to his mirror, he finishes painting the sharp red line across his brow bone, flicking it out and up toward his temple. He doesn’t remember when or why he started doing the graphic red eyeliner for his (infrequent, but growing in number) DJ gigs. Somehow, the look had become his trademark.

It got him compliments from the girls, lingering looks from the guys, and higher tips overall. The twin red shapes were printed on his business card, for crying out loud. He didn’t even know why he had a DJ business card, since it was a profession he’d tripped and stumbled into entirely by accident, but Benny had just handed a box of the freshly-printed cards to him one day.

“You’ve got a good ear, Miles. Everyone needs a side hustle.”

The eyeliner was secretly an homage to his Spider-Man costume, though no one knew but him. Printed on the solid black cardstock of his business card, the red eye-shapes cheekily nodded to his alter-ego, just subtly enough not to be risky. Anyways, it’s not like an artistic red eye look would make someone point and say ‘Hey, do you think the DJ is Spider-Man?’.

Miles couldn’t actually do normal eyeliner, or any makeup in general since he didn’t wear any, aside from an emergency tube of concealer he had for surprise zits. So, his chosen style didn’t actually ‘line’ his eyes. Instead, it swung out from the corner of his eye, forming a wing, then swooped back across his brow bone and above the eyelid to end in a sharp catlike point at the inner corner.

It was fun, and campy, so he figured he’d keep doing it. He liked mixing glow-in-the-dark powder into the red liner so the shapes glowed in the darkness of the club.

He’d considered foregoing the look this time, because he didn’t want Miguel to see it on him during his short trip from his bedroom to the front door. But then he’d realized he was being self-conscious and ridiculous, and did it anyway.

He finishes sharpening up the red lines, and leans back to assess their symmetry in the mirror. Deeming them acceptable, he throws the eyeliner on the bathroom counter.

Once he leaves his room, he makes for the front door as fast as is reasonable, hoping to pass without harassment. He’s out of luck, because Miguel springs up from the couch and follows him.

“I’m coming with you.”

“This again? Really?” Miles turns and glares at him.

Miguel pauses and stares. His eyes trace the shapes of Miles’ eyeliner, and his head co*cks subtly. Miles braces himself for judgement, but none comes.

“It looks like the eyes on your suit.”

“Yes.” With that out of the way, Miles bends shoves his sneakers on.

“So, where are we going?”

He stands so fast his head spins. He pokes a firm finger into Miguel’s sternum, and the man leans back at the force behind it. “We aren’t going anywhere. I’m going to fill in for this gig, and you’re staying here. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Miles turns again, but is startled when a firm hand spins him back around to face Miguel. Miguel’s red eyes burn with intensity.

“Miles. After running into that van today, you shouldn’t go anywhere without backup. There’s still the possibility that these people know who you are, and are tailing you even now.”

Miles stills at the words. They’re not unreasonable. He’s embarrassed to say he hadn’t yet considered that possibility, but now that Miguel has brought it up, he can’t help but see the sense in it.

He slaps Miguel’s hand away from his shoulder. He almost rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes, but stops when he remembers the eyeliner. He huffs a frustrated breath out of his nose.

“Ugh. You’re insufferable when you’re right. Fine.” He co*cks his chin and meets Miguel’s eyes with as much moxie as he can muster. “You want to be my bodyguard? It’s your lucky night.”

It’s nearly ten by the time Miles walks through the front doors of Deviant, Miguel in tow.

“You’re late, fill-in,” says the garishly spray-tanned owner.

“You’re lucky I’m even here,” Miles fires back. “And I’m doing half of your job for you. This,” he gestures to Miguel, “is my security for the night. The next time I come here and you have no bouncer stationed by the dance floor, I’m leaving. It’s a safety hazard.”

“Pssh. Get ready for your set or I’m finding someone better to do it, kid.”

Miles doesn’t grace him with an answer and stalks away without another word, dragging Miguel with him.

“Who was that?” Miguel asks with a curled lip. He’s looking back at the man like he’s something he’s found stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“Dave. He’s the owner. A real piece of work.”

“No kidding.”

The man in question was currently loudly berating one of the bartenders. Dave was pushing fifty and liked to pretend he was still in his twenties. He always wore a black dress shirt with too many buttons undone, exposing a tacky chestpiece tattoo. He also never left the house without wearing a backwards snapback, because he was probably balding. No one could be sure of this though, because he’d never been spotted without his hat.

Miles hops up to the stage to hook his laptop up to the system. He’d had to pull together a setlist quickly, and hoped it would be adequate. It was 2000s night at Deviant, which was an easy theme, at least.

Miguel sits on the edge of the stage while Miles sets up.

“So, what exactly are you having me do here?”

“Just keep an eye on the dance floor, make sure no one gets too handsy. Keep people away from the DJ booth too, I don’t need any drunk idiots coming up and doing something stupid. And keep an eye out for Lerna henchmen, I guess. Since you insisted.”

“That’s all?”

“Basically, yeah. You’re free to leave if that’s not thrilling enough for you.”

Miguel stays silent, and lets Miles set up in peace. The bright overheads are eventually turned off and replaced with the colourful neon strobes set into the ceiling, criss-crossing the dim venue with beams of colour.

Miles watches Miguel out of the corner of his eye as he sets up. He seems to think that his security job has already started, because he glares at everyone who passes by.

“Stop glaring at the staff. You’re weirding them out.”

Miguel looks up at Miles. “I’m not doing anything.”

Miles can’t pick up on any falsehood in the statement.

“Hm. I guess your face is just built like that.”

“Like what?”

“Y’know, all grumpy and stuff.”

Miguel’s mouth twitches into a grimace, but he doesn’t have the chance to respond, because one of the venue staff comes running over.

“Doors open in five. Are you ready?”

Miles gives him a thumbs up, and he scurries away.

“Oh, before I forget,” he rifles in his backpack, pulling out two sets of disposable earplugs. He hands one pair to Miguel. “So you don’t bleed from the ears. It’s going to get really loud.”

Miguel eyes the earplugs, then the massive speakers on either side of the DJ booth. Each is nearly as tall as Miles is.

Miguel takes the offered earplugs. “Thanks.”

The clacking sound of stilettos announces the arrival of Cassie, one of the bartenders. Her straightened blonde hair falls to her lower back in a silky sheet. She’s carrying a small black tray laden with four shots.

“Good-luck shots for you and your friend, Miles.”

Miles leans down and takes the two offered shots in hand. After a moment of hesitation and a shrug, Miguel does the same.

Miles always accepted when the bartenders offered him free drinks; unlike their boss, the bar staff were actually nice. Because of his enhanced mutate metabolism, the alcohol never did much, but he appreciated the thought. He downs the first one and his eyebrows shoot up at the smooth taste.

“Is this the well tequila?” Miles asks.

Cassie’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “If Dave asks, it is. But no, I wouldn’t do that to you–this is the decent stuff.”

He knocks back the second shot and places the empty glasses back on her tray. Miguel does the same, and Cass smiles at them both before jogging back to the bar. How she’s so agile on her stilettos, Miles has no idea.

“Are you even of legal drinking age?” Miguel asks. There’s no judgement to the inquiry, just curiosity.

“Nope.”

Miguel just nods, and there’s a good-natured humour to it. “Didn’t think so.”

Then he grins at Miles. It’s a handsome, rogueish thing. His fangs glint devilishly under the strobe lights. Standing on the floor next to the stage, he’s below Miles’ eye level, and has to look up at him through his dark eyelashes.

He doesn’t know if it’s because of the shots, but Miles’ stomach erupts in butterflies.

Oh god.

Miguel had bedroom eyes.

Caught off guard by his traitorous brain, Miles clears his throat and returns to preparing for opening. He shoves his earplugs in and gets to work.

Miles loses himself in the rhythm of his set. He loves playing off the energy of the crowd, hearing them scream when he plays something popular or sets up a good beat drop. He can’t help himself from bouncing along to the music as he works, nodding his head to the beat that thrums through the floor from the powerful speakers.

Miguel on the other hand, is taking his job very, very seriously. Miles bites his lip to suppress a giggle for the nth time in the last hour.

Do not laugh at him, Miles. He’s only doing what you told him to.

Miguel is standing virtually at attention. His broad shoulders are squared and his hands are clasped behind his back. Miles is certain he’s not doing it on purpose–it’s probably his natural posture. Still, mirth bubbles up at the thought of Miguel, Spider-Man 2099, being so ready to defend against drunk university students. The man is eyeing the crowd like he expects an anomaly to leap out of it.

The first time someone comes up to request a song, Miguel looks ready to put them in a headlock. Miles has to reel him back with a hand on his shoulder and an apologetic glance to the poor trembling clubgoer.

He leans in to be heard over the music, speaking directly into Miguel’s ear. “They’re allowed to come up to request songs–you don’t need to take their head off for it.” Miguel hadn’t looked pleased, but nodded and had since allowed people to approach Miles for song requests.

Miles is thinking it’s going to be a tame night when a trio of frat boys approaches the booth. They’re roaring drunk, laughing and pushing each other as they stumble up to the DJ platform. The biggest one has sandy blonde hair and a face that could’ve been attractive if there was an intelligent thought behind his eyes. His two friends push him forward, and Miles braces himself. Frat Boy #1 leans against the front edge of the table.

“Hey sexy,” he drawls. Or, tries to drawl. It’s so loud next to the speakers that he has to yell to be heard, so it comes out sounding more like, “HEY SEXY!”

Both Miles and Miguel stiffen.

Oblivious to the danger, Frat Boy #1 continues. He eyes Miles with a sleazy stare that makes his skin crawl. “Fifty bucks for the shirt to come off,” he leers.

His sentence is barely finished when Miguel grabs him by the throat. The kid’s eyes bug out at the large hand around his windpipe, and he claws uselessly at it.

Miguel leans into Frat Boy’s face, and in a venomous tone, snarls: “This isn’t a strip club. Have some respect.” Then, towing Frat Boy by the throat, he starts dragging the struggling young man toward the exit. People stop and stare as they pass, parting like the red sea to allow Miguel and his victim to traverse the thick crowd.

Shocked, it’s all Miles can do to keep the music playing as it should. Setting up the next song, he glances toward the back door, where Miguel throws, literally throws, Frat Boy out into the alley. Frat Boys #2 and #3 seem to think they can salvage their friend’s honor by throwing punches at Miguel. He instantly shuts them down, dodging both sloppy hits easily before similarly scruffing each college boy and throwing them in a heap atop their friend in the alley.

Miguel shuts the door, makes sure it locks, then returns to his spot nonchalantly. He doesn’t acknowledge Miles’ shocked gaping.

“Um?” Is all Miles can say before he gathers his thoughts. When he has a moment to spare, he leans down and hisses, “Don’t you think that was a bit much?”

Miguel tilts his head up and back to see Miles. “I don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour. It’s despicable.” He returns to surveilling the crowd, leaving no room for dispute.

Miles straightens and turns his attention back to his work, feeling oddly…warm.

The rest of the set goes off without issue. After Miguel made an example of the frat boy trio, the rest of the patrons kept their behaviour thoroughly in check.

The quiet that ensues after the pounding music is finally turned off is a welcome reprieve. Even with the earplugs, the noise was too much for Miles’ enhanced hearing, and he often left DJ jobs with a pounding headache. Tonight is no different, and he pushes on the pressure points in his temples to relieve the pressure.

He’s glad he’s not club staff, and doesn’t have to help with the closing procedures. Even so, it’s nearly five in the morning by the time he and Miguel are leaving the club.

Miles takes a deep breath of damp, misty nighttime air. The sweaty, alcohol-laden stench of the club made his nose wrinkle, so even the polluted air of the city is an improvement.

It’s still dark outside, but softly chirping birds and the purpling skyline to the East herald the impending arrival of a new day. Puddles on the dark pavement reflect the multicoloured glare of streetlights and flashing bodega signs, reflecting a mirrored, upside-down image of the city on their rain-dappled surfaces.

Manhattan was always awake, but between five and six was the quietest it ever got. Too late for even the most dedicated partygoers and too early for morning run fitness freaks, the streets were eerily silent. Aside from a couple people smoking here and there, and a few haggard looking individuals on various…substances, the streets were deserted.

It’s spitting ever so slightly, and the moisture sets Miguel’s hair to curling into bouncy waves. Miles usually only sees it pushed back, but the weight of the water has dragged a dashing lock of chestnut hair to drape artfully over Miguel’s forehead.

Starving, Miles leads them to one of his favourite twenty-four-hour bodegas. Miguel follows with his hands in his pockets, now accustomed to going wherever Miles takes him.

Miles was neither petite, nor helpless-looking, nor a woman, so he didn’t often get unwarranted attention from creeps on the street. Nonetheless, Manhattan at this time could be unsettling for anyone who was alone; Miles has had his fair share of uncomfortable interactions.

But now, with Miguel’s towering form by his side, lurking men avert their eyes instantly.

“Heh, scary dog privileges,” Miles mumbles to himself.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

They arrive at the bodega, and Miles’ stomach growls as they enter.

Neither of them have eaten since the previous afternoon, and Miles’ stomach is twinging painfully. He didn’t know if Miguel was feeding himself on the down-low, but Miles had never seen him eat unless Miles was too. He also never complained of hunger, and was never the one to suggest getting a meal; it was always Miles. Given his size, he should be eating much more.

It was concerning.

This concern deepens when Miguel reaches for a can of coffee.

“What are you doing?”

Wide eyed, Miguel retrieves the can. “What do you mean?”

“You shouldn’t have more coffee now. Don’t you want to go to bed once we get back?”

Miguel looks down at the can in his hand as if considering it for the first time. “I…usually if I’m awake this late I don’t bother sleeping. I just stay awake through the next day.”

Miles takes the can out of his hand and puts it pointedly back on the shelf. “You shouldn’t do that. Sleep when we get back.”

They regard each other for a long moment. Miguel hums.

“If you insist.”

After choosing some pre-made sandwiches, they pay and continue walking home. Or, more accurately, Miguel insists on paying for everything again and yanks Miles away by the handle of his backpack when he steps up to the register.

Miguel taps at his phone for the majority of the walk back, seemingly trusting Miles to not let him get hit by a car while he’s absorbed in his screen. Content to let him do his thing, Miles lets his mind wander, but his interest is piqued when Miguel brings the phone to his ear and starts speaking to someone.

“Sorry to call out of the blue–yeah, I know–but this is urgent. There’s someone I need you to put me in touch with; we need information on Weapon X.

Chapter 11: Mourn

Chapter Text

Miguel wakes to the pitter-patter of raindrops drumming against his window. He floats to consciousness slowly and naturally, the way the body does when it’s satisfied it’s gotten all the sleep it needs.

To him, it’s an alien feeling.

He lies in bed for several minutes, watching the watery paths traced by raindrops as they trickle down the window panes. The city is shaded under thick storm clouds; the soft, murky light paints Manhattan in shades of grey.

Muffled clatters and footsteps sound from outside his door; Miles is already awake.

His nose twitches as he registers the aroma of brewing coffee, on top of a sharper chemical smell that makes him sneeze. Bored of lying there in silence, he rises and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He also scrubs around his mouth for errant drool stains. Ever since Miles pointed it out, he’s been paranoid that he’s drooling all over himself in his sleep.

After showering and dressing, he tiptoes into the living area. Miles is seated at his easel, adding strokes of paint to the large canvas. That explains the tangy scent of chemicals; it’s wafting directly from the paint-laden palette in Miles’ hand.

Miles looks over at Miguel when he enters, and nods subtly. It’s a tiny gesture that’s more of a chin bob and subtle eyebrow raise, but an acknowledgement nonetheless. On Miles, Miguel has come to understand that it’s his nonverbal way of saying ‘Hey, man.’

Miguel comes to a stop at the coffee maker. On the counter in front of it is an empty mug and a teaspoon. He frowns as he considers the scene before him.

The mug is clean, that’s clear. The spoon looks like it’s been used to stir coffee, based on the smell when Miguel picks it up and the tiny dribble of coffee left in the dip of its silvery surface.

He turns and looks at Miles, who’s already sipping out of his own mug. Absorbed in his painting, he doesn’t notice Miguel’s quizzical stare.

Miguel turns back around, and examines the facts. There is a clean mug placed conveniently in front of the coffeemaker. Based on the heat of the pot when he picks it up, it’s only just been brewed.

Miles has left out a mug for him.

Miguel brings the mug to his face and stares at it, as if it’ll explain this surprising turn of events. He turns again and gestures to it.

“Is this…” Miles looks over, and Miguel wiggles the cup in silent question. The spoon inside it rattles with the motion.

“Oh yeah, that’s just the spoon I used to stir the sugar in my coffee, I figured you could use it for yours to save water washing dishes and all that. Don’t worry, I didn’t lick it.”

Miguel turns slowly back to the counter to hide the baffled expression he’s sporting. Unsure of how else to proceed, he pours himself a steaming cup of the dark liquid. After adding the appropriate amount of milk and sugar, he stirs it with the so-kindly offered spoon. When he finishes, he brings the utensil up to his face and stares at it, as though it’ll tell him what’s going on.

Spoon. I beseech you. Explain to me why Miles behaves the way he does.

The spoon doesn’t answer. Only his distorted reflection stares back at him from the silvery surface.

What have I done to deserve this sudden generosity?

Miguel puts the spoon in the dishwasher, then walks to the couch in a daze. He lowers himself down slowly, eyeing Miles as he does. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a baggy muscle tee with wide arm holes that are cut very, very low down his sides. When Miles leans forward to scrutinize a detail of his painting, the loose fabric exposes the toned planes of his firm abs and the slope of his tiny waist.

Miguel tears his eyes away and focuses on the TV. He sets his mug down on the side table next to Miles’ palette.

“What’s this on the TV?”

“Uh,” Miles turns and squints at the screen. “I think it's Great British Bake-Off.” He spins back around on his stool and returns to painting.

Why he even had it on Miguel didn’t know–he was sitting with his back to the damn screen.

Miguel just nods absently. He doesn’t actually care what it is, and he doesn’t know why he asked. He’s just so thrown by Miles’ behaviour that he’d needed something to fill the silence.

He pretends to pay attention to the show, but watches Miles out of the corner of his eye. When he reaches up to dab something on the upper half of the canvas, the lean muscles in his bicep and deltoid shift attractively.

Miguel returns his eyes to the screen, keeping his head fixed squarely forward. He reaches over blindly and picks up his mug. He’s bringing it to his lips when Miles springs out of his seat with panicked eyes, reaching for the cup in his hand.

“Oh, wait, that’s–wait a minute–Miguel, stop!”

He turns his gaze to Miles as he takes a sip. The liquid that enters his mouth is decidedly not coffee.

Miguel’s face screws up and he gags at the unexpected taste. The vile-tasting gulp of water spews out of his mouth on reflex, splattering all over his jeans.

He coughs and splutters, eyes watering at the awful chemical flavour. Looking down at the mug–which is identical to the one his coffee is in–reveals it to be full of cloudy blue-grey paint water. There are colourful smudges of pigment all over the rim.

“What the–” he coughs again, pounding on his chest with a fist. “f*ck–are you trying to–ugh–poison me?!” His eyes are watering from the force of his coughing and the vile aftertaste of the paint.

Miles only stares at him with wide, astonished eyes. “No, but after that sh*tshow it’s looking like it might be kinda easy to. How did you not notice–”

“Look at these mugs!” Miguel grabs his actual coffee and holds both vessels up to Miles’ face. “They’re the exact f*cking same! Why would you use a drinking mug to wash your paint brushes in?!”

Miles’ big eyes start blinking rapidly. “I, well, I don’t keep that one in the cupboard, no one ever drinks out of it. It’s just what I had on hand–it’s been used for brushes for years.”

A full body shiver of revulsion goes through Miguel, as another wave of the aftertaste hits him. He stands abruptly, shoving both mugs into Miles’ hands.

“That f*cking flavour is so disgusting, sh*t.” He jogs to the kitchen sink, desparate to get the taste out of his mouth. “f*cking hell, it’s not going away, ugh.”

Sticking his head under the tap, he rinses his mouth out vigorously. Swishing clean water around his mouth and spitting it out doesn’t make the taste go away, so he goes to his bathroom to brush his teeth again.

When he returns, Miles is sitting with his elbows propped on his knees, nursing his own cup of coffee. He picks up Miguel’s cup and hands it to him when he passes.

“You good?” His voice wavers, like he’s trying and failing to keep it steady.

Miguel takes a massive gulp of his coffee, hoping to erase all memory of the paint flavour from his taste buds. “Yup, fantastic.” He starts grinding his teeth when Miles starts failing to hide his grin.

Miguel isn’t blushing, he isn’t. “Don’t laugh at me. This is your fault.”

“I’m not–” Miles cuts himself off as his voice nearly breaks into a laugh. He closes his eyes and presses his lips together, trying to regulate his breathing. To his credit, he’s trying very hard to keep the smile from pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re laughing right now.”

Miles loses it, and emits a gasping belly laugh that Miguel has never heard him make before. He starts slapping Miguel’s shoulder, as though he’s an accomplice in a fabulous joke.

“Stop it. It’s not funny.”

“But it is! Hey, I’ve been there before! Believe me, I’ve done the same thing–it happens to the best of us.”

Miguel refuses to look at him. He curls in on himself and slides down in his seat, hunching even further. Miles isn’t having that, because he leans into Miguel’s space, grinning from ear to ear.

“C’mon, man, you know it’s hilarious.” Miles tries to poke him in the cheek, and Miguel pretends to bite at the finger when it gets too close. His teeth snap around empty air when Miles pulls the digit away in time.

Miles laughs again, eyes crinkling. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

Miguel gapes at him, struck dumb by the…compliment? Was it a compliment?

Miles stares back, similarly shocked as though he wasn’t the one that said it.

“I don’t…that was weird. I don’t know why I said that.” Miles turns stiffly back to his painting, frowning and blinking rapidly.

Miguel similarly turns back to the TV. For the next hour, he pretends to pay attention to the show, but he hardly registers anything. If Miles asked him what the contestants were making, he wouldn’t even know.

After some time, Miles stands and disappears into his room. He emerges several minutes later wearing a waterproof jacket–he was probably going out. Miguel doesn’t ask, because he feels like he’d annoyed Miles enough yesterday. He’s content to let Miles go and do his errands unbothered.

Looking back, it’s a bit embarrassing how he’s insisted on trailing after Miles like a lost puppy. He’d been so antsy that even waiting while Miles was in his class was better than staying in the apartment. Even with the Lerna issue, Miles could take care of himself–he didn’t need Miguel to go everywhere with him. It points to his strength of character that he’d humoured Miguel as much as he had.

Miles lingers by the door for a minute after slipping his shoes on. He takes a step toward the entrance, then stops, hand frozen on the doorknob. He stands there a second longer, then speaks without turning around.

“I’m going for a walk. Come if you want.”

Miguel stares.

Miles peeks over his shoulder.

“Well?”

Miguel is soaked within minutes of stepping outside. Miles is faring better given his windbreaker, and has the loose hood pulled up over his head. Miguel was rather lacking in wardrobe options given the inaccessibility of his own belongings, so he’d just left in his t-shirt. He didn’t mind the water; it was warm enough that the refreshing wetness wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, the plop-plop-plop of raindrops on his head felt nice. Freeing.

Miles jumps to the side, dodging the wave of water sprayed by a passing car. Miguel takes his arm and nudges him to switch spots on the sidewalk, so Miles is on his right and the street is on his left. Miguel is already soaked, so it doesn’t matter if he gets any more wet. Miles, on the other hand, has managed to stay mostly dry, so it’s better if he walks on the right side of the sidewalk.

Miles doesn’t speak, so Miguel doesn’t either.

When they pass a large old church, Miguel is intrigued when Miles approaches the cemetery bordering the aged building. He unlatches the gate of the fence, ushers Miguel inside, then follows after closing the gate behind him.

Miles sets off in a straight line through the scattered tombstones. Confused, Miguel follows. Some look very old, with writing that’s been eroded into oblivion. Others are clearly brand new, and are shiny and polished enough to see one’s reflection in them. Miles strides across the grass like he knows exactly what he’s looking for. Like he’s been here dozens of times. He doesn’t stop to look at any of the headstones.

The damp grass squelches beneath Miguel’s feet, releasing the aroma of earthy soil and rain. He’s hit by a wave of discomfort–if Miles is here to pay his respects to a loved one, Miguel doesn’t understand why he’s been invited.

Miles stops abruptly, and the confusion melts away.

Before them is a marble gravestone. Austere and tasteful, it reads, simply: Peter Parker.

Miles removes his hood, blinking when rain begins to trickle down his forehead and into his eyes.

“I come here every Saturday,” Miles says softly. He keeps his eyes on the grave. Bending at the knees, he folds himself gracefully into a seated position on the wet grass.

Uncaring of the soaked earth, Miguel does the same. The cool water seeps into his jeans, and he shivers.

His mind turns compulsively to the Peter Parker that died three days ago. Miguel wonders if they’ve held his funeral already–how many people came, what the weather was like, if the rain pounded down like it is now.

He wonders if Peter’s headstone looks like the one in front of him.

A bolt of agony lances through him at the thoughts. He shoves them away, stuffing them into the crevasse in his psyche where all his most painful memories go. It’s overflowing now.

Stop thinking about it, says a voice in his head that sounds like Jess. It’s done; there’s nothing you can do to change it.

Miles is turning something small over and over in his hand, rubbing a thumb over its rectangular shape. He opens his palm and looks down at it. It’s a crushed USB key.

Miguel already knows what it is, and it feels like a violation of Miles’ privacy. He’s surprised that Miles still has the goober that Peter gave him all those years ago.

“He died barely a day after I was bitten,” Miles states after a long moment. “I didn’t know him. We exchanged only a few sentences before he died. But he told me…” Miles trails off. There’s a deep, solemn reverence in the soft timbre of his voice, in his quiet contemplation of the gravestone before them. Miles takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

“He told me that I was going to be fine.”

Rainwater beads in the tight curls of Miles’ hair and collects in his long eyelashes. He blinks to clear the raindrops from his eyes, and they run down his elegant cheekbones like tears.

Afraid of shattering the tranquility of the moment, Miguel stays silent.

“He said he was going to show me the ropes.” Miles returns the goober to his pocket, and pulls a long blade of grass out of the ground. He starts running it absentmindedly between his long fingers.

Miguel notices for the first time that Miles’ left pinky is slightly crooked.

“And then…Kingpin killed him. So he couldn’t. Then Peter B showed up and I thought, hey, he can help me out, like the first Peter said he would. But then he turned out to be…”

“A disaster?” Miguel finishes for him.

Miles nods. “Yeah. A disaster.” He smiles softly, and it’s a melancholic, tiny thing. “I mean, who knows–maybe my Peter was a disaster too, and he was just better at hiding it. He was so selfless, so good. It wasn’t…it wasn’t fair, wasn’t right that we had to lose him. He was so loved.”

Miguel is struck by the gravity of what Miles has been through. Peter Parker–Spider-Man–was murdered right in front of him when Miles was only a child. Fourteen years old, and he’d already crossed paths with death.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Miles freezes at Miguel’s words. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Miguel adds softly. “I can’t imagine how it felt”.

Miles properly looks at Miguel for the first time since they’d left the apartment, and the sincerity in his eyes nearly stops his heart.

“I try to live up to him. His memory reminds me to be better. But it’s–” Miles hesitates, and considers his next words. “It’s not easy. Being a replacement. Everyone in the Society understands what it’s like to be Spider-Man. But they can never understand that.”

“I can.”

The admission forces its way out before Miguel can stop it. Worried he’s interrupted Miles’ moment of reflection, he presses his lips shut.

Miles’ head whips around to stare at Miguel with confusion. He doesn’t seem irritated, only perturbed.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not the original Spider-Man of my universe. Peter Parker was. Around a century ago.”

Miles looks at the gravestone once more. Miguel can practically hear the gears in his head turning.

Small bits of lichen have formed along the gravestone’s upper edge, testament to the six years Peter Parker has been buried. Miguel has an overwhelming urge to scrub them off.

“Tell me about him?” Miles asks.

Miguel sighs, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know much. He died before I was born, and I can only speak for the persona, not the man behind it. But everyone knows who Spider-Man was; he’s still revered as a hero even now, a century later. There were other heroes, contemporaries of his. But Peter Parker was different. Special.”

He threads his fingers into the wet grass, relishing in the feeling of the silky blades against his palms.

It grounds him, and he continues: “It’s one thing to live for others. It’s another to die for them. In many ways, a martyr is more dangerous than a hero.”

Miguel tilts his head back, and closes his eyes. Raindrops trace icy paths down the sides of his face. “I didn’t choose his title for myself,” he adds. “I suppose people saw something of him in me, or hoped that by canonizing me with his name I would fill the void that he’d left. I can’t really be sure. All I know…is that people come and go. But legacies never die.”

He senses the soft weight of Miles’ gaze, and he opens his eyes to meet it. He’s not sure what Miles sees in his face. Perhaps Miguel looks as vulnerable as he feels.

“It’s heavy,” Miles admits. “His legacy.”

“It is.”

They hold eye contact for a long moment. Miguel realizes that it’s the longest they’ve ever spoken without squabbling about something.

Tell him, the voice in his head insists. Tell him you were wrong. Those things you said on the train–take them back.

The words bubble up in his throat, desperate to free themselves. He takes a breath to vocalise them, but Miles speaks first.

“When were you born?”

Miguel wasn’t expecting that line of questioning. He tilts his head. “2071.”

“So you’re,” Miles pauses to think for a second. “Sixty-seven years younger than me?”

“What–that’s–” He wasn’t anticipating such a random change in topic. “I mean, on paper, I guess so.”

Miles’ nose scrunches adorably. “That’s so weird. It’s 2104 in your dimension?”

Miguel nods.

“That’s exactly a century after I was born, then.”

Miguel makes a face of his own. “It is odd when you frame it that way.” He turns to Miles, because he needs to know. “Why did you ask me to come with you? Why are you…” He gestures to Peter’s grave. “Why are you sharing this with me?”

The rain starts to lessen, fat droplets turning to a fine spray. Both of them are thoroughly soaked now.

“I guess I just thought–” Miles shrugs, “that maybe you’d like to see him. And maybe…he’d appreciate being visited by someone who understands what it’s like. Being us. People visit his grave constantly; the groundskeepers have trouble keeping the grass alive, because the foot traffic keeps wearing it down to the dirt. Most mean well, but too many people treat his grave like a tourist destination. He deserves more than that.”

Miles considers the gravestone once more. “He deserves rest.”

Warmth floods through Miguel, chasing away the chill of the rain. It’s not forgiveness, he knows it’s not. They’re not there yet. But it is a recognition. An olive branch.

He and Miles have been locked in a cold war for the past two days. The past five years, even. The frigid hostility separating them hasn’t dissipated, but it’s no longer as biting. The ice, once so thick and solid between them, is beginning to splinter and crack.

They’re veering into uncharted waters now.

“When is he coming, by the way?” Miles’ voice pulls Miguel out of his thoughts.

“Who?”

“The informant? About Weapon X? Whoever you were talking to on the phone last night.”

“Oh. I’m not sure yet. Peter said he’d try to track him down–apparently he’s quite hard to get a hold of.”

“Which Peter is this?”

“From Earth-120703.”

“I don’t think I know that one.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

Miguel freezes at that admission–he didn’t mean to make it sound like he kept tabs on who Miles hung out with. He didn’t, technically. He’s not even sure why he knows that. Maybe it’s just because Peter B often rambled about what Miles was up to. He’d also never seen Miles and this Peter together in any mission footage.

Miles doesn’t seem to think anything of it, because he doesn’t react to the comment. He rises, brushing grass off the backs of his legs. It’s such a simple movement, but he makes it so graceful.

Miguel stands too, sure he looks like a lumbering bear in comparison.

“I need to patrol, but I’m going home to change first.”

“Okay. I’ll follow you, then.”

Miles takes them on a different route back to the apartment. Miguel couldn’t say why, but he appreciates the change in scenery. He’s slowly familiarizing himself with Miles’ neighbourhood, and is finding he likes it.

A black and gold sign catches his attention, and he stops. Miles, upon realizing Miguel is no longer in step with him, stops too.

He looks back over his shoulder. “Miguel?”

It’s a bookstore–second-hand by the looks of it. Miguel has never owned many paper copies of books. Those that he did were all textbooks: no novels. In his time, texts were mostly digitized. Physical books were exclusively the interest of book collectors, historians, and literature majors.

He looks from the bookstore, to Miles, then back to the store again. For some reason, the words ‘Can we go in?’ sound juvenile and ridiculous, and he’s too prideful to utter them. It’s too similar to saying ‘Mama, can we look please?’ Miguel was an adult; he didn’t need to ask to go into a goddamn store. But he also didn’t know how to vocalize his needs in a less childish way without it sounding like a demand.

Catching on to Miguel’s sudden inability to communicate, Miles saves him the trouble of asking. He shakes his head, and strides past Miguel. He makes a face at Miguel as he steps into the shop, and it clearly communicates that he thinks Miguel is a deeply strange person.

Miguel follows without comment.

The store is small and cramped, stuffed wall to wall with books of all genres and sizes. There are shelves labelled with every category one could think of; fiction, travel, history, arts, and the sciences are only a few of them. The cozy space smells like black tea, bergamot, and paper.

A ‘mrrp’ catches Miguel’s attention. A chubby brown tabby cat lounges on a shelf by his waist. He slowly extends a tentative finger. The cat sniffs it, licks it once, then returns to dozing.

He walks deeper into the shop, unsure of where to start. Miguel liked reading as much as any other reasonably intelligent person, but he rarely had the time for it. Now on what was basically a vacation, he’s found himself with a staggering abundance of free time. Picking up a book or two seemed like the most logical thing to do.

Miles has wandered over to the fiction section, so Miguel figures he’ll start there. Joining Miles in front of the science fiction shelf, he ponders the vast assortment of titles. There are some he recognizes, and lots that he doesn’t.

A familiar title catches his eye, and he pulls the copy of Frankenstein from the shelf. The pages are subtly yellowed, and when he opens it, the pleasant smell of aged paper reaches his nose.

“I’ll leave, if you want,” He blurts.

“Huh?” Miles responds absently. He doesn’t look away from the shelf.

“I’ll find somewhere else to stay. You’ve been accommodating enough, letting me stay with you while I healed.”

Miles finally looks at him. His face, usually so expressive, is unreadable. “You…” He looks down at his sneakers. “It’s up to you. I have the space anyway, since Ganke isn’t here.” He shrugs. “It’s whatever.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for the book in Miguel’s hand. He hands it to him, and Miles flips through the pages before running a finger along the spine.

“It’ll be easier, working on the Lerna case, if you’re there.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow. A flicker of satisfaction flares in his chest. “Oh? You’re saying you need my help?”

Miles pushes the book into Miguel’s chest, and frowns up at him. “No. I’m just offering a sidekick position, since I happen to have an opening. Seeing as you’re fresh out of things to do right now, I thought you might be interested.”

“You’re asking me to be your sidekick? I’m humbled by your generous offer, but I think it’s a little below my pay grade.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. You’re lucky I haven’t been brewing your coffee with paint water. So, take it or leave it, hotshot.”

Miguel's eyes follow a droplet of rainwater as it runs down the long column of Miles’ throat. It traces a wet line from the underside of his angular jaw to his pretty collarbone, before disappearing beneath the neckline of his shirt.

“Hm. I accept, but only because I’ve always been partial to charity work.”

“Says the guy squatting in my apartment,” Miles retorts with a smirk.

“It’s not squatting if I have permission,” Miguel fires back.

“Which can be revoked at any time.” Miles gestures to the copy of Frankenstein in Miguel’s hands. “I didn’t know you read.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow. “Are you referring to the act of reading for pleasure or are you saying you assumed I couldn’t read?”

“Obviously the first one, smartass.”

Miguel scoffs. “Says the patron Saint of smartassery.”

Miles shoves him lightly, but there’s no strength behind it. Miguel takes a small step to the side, to humour him.

“I just meant,” Miles clarifies, “that I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who’s into like, Romantic literature.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a real Renaissance man.”

“Oh really? What are your other areas of expertise? Brooding? Scowling? Being built like a brick sh*thouse?”

“Yes, actually. I’m a leading scholar in those fields.”

Miles smiles at him, and it’s a real smile; not a snarky grin or a smirk.

“You just told a joke. You sly dog, I knew you were holding out on us!”

“Piss off, I’ve been funny this whole time. Everyone just takes me so seriously that they don’t notice when I’m messing with them.”

Miles chuckles, and the ice thaws some more.

“So,” Miguel says. “D’you have any recommendations?”

Miles’ eyebrows rise. “For you?”

Miguel nods.

Miles looks at the shelf, then turns to face Miguel fully. He holds his hands up, forming a rectangular shape with his thumbs and pointer fingers. He looks at Miguel critically through the finger-camera, tilting his head and squinting in concentration.

Miguel forces himself to meet Miles’ eyes, and resists the temptation to shift his feet. The direct attention makes him feel all fluttery, and his skin prickles with goosebumps. He’s instantly very aware of how his soaked t-shirt is sticking uncomfortably to every curve and dip of his body.

Finished with his assessment, Miles turns back to the shelf, selects a book, and hands it to Miguel with finality.

He considers the paperback in his hands. “The Martian?”

“That’s what the title says, yeah. You really can read, huh? Good for you–”

Miguel whacks him on the shoulder with the book, and is immediately chastised by the cashier.

“Hey! If you’re going to do that, at least buy the book first.”

“Sorry, sorry, I was just trying to kill a fly.” He leans down and hisses in Miles’ ear: “You’re so dead, Morales.”

Miles just laughs at him. “Fly, my ass.”

After Miguel pays for his two books, they head back to Miles’ apartment. The rain has finally stopped, and the afternoon air quickly grows warm and muggy.

Miles announces that he’s going on patrol, which Miguel recognizes with a subtle nod. They go into their respective rooms to change out of their wet clothes, and Miguel sighs in relief once the sopping fabric is no longer plastered to his skin.

By the time he emerges from his room, the apartment is empty and silent. Miles must have already left through his window.

Now clad blissfully in warm, dry clothes, Miguel sets out to do something about his gizmo. After texting Miles to ask for the whereabouts of a toolkit, he sits himself down at the small dining table to try and get it up and running.

The difficult thing about repairing a gizmo outside of one’s native dimension is that it needs to be removed. He does just that, and because he’s an idiot, he places it on the table while he digs through the toolbox for a screwdriver. About thirty seconds go by before he experiences one hell of a glitch.

Trembling and on his knees on the hardwood floor, Miguel marvels at his own forgetfulness. Three days in 1610 and he’d already forgotten that he’s only a visitor. He reaches up, hooks the gizmo with a pinky, and brings it to his lap. He doesn’t put it back on: he doesn’t need to. All the anti-glitch chip needed to work was a couple inches of proximity to the skin.

Shaking his head to clear the post-glitch spots from his vision, he gingerly retakes his seat at the table. He notices a roll of red string in the toolbox. After cutting an appropriate length of string from the roll, he ejects the anti-glitch chip from the gizmo and feeds the string through the small hole at its corner. After tying the string around his neck, he waits. When no glitch follows, he presumes the makeshift chip-necklace works.

After thirty minutes of tinkering, the gizmo flickers to life. He has to delete half of its software to get it to come alive, and downgrade Lyla’s programming to one fourth of its size, stripping her of most of her personality. He feels almost bad about it, but it’s only on this gizmo: she’ll run as usual everywhere else.

“Lyla, I want you to run all the data we have on ASM-319. Compile every universe where it’s never fulfilled, and get me hypotheses as to why. We’re looking for a margin of flexibility here, alright?”

“Understood. Is there anything else?”

“What’s the update on the canon convergence model?”

“Processing stalled, time to completion unknown. Inconclusive result due to insufficient data.”

“Right, okay. Activate sleep mode to accelerate data processing.”

“Understood.”

He drops the gizmo to the table and leans back, flopping backward over the back of the chair. He lets his head hang upside down, and he looks at the inverted image of Miles’ apartment.

He straightens at the sound of his phone buzzing. The poor chair creaks pitifully when he removes his substantial weight from its rickety back.

It’s a text from the Peter he spoke to last night.

Peter Parker (120703): I found him.

Peter Parker (120703): I can send him through in three hours. Where am I dropping him off?

Miguel dials Miles. He picks up on the third ring.

“Missing me already?”

“Hardly. The informant’s coming in three hours. Where’s a good place to have him portaled to? Ideally somewhere far from the apartment.”

“Why not the roof of my building?” Miles’ voice is nearly drowned out by the loud whooshing sound of heavy wind–it sounds like he’s talking while swinging.

“Trust me, you don’t want this guy knowing where you live.”

“Even if he’s from a different dimension?”

“Even then.”

“Sheesh. Okay uh…let me think of something. I’ll text it to you in a minute. Ah f*ck–” There’s a muffled rustling sound, then the line cuts off.

Assuming Miles hasn’t just dropped his phone off a building, Miguel sits back to wait for the promised text.

An address comes through ten minutes later. Typing it into the maps app reveals it to be a generic multi-purpose high rise.

Miguel sends it over to Peter, who replies with a simple thumbs up emoji.

At precisely seven, Miguel emerges onto the rooftop of the building Miles selected. Less than a minute later, Miles swings around the corner of a neighbouring high-rise. He lets go of his web, flips elegantly–almost lazily, he makes it look so easy–and lands lightly in a deep crouch beside Miguel.

He straightens and pulls off his mask. “Any idea when he’s coming?”

“Any minute now.”

Both men turn at the deep, whirring sound of an opening portal. For a second, nothing happens. But then–

“Motherf*cker!” The portal violently ejects a red leather-clad figure. The man tumbles to the ground, rolls a few times, cursing like a sailor, before coming to a stop.

He gets shakily to his feet, dusting himself off and adjusting his katana holster. “Holy sh*tballs, that is such a weird feeling. Like having your large intestine pulled out the back door–”

“Deadpool,” Miguel steps forward. “Nice of you to come.”

The mercenary turns around, and the white eyes of his mask widen comically. He gasps and puts his hands to his cheeks. “Oh-em-gee! Spider-Man 2099, I remember you!” Deadpool starts hopping from foot to foot and flapping his hands excitedly. “We meet again, this must be fate! Couldn’t keep your mind off me, huh? I know I cut quite the figure–”

“We need to ask you about something.”

“Ouch, that’s cold. Not even a hello, you just cut right to the–” Deadpool’s attention lands on Miles, and he freezes. “Oh. Hello,” He purrs. “Another Spidey remix, very nice. The character designers have outdone themselves.”

Miles’ eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Uh–hi? I don’t think we’ve met.”

Deadpool’s voice drops low and crooning. “Certainly not, handsome. I’d have remembered a face like yours.” He gasps suddenly, and points frantically behind Miles. “Holy f*ck, what is that?!”

Miles spins around instantly, and Deadpool blatantly ogles his ass while Miles looks for the nonexistant assailant. Finding nothing, he turns back around with a confused frown.

“Deadpool!” Miguel chastises. “You’ll behave yourself if you want your head to remain attached to your body.”

“Ooh, spicy! Kitty’s got claws, rawr! Tell me, do they come out the pads of your fingertips, or are they like nails? My Spidey’s only told me a little about you.”

“Pull something like that again and you’ll find out,” Miguel growls. He can feel his blood pressure rising by the minute.

Oblivious to Deadpool’s lecherous tactics, Miles looks back and forth between the two larger men confusedly. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing, legs. You don’t need to worry your pretty head about it, okay?” Deadpool turns to Miguel, and in a very loud, childish whisper, announces: “I call dibs. I saw him first.”

Miguel darts forward. “Oh, you’re asking for it now–” He’s jerked to a stop by an iron grip around his wrist.

“I’m sorry–” Miles cuts in with a glare, “but can we stop whatever posturing bullsh*t this is and get what we’re here for?”

Miguel shakes him off. “Fine. So long as he,” He points angrily to Deadpool, “behaves.”

“What’s in it for me?” Deadpool pipes up.

“Excuse me?” Miguel narrows his eyes.

“I don’t give away information for free, Cake Boss. What’s. In it. For me?”

Rage simmers in Miguel’s chest. “Doing the right thing for once. Giving a rat’s ass about someone other than yourself. Stopping a criminal organization from harming people. Having some f*cking responsibility for the first time in your life!” Miguel snarls each sentence with increasing vitriol.

“Woah, relax, Captain of the S. S. Emo. I can’t hear you over the superiority-dick in your mouth.”

Miguel sees red. “That’s it-” He charges forward, claws extended, but is stopped suddenly when something sticks to the back of his neck and yanks him backward. Miles pulls again on the web and sends Miguel thudding to the ground. Miguel bleats out an embarrassing yelp when his unexpected collision with the concrete forces the air out of his lungs.

“You,” Miles points at him, and Miguel flinches, “need to calm the f*ck down. And you,” he rounds on Deadpool, “need to stop pushing his buttons. He’s very susceptible to having his buttons pushed, and I can tell you’re doing it on purpose. So cut. It. Out.”

“Fine, fine. But only ‘cause you’re asking, legs; you’re much sweeter than the big sourpuss over there.”

Miguel gets to his feet, scowling murderously. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to react to the comment.

Miles squares his feet and crosses his arms. “Name your price.” Deadpool gapes at him. “Come on,” Miles complains, “we’ve wasted enough time as is. So hurry it up, Red.”

“Fine. Get my Spidey to go on a date with me.”

Both Miles and Miguel stare dumbly.

“Come again?” Miguel asks.

“You heard me. I want him to go out with me. He’s such a slippery thing, always hiding and playing hard to get. Imagine my disappointment today when he finally seeks me out, only to pass me off to you two rays of sunshine.”

Miguel shakes his head and crosses his arms. “I’m not in the practice of pimping out my colleagues for information.”

“Woah, who said anything about pimping? I wanna romance him, big Spidey. Show him the depth of my devotion. Y’know, buy him tacos and flowers and sh*t.”

The two Spider-Men share a baffled look.

“I mean, ethically, I’m with Miguel on this one. We can’t force him to do anything…of that nature.” Deadpool deflates, and emits a strong kicked-puppy aura even hidden beneath his mask. “But,” Miles continues, “what we can do is talk you up. Put in a good word or two about your…helpfulness.”

“Uh,” Miguel pipes up, “I never agreed to this alternative–” Miles elbows him, hard. “Ow! Why are your elbows so sharp?” He rubs the sore spot on his ribs.

Miles ignores him.

“Hm.” Deadpool puts a hand to his chin. “Accepted. But! Given the significant reduction in the level of this favour, I need one more thing.”

Miles makes a ‘go on, then’, gesture.

Deadpool points at Miguel. “I get to grab his ass for ten seconds. I don’t call him Cake Boss for nothing.”

Miguel stiffens. “Absolutely not.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun. A ten second bridal carry, then.”

“Done,” Miles declares. “But only after you answer our questions.”

“You have a deal, cool Spidey.”

“Hey–excuse me,” Miguel stammers. “I thought we agreed to no pimping.”

“Zip it, big guy.” Miles holds out a hand. “The vial, please.”

Miguel scoffs but hands it over.

Miles hands it to Deadpool, who examines it with interest.

“Does the name Lerna mean anything to you?” Miles asks.

Deadpool shakes his head and hands the vial back to Miles.

“Never heard of it.” He answers earnestly. “You’re thinking it could have a tie to Weapon X?”

Miguel nods. “Would they be interested in…someone with Spider abilities?”

“Very.” Deadpool’s voice is gravely serious. “Mutations are their specialty. But they’re usually interested in latent mutations, not ones that have already manifested. What did these guys look like?”

“Mmm…nondescript clothing. All black, but cohesive, with high quality kevlar, helmets, guns, everything. It seemed like they had their sh*t together. They seemed decently combat trained, too. They worked well as a unit; they were definitely following coherent instructions.”

“How many?” Deadpool’s joking demeanour is gone now. He’s pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips, listening intently to Miles’ descriptions.

“Between thirty and forty.”

Miguel’s stomach drops, and he turns to Miles with concern. What Miles is describing now is much more serious than he’d made it seem. He narrows his eyes, but Miles avoids his stare.

“So,” Miles continues, “d’you think it’s…what did you call it? Weapon X?”

Deadpool shakes his head. “I can’t say for sure. I’m leaning toward no; the Weapon X I dealt with was a sketchy underground operation. They didn’t have quality equipment or attack plans that extended beyond ‘shoot on sight’. What you’re describing is too polished for them. And that vial,” Deadpool points to the small object in Miles’ hand, “is too clean, too fancy. Weapon X is seedy, haphazard. Think Saw movie props, not top-of-the-line tranq darts. That vial screams big pharma, not underground experimentation. But hey,” he puts his gloved hands up. “Maybe it is Weapon X and they just have more funding in this dimension.”

Miguel deflates. That information was…horribly inconclusive.

“You’re sure that Lerna doesn’t mean anything to you?” Miles reiterates.

The mercenary nods. “Positive. I traced Weapon X to every dirty crevice it lurked in, ripped it out root and stem. I’d know.”

“Fair enough. Thanks for your…” Miles grimaces. “Cooperation.”

Deadpool lights up. “Anything for you, sweet cheeks. Now–” He turns to Miguel. “Uppies!” Deadpool runs at him, and Miguel has no choice but to catch him when he leaps into his arms.

“Aw, isn’t that cute,” Miles coos.

“I’ll kill you,” Miguel declares flatly.

“I’m sure you will.”

Perfectly on time, a portal opens. Given the non-functionality of both Miles and Miguel’s gizmos, Miguel had requested that Peter open a return portal for Deadpool at exactly twenty minutes past seven. He nearly cries with relief when he sees its swirling shape.

Feeling Deadpool’s hand inching toward his ass, Miguel promptly throws him into the portal.

It closes behind the mercenary before Deadpool can do anything about it.

“He seems…charming,” Miles says.

Miguel heaves a deep sigh, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Charming’s one word for it, I guess.”

Miles laughs.

Chapter 12: Soothsayer

Chapter Text

Miles turns over in bed for the hundredth time, trying to get comfortable. It’s stiflingly warm and muggy in his room, and after throwing off the covers in defeat, he gets to his feet and opens his window. It groans and squeaks in its frame as he shoves it up, and he grimaces at the grating, unpleasant sound.

It’s just past three in the morning, and Miles has been fighting to fall asleep for over three hours now. He leans his forearms on the windowsill and sticks his head outside, sighing in relief as the cool nighttime breeze caresses his face. A car drives by, shattering the silence of the evening before turning a corner and disappearing.

Miles leaves the window, electing to leave it open, and flops back onto his bed. His room is stuffy enough that he’ll have to accept the arrival of a moth or two in exchange for the fresh air. As much as he likes his apartment, the old building doesn’t have a good cooling system, and he curses the lack of proper air conditioning in his room.

Resigning himself to a sleepless night, he gets back to his feet. Grabbing his phone and the empty glass from his bedside table, he straightens his baggy shorts and makes for his door. Slowly twisting the handle, he eases it open and pads into the living room.

It’s pitch black in the apartment, so he turns on his phone’s flashlight so he won’t stub his toes on anything. He’s just passing the small dining table in front of the kitchen when he looks up.

A pair of glowing eyes flash golden in the beam of the phone flashlight.

Miles screams involuntarily, pulse skyrocketing as his stomach flips and plunges to his feet. The shrieking sound that rips from his chest is loud and shrill–he hadn’t even known his vocal cords could produce a sound that high. He jumps so aggressively that the glass in his hand slips from his grasp and shatters on the hardwood floor.

His spider-sense is inexplicably silent.

The sudden piercing noise makes the large figure flinch and cover his ears with his hands. The gleaming eyes disappear as their owner scrunches them shut in discomfort.

“For f*ck’s sake, Miles! What’s the matter with you?!”

Miles knows that voice. He cuts himself off when he realizes it’s only Miguel.

A cool wave of relief crashes over him, and he sags as his alarm recedes. “Oh Jesus, ohh f*ck.” He hides his face in the crook of an elbow and drops his phone into his pocket, trying to breathe normally. “I really thought that was gonna be the end for me.”

Removing his arm from his face, he leans a hand on the back of one of the dining chairs and bends over, trying to calm his racing heart. “Phew, sh*t,” He squints up at Miguel’s dark shape. “Why are you lurking in here in the dark like a f*cking cryptid, man? Chupacabra lookin'-ass-I thought I was gonna die!”

Miguel scoffs. “Says the banshee–I think my ears are bleeding.”

Ignoring the comment, Miles straightens. “What the hell is up with your eyes, man? They were glowing like crazy.” He squints, trying to make out Miguel’s shape in the dark. The outline of his tall silhouette shrugs.

“It’s just tapetum lucidum. It’s what gives me night vision. It’s common in animals. Y’know, like cats, dogs. Spiders.” Miguel reaches for something on the counter and picks it up.

Miles scoffs and shakes his head, feeling a laugh bubbling up in his chest. “That was some eldritch sh*t, man. How come I’ve never noticed it before?” He watches Miguel put the object back down, and it makes a clattering sound. It sounds like some sort of dish.

“The light has to hit my retinas at the right angle. It’s hard to see during the day.”

“Fair enough.” Miles tilts his head. “What are you even doing out here anyways? It’s the middle of the night.”

There’s a slight pause. “I was just…I was hungry.”

“At three in the morning.”

“Yes?”

“What’d you find, then?”

Miles can hear Miguel shift his feet. “Lucky Charms.”

Miles frowns in confusion. He stares at Miguel and tilts his head. “I wouldn’t have expected that choice from you.”

“They were kind of gross, honestly. But I didn’t want to waste them, so...” Miguel trails off.

A grin slips onto Miles’ face. He shakes his head and looks down at his feet. “What is my life right now?” He asks mostly to himself. “Miguel O’Hara having middle-of-the-night Lucky Charms in my kitchen.”

Miguel doesn’t answer. Curious, Miles digs his phone out of his pocket and turns the flashlight back on. He points it at Miguel, who squints, but doesn’t complain. His eyes glow once more, brightly reflecting the light.

Miles tilts his phone, and Miguel’s eyes flash scarlet, then copper, then back to gold. He does it again, and marvels at their iridescence; it looks like the colours change and shift depending on the angle of the light.

“Are you done?” Miguel complains, grimacing and blinking at the harsh light. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to shine a light in someone’s eyes?”

Miles turns it off and doesn’t grace him with a response. Instead, he opens his phone’s camera, turns on the flash, and takes a photo before Miguel can stop him.

“Hey–”

Miles checks the photo, and chuckles when he sees the result. Miguel’s eyes glow even brighter in photos, it seems. Staring blankly at the camera, he looks incredibly unimpressed, but the effect is lessened by the bowl of cereal in his hands.

“Delete that.”

“No. That’s what you get for scaring me like that. You probably did it on purpose, lying in wait here ‘til I came in, looking for the perfect opportunity to pounce.”

“Please, I wouldn’t do something so juvenile. And I didn’t pounce, I was just standing here–”

“Eh, semantics.”

Miles takes a step forward, and nearly slices his foot open on the shards of glass. He staggers back at the last second, and nearly steps into another pile of shards with the movement.

“Don’t move. Tell me where to find a broom and I’ll sweep that up.” Miguel’s tone leaves no room for argument.

Miles shoots him a look, and jumps easily onto the ceiling. Flipping as he does so, he lands lightly on his feet. Upside down, he walks to the foyer closet, retrieves the broom and dustpan, and hands them to Miguel, who accepts them without comment.

Miles watches from the ceiling as Miguel meticulously sweeps the glass shards into a pile, making sure to clear each section of floor before he steps forward. Why Miguel couldn’t have just handed Miles the broom and let him do it himself, he didn’t know–Miguel was barefoot too, for crying out loud.

Miles approaches until he’s right beside Miguel. He sticks a hand to the ceiling and slowly flips himself back upright. Hanging from one hand, it crosses his mind that he could easily seat himself on Miguel’s broad shoulders if he wanted. He dismisses it instantly, unsure of why it even crosses his mind.

Miguel looks to be nearly done collecting the glass, and is crouched down, sweeping the remaining shards into the pan.

“Can I come down now?” Miles kicks his legs gently, starting a gentle swing back and forth.

“No. Be patient.” Miguel glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and Miles notices his eyes linger momentarily on his midsection. Miled glances down, noting that his shirt has ridden up to expose his belly button and hipbones. He peeks back at Miguel, but the man’s focus is back on the glass.

He swings his legs again, kicking them aimlessly. “That’s so chivalrous of you. My hero,” Miles teases.

“f*ck off.”

“Is it safe, gallant saviour?”

“Keep talking like that and it won’t be.”

“Ooh, scary.”

Miguel doesn’t respond. After another minute of sweeping he stands, and Miles can hear Miguel’s knees crack with the movement. He lifts the dustpan and goes to dispose of the glass in the kitchen. Taking this as permission to come down, Miles releases his grip on the ceiling and lands nimbly on his feet. There are no shards left; just smooth, clean floorboards.

They regard each other in the low light, and the moment stretches.

“Thank you,” Miles says softly. “For cleaning that up.”

“It was the least I could do. Since I was the one who was–what was it you said? Lurking like a cryptid?”

“You were–it looked like Satan himself was in my apartment.”

“So you’re saying that if something dangerous was actually in here you’d just stand there and scream?” Miles can hear the grin in Miguel’s voice, and embarrassment rises in his chest.

Miles’ face heats up, and he balls his hands into fists. “I–no! I was confused, okay? My spider-sense wasn’t going off, because it was only you–which I didn’t know–and it didn’t make any sense. So I just…panicked, I dunno.”

Miguel chuckles, a warm deep sound. Something about it makes Miles’ belly swirl with warmth–he’s hardly ever seen Miguel smile, let alone laugh. He wishes he could see better in the dark, so he could see the handsome grin he can sense on Miguel’s face.

Tiptoeing past Miguel to retrieve another glass, he turns himself to the side to fit through the narrow space left between Miguel and the fridge. He can feel the other man’s warmth as he passes. He shivers, and blames it on the feeling of the cool kitchen tiles against his bare feet.

After filling the glass with water, he turns back around. He could sense the weight of Miguel’s eyes while he filled his glass, and when he finally turns, Miguel is regarding him silently.

Strangely, Miles doesn’t want to go back to his room. But he can’t think of any real reason to stay.

“Well,” he starts softly, “I’m gonna go back to sleep, I guess.”

“Alright. Try not to swoon in fright at anything else.”

Miles glares up at Miguel as he passes him once more, confident the other man can see his snarkiness even in the low light. “I’ve never swooned at anything in my life, and I don’t plan on changing that.” Miguel still doesn’t move from his spot beside the kitchen island, forcing Miles to come within inches of him in order to leave the kitchen.

“Hm. We’ll see. Good night, Miles.”

He stops and turns at the gentle address.

“Good night, Miguel.”

As the first few days of living with Miguel draw to a close, Miles accumulates a list of things that he has learned about the man.

The first was that he had an hour-long brooding session every morning. Upon waking up, he would pour himself a cup of coffee (if Miles had been the first one to make a pot), sit at the far right side of the couch, and look out the window. He would often do this while wearing sunglasses, which, while having the effect of making him look like an utter moron, was apparently necessary for his light-sensitive eyes.

Over the course of this hour, he would usually go through three cups of coffee, which he drank with milk and sugar, to Miles’ surprise. These three cups of coffee appeared to be the bare minimum amount of caffeine for Miguel, because there was a one-in-four chance that he would fall back asleep during this hour. Either that, or Miguel was taking ten-minute-long blinks. He never laid back down during these small dozes; he just sat upright with his eyes closed. Sometimes his head would dip forward a little.

Also over the course of this hour he would shift minutely from one side of his chosen couch cushion to the other, in order to remain directly in the warm square of sunlight beaming through the window. Miles is pretty sure Miguel isn’t aware he does this, because it seems largely involuntary. Miles had to watch very closely to even notice that it was happening, because the minute shifts required for this process could very easily be passed off as natural adjustments in seating position.

As for the brooding done during this session, Miles has only hypothesized it as such. Given Miguel’s pre-coffee inability to understand anything said to him or to formulate a coherent sentence in return, Miles doesn’t know if this time is actually spent thinking about tangible things or if it’s more of a mindless bird watching activity. The broodiness may also just be an implied effect caused by the natural structure of Miguel’s face, which was built in such a way that it gave a constant impression of smoulder-y pensiveness.

This was the best time to draw Miguel. Miles hasn’t been caught doing this yet, though he’s bound to be at some point. Because he’s developed a problem: he cannot stop drawing the man. Jackson was right. Miguel is the perfect model. All of his features are so dynamic–harsh and bold, yet still refined, like the exquisite bitterness of rich, velvety coffee. He was incredibly handsome, but in the severe, otherworldly manner of a high fashion runway model. He just looked so…interesting.

Miguel is reading his copy of Frankenstein today. Because he’s not currently looking directly out the window, his sunglasses are perched atop his head. The sun streams in, setting his warm skin aglow and highlighting the subtle coppery undertones in his chestnut hair. Miles likes the flicky bits of hair that stick out over the curves of Miguel’s ears–he wonders if they’re as soft as they look, and wishes he could run his fingers through them. His hair is slightly longer than Miles is used to seeing it, and without the constant flattening caused by Miguel’s mask, it curls into bouncy waves. Miles makes sure to capture these faithfully in his drawing, sketching them with gentle s-shapes that flow like the waves of the sea.

Looking back up at Miguel to make sure he’s drawn them right, he starts when he sees Miguel already looking at him. A tingle goes down his spine when they make eye contact. His face heats. He forces himself to hold the stare for a second, before hiding his face in his sketchbook. Flipping quickly to a blank page, he wracks his brain for something else to draw, suddenly paranoid Miguel is going to ask to see what he’s been sketching.

Nothing to see here, he thinks. Nothing at all. He forces himself not to look back up. Miles is suddenly very aware of himself; the pattern of his breaths, his legs tucked up under him on the dining chair, the soft texture of his t-shirt. He swallows and resists the urge to shift in his seat. He can feel Miguel’s gaze on him–his spider-sense thrums ever-so-softly with it. You are being watched, it croons.

There’s another thing Miles has noticed; they often wake up at the same time. Neither early risers nor late sleepers, both of them come out of their rooms at around ten. There hasn’t been any communication regarding this schedule, and neither of them are keeping to it on purpose (as far as Miles can tell). As both have incredibly sensitive hearing, neither use alarms out of courtesy, and also because they don’t really have anywhere to be. They just…naturally wake up at the same time.

The first time it happened, Miles assumed the sounds of his getting dressed woke Miguel up. The second time, Miguel was already awake by the time Miles came out. He must have only just risen, because there were pillow lines on his face. Miles didn’t comment on them because, well, they were incredibly cute and he couldn’t find it in him to tease Miguel about it.

For the first couple days, however, Miguel was falling asleep by nine in the evening (barring that late night at Deviant). Unless he was secretly waking up hours before he was leaving his room in the mornings, Miguel was sleeping thirteen hours a night. Miles was honestly quite content with the amount of time he had to deal with Miguel every day, because he was just unconscious all the time. But it was…so much sleep. Miles was earnestly worried about it, not only because of its glaring departure from Miguel’s insomniac habits, but also because he’d just suffered a head injury. Concerned that there was a real problem going on, he’d texted Jess.

Miles (1610): Can I ask you a question?

Jess (616C): Of course

Jess (616C): Is something wrong?

Miles (1610): It’s Miguel. He sleeps like…all the time. I’m worried something’s wrong. Like because of the head injury.

Miles knew concussion patients were supposed to be monitored and woken every hour during the first night following the injury. In the confusion and strangeness of Miguel’s unexpected arrival, Miles hadn’t thought to do so. The doctor had said Miguel hadn’t had a concussion, but Miles wasn’t convinced. He’s pretty sure he did, at least at first, but the effects had faded before the hospital had been able to catch it. He’s no doctor, but he’s scared Miguel is suffering some complication he isn’t trained to diagnose.

Jess’s typing dots bounce for some time before her reply comes through.

Jess (616C): Let him do it. When he’s coming off a working spree he usually sleeps constantly for a few days to catch up on the missed rest. He’d been awake for days when I sent him away from HQ, so he has a lot of recovering to do. Let me know if it continues for longer than a week. If it was from a head injury, he’d have other symptoms.

Miles (1610): Ok, thanks

Miles shuts his sketchbook, afraid to leave it open in case Miguel walks by. He makes a mental note to stop leaving it lying around the apartment. He doesn’t know how he’d explain the countless portraits of Miguel now filling its pages. He wouldn’t be able to live with the embarrassment, and would have to resort to killing either Miguel or himself to escape the mortification.

Itching to do something productive, he opens Google. Typing Lerna into the search bar yields countless useless results. Several FaceBook profiles pop up, along with a few companies and an article that identifies it as a location in Greece. Miles scrolls through the results absentmindedly, not really expecting to find anything useful.

A website flies by and he freezes. He scrolls back to it and clicks on the link. The font and design of the logo displayed at the top of the website are a perfect match for the one on the vial.

He stands and strides over to Miguel’s end of the couch. The man rears back in surprise when Miles shoves his phone in his face. He takes Miles’ wrist and uses it to reposition the screen so he can see it without going cross-eyed.

Miguel’s confusion melts away instantly, sharpening into intense interest.

Miles shakes his head. “We are so stupid.”

“Is this it?”

Miles checks the map on his phone for the tenth time. “Yup. We’re here.”

“It looks so…normal.”

Miguel is right. Lerna’s headquarters are located in a modern, unremarkable high rise, just across from City Hall Park in lower Manhattan. Sided with reflective blue glass, the building was modern and unassuming–it could have been any other random skyscraper in New York.

They’d sped out the door when they realized the building was so close, but now that they’ve found it, Miles is thinking they’ve been a bit hasty. Dressed in civilian clothes, there isn’t much they can do aside from confirm the building’s existence, and perhaps gather some basic intel.

The company name and floor was even listed on the sign out front, along with several other generic businesses; dentists, various offices, and rentable spaces comprise the rest of the building’s facilities. It’s just so…mundane. Nothing about the place made it look like Lerna was trying to hide. Their website had stated plainly their line of business: consumer product testing, primarily pharmaceuticals and cosmetics.

It’s too mundane.

Miles shakes his head, turning the information over and over in his mind, looking for cracks, irregularities.

“It has to be a front for something else,” Miles says. “Unless the dart equipment was just stolen from them and that’s why their logo was on it?” He looks up at Miguel.

“Mm, I was wondering the same thing. It’s likely a front–there’s no reason for a company like this to need darts designed for humans.”

There’s a moment of silence as they contemplate the information.

“Companies that test pharmaceuticals and cosmetics often experiment on animals, right?” Miguel nods pensively, so Miles continues. “Well, what if they’re…not. Or, maybe they are, but they’re testing on the real thing too?”

“People, you mean.”

Miles nods. “I’m not sure how the mutation inhibitor plays into this though, if it is actually Lerna’s. We can’t know without going inside–maybe I could sneak in tonight.”

“Are you two trying to be obvious, or are you just that bad at this?”

They turn in surprise at the unexpected voice. Sitting about twenty feet into the park behind them is a dark-skinned young woman. She’s skillfully shuffling a large deck of cards in her hands, sending them flying from palm to palm in a blur of crisp gold-sprayed edges. Miles is instantly envious: he’s always been terrible at shuffling cards.

“Uh,” Miguel makes confused eye contact with Miles, who shrugs. “Do we know you?”

The woman co*cks her head. “Not yet.”

Miles shares another perplexed look with Miguel.

“Why don’t you come sit down, so you don’t look so suspicious. I’ll even give you a reading, free of charge.” She gestures to the wooden picnic table in front of her, laying the cards down.

Miles can’t see the harm in it, so he paces over and sits. After a moment of hesitation, Miguel does too. Miles meets her eyes, and is startled at their colour; an intense, molten gold. Her hair is tightly braided and piled atop her head. Two long braids frame either side of her pretty face, accentuated by golden braid charms that match the exact shade of her eyes.

The wooden bench dips considerably when Miguel sits beside Miles. His crimson eyes pin the woman with a wary stare. “Why do you say that we look obvious?”

She smiles knowingly. “Because you do. There are better ways to gain information than gawking from the sidewalk.”

She starts expertly shuffling the cards again. Miles follows the movement, mesmerized. He tries to place her age, and fails miserably. She looks like she could be nineteen or thirty-nine: there’s an otherworldly timelessness to her features.

Miguel, on the other hand, eyes her with more suspicion. “What would you know about that?”

“You’re sniffing after what they’re doing at Lerna, no?”

Both men stiffen.

She smiles again, and it sends a tingle down Miles’ spine. It’s not unkind, not in the slightest. It’s just…knowing. Keen.

“I had a feeling I should come to this park today.” She stops shuffling the cards. “And I’m sensing this is why. Tell you what–” She slides her hand over the stack of cards, splaying them out in a neat arc on the table. “You let me do a reading for each of you, and in return, I’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Why would you know anything of interest?” Miles asks.

“Why indeed.” She leans in. “Knowing things is my specialty.”

Miguel scoffs. “Why should we believe–”

“Why believe me?” She cuts him off, and shrugs. “You certainly don’t have to. But people are capable of some pretty surprising things these days. I think you’d understand that better than most, Watchman.”

Shock flares in Miles' stomach, and goosebumps prickle on his arms. Beside him, Miguel tenses.

Watchman. There’s no way…it’s not possible.

Miguel moves to stand. “I’ve had enough of this charade–”

Miles grabs his wrist and yanks him down. “Sit.” He bounces as Miguel’s weight settles back on the old wooden bench. He tries to pull away, and Miles tightens his grip on Miguel’s wrist to emphasize his point. Stay put.

Miles co*cks his chin. “A reading can’t hurt.”

She nods. “We’ll start with one card each. Go on.”

Miles looks at Miguel, shrugs, and points to a card. He doesn’t think very hard about it–he just selects the first one that catches his eye. She doesn’t flip it over, but instead slides it out until it sits in front of Miles.

Miguel huffs and does the same. Once again, she slides the card out of the line.

“These cards,” she hovers a hand over each of them, “will pertain to your identities. This is an unusual technique in tarot, but I find it helps to get these out of the way before I do the rest of the reading. People typically have a card that strongly reflects their personality and their core attributes. If I don’t remove these from the stack at the start, they tend to jump out where they’re not needed. It also helps me get an idea of who I’m dealing with.”

Miguel looks increasingly skeptical, but Miles would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued. Even if this is all a farce, there’s no harm in it.

Miguel pipes up: “You’re expecting us to put faith in a deck of magic cards?”

She laughs, eyes crinkling. “The cards are only ink and paper–they have no power of their own. They’re simply a conduit for mine–like an intermediary or a translator.”

She reaches for Miguel’s card first. She turns it over, and Miles leans in for a closer look. The art on the face of the card depicts a man seated on a throne.

“The Emperor,” she announces. “Structure, authority, and discipline. He is a figure who expects to be obeyed, and with good reason. Rationality and experience are his strengths, however,” She pauses. “He struggles when things do not go his way, and, at times, his emotions get the best of him.”

Miguel’s eye twitches. Smirking, Miles nudges him with his elbow, and Miguel scowls in his familiar sulky, irritated manner.

Her hand drifts to the card in front of Miles, and he straightens, expectant.

She flips it over, and Miles co*cks his head. It’s upside down. He tries to meet her eyes to gauge what that might mean, but she’s focused on the card.

“Typically,” she begins, “the Emperor and the Hierophant,” she taps a painted nail on Miles’ card, “go hand in hand. Numbered four and five in the deck, each are figures of authority and power. The Hierophant is the card of education, or enlightenment. Systems of belief, if you will.” Miles frowns, confused. “In reverse, the meaning of the card changes.” She finally meets his eyes, and her stare makes him feel not unlike he did last night in the kitchen, when he felt Miguel’s eyes on him.

You are being watched.

He shivers, and she continues. “The Hierophant in reverse is associated with rebellion, unconventionality, and inversion. In reverse, he chafes against the structures enforced by the Emperor, whereas the upright Hierophant buttresses them. Non-conformity and freedom are his specialties. He is the harbinger of change and transformation.”

That sounds…right isn’t the correct word. It seems like such a grand assessment, Miles hesitates to relate confidently with it. But he likes it. It feels like it fits. Or it could fit, someday. He straightens slightly, excited for the rest of the reading. He can sense Miguel’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn to meet them.

“Now, for the main reading. For the sake of time, I’ll do a simple three card spread.” She sets the Emperor and the Hierophant aside and collects the rest of the cards back into a stack. “The Emperor is first.”

She shuffles the cards again, splits the stack into three, reorders them, then splays them out on the table once more.

“You will pick three cards. One each for your past, present, and future.” She nods to the cards: “Go on. We don’t have all day.”

Miguel rolls his eyes subtly but does as he’s told. He points to three cards and she positions them in front of him, still facedown.

She flips the first of the three cards, and Miles leans in even closer to see. The movement makes his shoulder brush Miguel’s arm. The other man doesn’t move away, so he doesn’t either.

“The Eight of Swords. Imprisonment and powerlessness. Stagnation. You have felt trapped and suffocated by your circ*mstances, and the way forward was difficult and unclear. This, however, was a prison of your own making: the result of your own rigidity and stubbornness. Only recently have you begun to break free of this bind.”

Frowning slightly, Miguel looks contemplative, but not irritated. He stays silent, so the woman continues.

“For your present,” she flips the middle card, “the Wheel of Fortune. The card of fate, of forces greater than the individual. The Wheel is turning; what is meant to be will come to pass–whether you like it or not. The cycle has already begun. The path was set a long time ago. Eventually, all will come full circle.”

Against Miles’ shoulder, Miguel has gone still and rigid as marble. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and Miles is familiar enough with his expressions by now to understand that Miguel is ready to bolt.

“You mean to say that I have no choice,” Miguel spits, and Miles raises his eyebrows at the sudden intensity.

“You always have a choice,” she insists.

“But you just said that the worst will happen–

“I said nothing of the sort,” she retorts. “You misinterpret, Watchman. For someone who sees so much, you’re incredibly blind.” Her eyes slide to Miles, then she leans in and taps the card. She pins Miguel with her gleaming eyes once more. “What you long for and what you fear may be one and the same.”

Miguel’s mouth twists, and he stares down at the card. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Miguel blinks in confusion. For someone who seemed so skeptical not minutes before, he’s intrigued now.

She straightens and brings her hand to the last card. Her hand hovers over it, but doesn’t flip it. “Watchman,” she calls gravely. Miguel meets her eyes. “I need you to understand, before I flip this card, that it does not always mean exactly what its title indicates.”

Miguel frowns, but nods. A bolt of unease flares in Miles’ gut. For some reason, he doesn’t want her to flip the last card.

She turns the card over. Its face bears the image of an armoured skeleton astride a rearing horse. The figure wields a scythe in its left hand.

Death.

“The Death card heralds a breaking with the past. Complete and utter transformation: metamorphosis. For a new dawn to break, the night must be left behind. Like the Phoenix, for a better version of one’s self to rise, the present one must die. The shackles of the past will be burnt to ash; only then can the future be reached.”

Past, present, and future, she said the cards represented.

Beginning.

Middle.

End.

Miles doesn’t like this anymore.

He doesn’t like this at all.

“Is this some sort of joke?” he demands. Miguel turns to him with raised eyebrows, somehow unbothered by the verdict of the final card.

“Death’s card isn’t meant to be taken so literally–I already explained this,” she says plainly.

Miles shakes his head. The apprehension fizzling up and down his spine doesn’t go away. “Just do mine now so we can leave. Please.”

Her gold eyes meet Miles’ amber ones, and a moment of silence passes.

“Very well,” she mutters. She collects the cards once more, leaving the Emperor and the Hierophant aside as she did the first time. While she shuffles them Miles’ attention strays back to the Lerna building. He watches a lanky man stumble as he runs up the front steps, and he can’t help but wince in sympathy when the man drops his briefcase and spills papers everywhere.

“Choose your cards, Miles,” the woman says.

He doesn’t recall ever telling her his name. Growing more anxious by the second, he pulls his attention back to the table.

Just as she did with Miguel, she’s splayed them out in a wide arc across the wooden surface. Miles points to three cards at random, and she slides them out of the line one by one. Without further delay, she flips the first card.

“The Three of Swords is the card of betrayal. You were deeply hurt by the people you trusted most, and you grieved this break of trust for some time.”

Flinching internally, Miles hopes his discomfort doesn’t show on his face. He must do a poor job of hiding it, however, because he nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a large, warm hand gently squeeze his knee.

His stomach erupts in butterflies. Miguel’s comforting touch is gone as quickly as it arrived, and the other man doesn’t look at him. There was nothing sensual about it, but Miles feels his face warm nonetheless. Miguel has never touched him so casually before, and even though Miles knows it was only meant to be a platonic gesture of support, a little thrill runs through him at the contact.

Miles clears his throat, and the woman flips the next card. This one is upside down again.

“The Hermit in reverse. Isolation and withdrawal. You are a lone wolf, though not by temperament. The events as indicated by the Three of Swords have left scars–you are drawn to human connection by nature and your resistance to this is causing you considerable pain. Try to accept the love that’s given to you. It’s closer than it may seem.”

Miles bites his lip and stays silent. He can feel Miguel’s eyes on him again, and he forces his eyes to stay trained on the picnic table. He follows the whirling patterns in the wood with his eyes while she flips the final card.

He breathes a silent sigh of relief when he sees what it is. It doesn’t seem so bad.

“Justice. The card of reckoning. Fate’s scales will balance, and the fairest outcome will be reached. Some call this consequence, and others, karma. Regardless, wrongs will be righted, and unpaid debts will be resolved. An equilibrium will be struck, and the waters will settle. What is murky will become clear.”

Miles turns this information over in his mind. He doesn’t want to put faith in what she’s told them–he doesn’t believe in tarot readings, oracles, foresight, or any of that new-age hippie clairvoyance stuff. As far as he’s concerned, all of it was a gimmicky money-grab and nothing more. But this woman…there were things she said that hit too close to home. This was more than just perception, more than telling people what they want to hear.

Because it’s his spider-sense that’s thrumming at the base of his spine. Often simplified in conversation as enhanced reflexes, Miles understood it for what it was. The spider-sense was more than agility, more than self-preservation.

Pure danger precognition. That’s what the preternatural instinct truly is. Each Spider-Person’s sense was subtly unique to them; no two spider-senses worked exactly the same. When Miguel’s final card was flipped, a deeply buried, rarely triggered facet of Miles’ spider-sense had reared its head and opened its eyes. Hell, it had been activated the moment the woman first spoke to them. But the danger–if that’s even what it was–wasn’t coming from her. It was something else, something farther away. Nearly imperceptible, like the vibration of a tone just too high for the ear to pick up.

This was something he remembered feeling only twice before. Once, when Kingpin killed Peter Parker. And the other, the day Uncle Aaron died. He hadn’t had his powers long enough to understand the feeling then. Now though, it’s impossible to ignore, rattling through his bones and pulling insistently at the back of his mind.

Something is going to happen.

Desperate to get out of there, Miles has one final question for her: “Why are you interested in Lerna? How do you know about…what they’re doing?”

She co*cks her head. “How do you?” When Miles doesn’t respond, she’s generous enough to clarify, and speaks plainly for the first time. “The world is starting to take notice of people like us. In the wrong ways. I don’t have the power to do anything about it on my own. But you two can.” She tosses a small, circular object at Miles, who catches it easily. Miles notices for the first time that the skin of her exposed arms and neck is littered with scars. Way too many scars. Perfectly straight and neatly aligned, they aren’t the marks of an accident. These were made deliberately–repeatedly, with surgical precision.

She takes Miles’ fingers and closes them around the metal object in his palm. “Promise me no living creature will ever see the inside of that lab again.”

The walk back home is silent and strained. Not because of any animosity between Miles and Miguel–no, that was seeping away more and more the longer Miguel was in 1610. The thrumming in the back of Miles’ mind wasn’t lessening, and he couldn’t shake the foreboding feeling. In fact, Miguel’s large presence at his side was the only comfort he had. Miguel was strong, Miguel was capable. Miguel wouldn’t…Miguel wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Miles catches the toe of his sneaker on a jutting edge of the sidewalk and nearly trips at the thought. Though completely unnecessary, the small stumble has Miguel reaching out to catch him, and upon realizing that no actual saving is necessary, Miguel resorts to placing a hand softly on the small of Miles’ back, as if to steady him, before pulling away.

Butterflies erupt in Miles’ core again, and he shivers both at the contact and at the materialization of his own thoughts. He knows with certainty that it’s true, though; Miguel wouldn’t let anything happen to him. It’s less so a shocking reversal of his thoughts about the man, and more so the natural culmination of everything he’s learned about Miguel.

He tries to conjure up the image of the person he thought he hated, who he thought hated him, and Miles just…can’t. The once-clear spectre of the man he assumed Miguel to be–and the rage and hostility Miles felt toward him–is dissolving into smoke and shadow.

There is a place, buried in the recesses of Miles’ psyche, where his anger lies. Where it seethes. Where the memories of that day on the train are kept. Recollections of how Miles felt when he learned that his friends betrayed him, that they lied to him. How he felt when Miguel, a beacon of authority, ability, raw power, and the figurehead of the Spider-society, told him he wasn’t wanted. That he wasn’t good enough. That he was just a kid.

That he was different.

That he was dangerous.

‘You weren’t supposed to be Spider-Man.’

If the mind is a room, then anger is a hearth. And the thing about anger is that it needs to be fuelled. Stoked and prodded so it’s kept burning, kept inflamed and stinging. Miles has done it subconsciously for five years; obsessively disturbed the wound so it won’t heal.

By now, he’s forgiven his friends, even if he hasn’t forgotten.

Miguel, however, was always a different story. Because you can’t betray someone you’ve never met. In a way, that made it simpler. Easier to hold on to the pain.

Last Miles checked, the fires of his rage for Miguel were going strong. Golden flames flickered and lapped at the timber that was his resentment, his hatred for the person who had dismissed him, belittled him so thoroughly.

Then again, he hasn’t checked on it in a while. He does so now, and is surprised to find only embers and pithy, struggling ribbons of flame. Once, it was an inferno that burned hot enough to suffocate, to consume.

Now it’s burning itself out. It’s exhausting, being angry. It hurts, too; and Miles has been angry for a long time. Miguel sparked the fire, but Miles maintained it. It's burdensome now. The motions of stoking it are more habitual than passionate. He knows that it’s pointless. Irrational, even. And immature, for certain.

Because the person who attacked him on the train, who screamed at him, who held him down…Miles can’t find him anywhere. He traces the regal edges of Miguel’s handsome face with his eyes.

Miles can’t see the person that he hates, the one he recognizes from his memories. The man in step with him right now is someone else, someone Miles isn’t familiar with. He doesn’t know where the first man went. He can’t find him anywhere in the hollows and sharp lines of Miguel’s face.

He doesn’t know if he ever existed in the first place.

But he does know, however absurd it may seem, that Miguel has his back. He thinks back to the leery guys at the nightclub, the shards of glass on the floor, the stupid shoe-catching crack in the sidewalk. Miguel is ridiculously protective of the people around him, and is a super-powered genius to boot. Miles isn’t exactly helpless either–he’s confident in his ability to protect himself.

Whatever strange, eerie warning his spider-sense is giving off, it’s not for Miles. No; it’s for someone else.

He sees that stupid, damned, Death card again. He sees 1610's Peter. He sees Uncle Aaron.

Miles stops walking, and grabs Miguel’s arm to jerk him to a stop as well.

“What is it that you’re not telling me?”

Miguel blinks at him confusedly. “Huh?”

“You’re running from something. What is it?”

“I don’t–I’m not–” Miguel isn’t one for stammering, and it confirms Miles’ suspicions.

He tugs Miguel closer. “I’m not an idiot–I can tell something’s going on, something more than that Spider's death a few days ago. Is there–” Miles cuts himself off when Miguel begins to shrink in on himself with increasing discomfort. Miles squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Is it the canon? Is–if something bad was happening, would you tell me?”

Miguel gapes at him, opening and closing his mouth a couple times before responding. “I…yes. I would. But–Miles, no one’s in danger. Truly.” Miguel seems to understand the earnest set of Miles’ eyebrows, the grave undertone to the question; the frantic concern in his voice. “I’m not in any danger. I promise.”

Chapter 13: Confluence

Chapter Text

Miles is on edge the entire walk home. Despite Miguel’s insistence that the tarot reading is nothing to worry about, Miles worries anyway. Miguel knows this not because Miles tells him so, but rather because Miles keeps looking at him like he’s going to drop dead spontaneously. He’d be touched to be worthy of Miles’ concern if not for the genuine discomfort it’s clearly causing. Miles keeps shaking his head as if to clear it, wincing at sudden sounds and bright lights. A passing taxi honks at an oblivious cyclist, and Miles gives a full-body flinch at the sound.

Miguel is a pragmatic guy. He’s never been the type to put faith in omens and portents. It’s the truth that he’s not aware of any incoming canon events (aside from his own, which isn’t mortality-related). To his knowledge, there’s nothing to warrant the anxiety Miles is displaying.

However, the woman in the park hadn’t been ordinary. If Lerna had gotten their hands on her, it was likely for that reason. If her foresight (though he loathes to call it that) was the ability that had landed her in their labs, it was genuine. And she’d been gravely certain that something was coming. Skeptic he may be, but Miguel is no idiot. He’s seen enough unexplainable things to know when not to dismiss them. Coincidences were usually indicative of something larger, and patterns were far likelier than happenstance.

He’s also been around enough Spiders to know what spider-sense overexposure looks like. Lacking a spider-sense of his own, Miguel has never experienced it personally, so his knowledge is strictly clinical. As handy as the spider-sense is, he’s never envied its drawbacks. Sometimes, the activation of the spider-sense forces the other five senses into high alert, creating an agonizing feedback loop of sensory input to the point of blindness. It’s like turning up a camera’s exposure to the extent that the image is completely whited out, rather than clarified. Uncomfortable, but not a warning to be ignored, because the spider-sense doesn’t activate without a reason. Miles’ is clearly screaming at him. Something the woman said caught its awareness, and that wasn’t something to be ignored. Miguel is unaware of anything to be wary of. All that means is that whatever shadow is looming over them is beyond his knowledge. And that’s…well, it’s deserving of the reaction Miles is having now.

He’s waved off when he tries to offer another comfort, though Miles does accept Miguel’s sunglasses when he offers them.

Miles doesn’t remove the sunglasses when they get back. Miguel wants to ask about the object the tarot reader gave them–he didn’t even see what it was–but stays silent. Miles trudges to the couch, flops onto it, and puts a pillow over his head. Miguel makes for his room to give him privacy, but makes it only two steps before Miles’ voice makes him freeze.

“Stay.”

“...Are you sure?”

“Don’t—I need you in the same room. Otherwise I’ll freak out.”

“Oh. Okay. Where should I…”

Miles curls his knees to his chest, freeing the last couch cushion. Not expecting to be invited so close, Miguel sits tentatively. He assumes Miles will remain in his curled position, so is shocked when he unfurls and stretches his calves across Miguel’s lap.

“It grounds me if I can feel someone else’s heartbeat. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s fine.”

Miguel stays completely still, wary of aggravating Miles’ symptoms; he’ll sense even the slightest shifts in movement. He also doesn’t want to do anything to make Miles spook or pull away. He sometimes reminds Miguel of a wild animal, or a very aloof street cat. If approached too directly, he’ll hiss and retreat. Too untameable to be collared or kept, he’ll bite anyone who tries to ensnare him. But if you avert your eyes and hold a hand out, he’ll meet you in the middle if he finds you worthy. He’s unsure where to put his hands, because his lap is taken. Hoping to avoid unapproved touching, he settles for wrapping them around his stomach.

Miguel has been found worthy, and doesn’t want to screw it. So he sits, and lets time pass. He doesn’t know when, but Miles falls asleep eventually, drained by the episode. Miguel’s hand comes to rest on one of Miles’ birdlike ankles. He doesn’t remember putting it there. His fingers circle it loosely, casually, just at the boundary between fabric and skin. Miguel doesn’t know if it’s more of a comfort to him or Miles, but it feels natural. Soothing and thoughtless, like playing with your fingers, or holding your own wrist. Miles’ socks are garishly mismatched; one sports a blue argyle design, and the other, bizarrely, is Halloween themed, though it’s definitely still August. Trust him to be unorthodox down to the smallest, meaningless detail.

He doesn’t feel himself dozing off. When he wakes, Miles is gone and the spot where he laid has gone cold. Miguel’s sunglasses are folded neatly on the far arm of the couch. The apartment is dark and quiet; he’s missed sunset.

Neck protesting achingly, he heaves his head off the back of the couch. It had tipped back at a ninety-degree angle that probably made him produce heinous snores, if his dry, raw throat is to be believed. Worse, his mouth had surely been gaping open unattractively. He’s unsure what’s more unsettling; the probability that Miles had seen that (and likely snapped a picture) or the fact that they’d just napped together.

Miles’ door squeaks open as if on cue, spilling warm light into the darkness. “Snoring’s gone. Are you alive?”

“Jesus,” Miguel croaks, “I dunno.” He scrubs his hands over his face and hopes his hair doesn’t look too awful. “Am I that loud?”

Miles chuckles softly, and it’s almost fond. “Sometimes.” He looks back over his shoulder, frowning at something in his room while chewing pensively on a full lip. “Ballpark, what’s your expertise with nanotechnology?”

Huh? “By my dimension’s standards I’d say…middling? I have working knowledge, but it’s not my area.”

Miles makes a pensive face at that. “A working knowledge of technology seven decades ahead of where we’re at here is a lot.” He disappears into his room. Objects clatter and rustle as they’re shoved around. There’s sounds of drawers opening and closing, and Miguel hears the shutting of, presumably, a closet door. Miles reappears in the doorway a minute later. “Can you come look at something? I need a second opinion.”

Miguel’s groggy nap brain struggles to process so many questions. He doesn’t even know what time it is. Why is Miles suddenly willing to invite Miguel into his space? All he can muster in response is a daft: “Uhh.” He points to the room in question, and after clearing his throat, clarifies. “In there?”

“I’m not moving all the equipment out there. Don’t tell me you need to be invited over the threshold, Nosferatu.”

Miguel shakes his head as he stands, unable to help the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. It’s a shame that Miles’ best jokes are usually at Miguel’s expense, because he wishes he could laugh openly at them without Miles counting it as a win. Miles retreats into his room, and Miguel follows under the threat of more vampire jokes. He seems to forget who he’s talking to, because the quip that slips out may result in beheading: “So, what was that ruckus just now? Hiding all your sex toys?”

“You wish I’d left my dild*s laying around,” comes the instant retort. Miles stiffens in alarm and presses his lips into a fine line.

Miguel hadn’t said anything about dild*s. How interesting. With a raised eyebrow, Miguel tries to meet Miles’ eyes, but he’s suddenly very absorbed in poking pointlessly at the mess of wires and parts on the desk. Miguel makes a show of glancing at the closed drawer in the bedside table. Lucky guess. Miles sends a panicked glance at the drawer, and it’s all the confirmation he needs. Miguel can’t help lingering on the…surprisingly erotic mental image produced by this revelation. He also can’t help the accompanying update to his ‘Miles Morales’ brain folder, wherein the new terms of: ‘adult’, ‘attractive’, and ‘sexually compatible,’ sort him—at light speed—into the ‘people I’d f*ck’ category. At present, Miles is the only one in it. The spark of arousal this ignites–hello, sex drive, long time no see, now is a bad time–is alarming in its intensity.

Miles clears his throat and plops into his rolling desk chair. It’s enough to yank Miguel’s horny spiral off course. There’s a second, albeit smaller and ricketier, chair at the desk, and Miguel folds himself into it. They silently, mutually agree to ignore the last sixty seconds.

“Right, so,” Miles begins while rifling through the mess, “I’ve been helping Peter–199999 Peter, King of the Staten Island Ferry–with his nanotech suit, and it got me thinking about using similar tech for my own, because it’s not cutting it. I’m working on a nano-optic material for my mask. I need light and sound filtration, impact cushioning, and adaptable visual displays. The first problem was power; Pete’s suit runs on an Arc reactor, which my dimension doesn’t have, and nanotech like that needs a lot of energy. My bioelectricity was the second, arguably worse problem. It’s why I kept my suit analog for so long; I fry anything tech-based.”

“Was?” Miguel interjects. These were, indeed, two big problems, but he can’t help but notice Miles’ use of the past-tense.

Miles waves a hand. “I fixed it by developing nanoparticles that run on my bioelectricity: they charge through contact with my skin. Means I don’t need to remove them for charging and I don’t waste space carrying around a power source. That was a problem with Peter’s Iron Spider suit. Arc reactor power is great, but it can’t get any smaller than it already is. The issue I’ve run into is with operating the mask’s display. I’ve gotten it to reflect my expressions by lining it with microscopic cameras, which capture my eye movements in real time and reflect that on the mask. But I also have multiple mask settings–y’know, my normal colour scheme, some variations, total darkness stealth mode, et cetera–and I can’t figure out how to switch between them instantaneously. Peter’s suit operates on verbal commands and suggestions from its AI. That’s too slow, and I don’t want to have to soundproof the mask; talking will give away my location. So, short of installing a chip in my brain, I’m not sure what to do.”

Struck dumb, Miguel struggles to gather his thoughts. “So you’re saying,” he starts disbelievingly, “that you invented a new nanotechnology that’s not just immune to your bioelectricity, but runs on it? And the problem that’s got you stuck is…switching between colour schemes?”

“Yeah, basically.” Miles barrels on. “‘Invented’ is a stretch though–I used Peter’s suit as a baseline and went from there.”

“Where are the nanoparticles housed, when not engaged?”

Miles taps his ear. Next to a small gemstone of indiscriminate colour is a second, tiny black earring, presumably the match of a corresponding stud in the other ear. “Earrings. One in each ear is enough for just the mask. In the future, I’d like to make a whole suit, which will need more storage, obviously. Maybe in bracelets, I dunno. I’ll see if I can integrate them into my web shooters.”

Ingenious. And scarily sophisticated. A suit that’s ready for engagement at all times, that never needs to be taken off. “Right,” Miguel agrees absently. “Naturally.” The realization that Miles is a bona fide prodigy knocks him flat on his back. Miles is cool, well-liked, and attractive. Prodigies are supposed to be weird, off-putting recluses. Miguel would know, because he is one. That Miles gets all the intellectual talent without the associated character flaws is profoundly unfair and exceedingly intimidating. And attractive. Miguel is bowled over by another wave of uninvited arousal. What a sh*tty time for his body to come back online; few things jump-start the system like more sleep and less stress. He tries to beat it back, but the thoughts are in his brain now. He can’t unthink them. Miles’ proximity isn’t helping, and the heady aroma of his increasingly familiar vanilla-cocoa-spice scent is all Miguel’s nose can pick up on. Is he supposed to be answering a question? Was he even asked a question? He can’t remember.

Miles takes Miguel’s gobsmacked silence for skepticism, and tilts his head with a blink of his big doe eyes. “Am I totally off the mark here? I know it’s out there, but I’ve already got it working.”

“No, it’s–” Miguel’s brain is a swamp of awestruck mush. “I don’t doubt that. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that you’ve accomplished history-making scientific breakthroughs in your bedroom. With,” he surveys the haphazard collection of materials, “stolen equipment.” Most are labeled NYU Property - LAB ONLY. A few look suspiciously like paraphernalia from HQ’s open-use labs. These were also lab-use only, however, most people treated them like lab equipment food banks. Or one of those take-a-book, leave-a-book libraries; Spiders kept trying to leave their unneeded equipment there as payment for looting the place. No wonder the handheld 3D printers kept going missing–Miles had three of them. Slightly miffed, Miguel reaches for one– “We’ve been looking for these–” but Miles whacks his hand away. Miguel retracts it, but not without giving Miles a disapproving look.

Miles ignores it. “They’re not stolen! I just took the liberty of loaning them to me on behalf of…you. They’re borrowed. Responsibly. I put everything back when I’m done. Can we get back to my question?”

Miguel can’t recall a question. “Miles, honestly, this isn’t my area. I can’t help you with tech you invented.”

Miles holds up a finger. “Developed. From existing models. Nothing about this is new. It’s just…a different perspective. Partly inspired by your suit, by the way. How’d you make yours so intuitive?”

“It’s not, really–most of it is Lyla’s AI. It’s just an advanced, fast computer. Anything it does, I programmed it to be able to do, and when I want it to do something, I have to ask.”

“I don’t need it to read my mind,” Miles insists. “We’re talking science, not witchcraft. I just need controls that are hands-free and voice free. Operable according to my abilities.”

That raises a flag, and Miguel holds up a hand. “Say that again.”

“Hands-free, voice-free controls?” Miles offers.

“No. After that.” He makes a rotating fast-forward gesture. “The last bit.”

“Operable according to my abilities?”

“Yes. That.” Miguel rises with the insatiable urge to pace, but nearly trips on a stray skateboard and is forced to settle with standing. “How accurate is your bioelectricity?”

“In terms of?”

“Voltage and target. How precise can you be?”

“I can only electrocute things I’m touching. Precision was never really needed, so…it’s hard to say?”

“Could you be precise enough to send electrical commands? Say, to switch a system in a computer on or off?”

“At a nanoscopic scale?” Miles queries incredulously. He shakes his head. “A little more science, a little less fiction, please. I don’t have,” he wiggles his fingers, “telekinesis. It’s bioelectricity.”

“That is science,” Miguel insists. “Cells communicate that way; your body’s sending electrical commands all the time. It’s how our hearts beat.”

Miles throws his hands up. “I don’t have control over that!”

“You don’t have to. If the mask runs on your bioelectricity, couldn’t you also control the flow of it so you can disable or engage different systems at will?” His brain sets him pacing again; he nearly trips on the same skateboard, though it’s a near miss and he thoroughly stubs his toe on it. “Okay, f*cking–” he scoops it up and thrusts it at Miles, “What is this, a booby trap? Put it away before it kills me. Think of it this way: phone calls used to rely on operators to connect to the right destination. If you give the mask a switchboard like that, you can manually engage or disengage whatever system you want. It’s just flicking a switch, albeit on a very small scale. All you have to do is install the hardware.”

“It seems so simple when you put it that way. Old-school.”

“To get somewhere new, you often need to go back to basics. What you’re asking for is simple. The mask doesn’t need AI, because it has you. No computer can match the speed and versatility of the human brain.”

“That still leaves the issue of my control. I’ve never pushed the lower boundaries of my powers–just the upper ones. Maximum voltage, maximum range. Not the other way around.”

Miguel shrugs. “Maybe it’s unrealistic. Even so…don’t you want to find out? Where that limit is?”

Miles’ smile is eager. It’s devilish. And it’s real.

“Hell yeah I do.”

They spend the rest of the evening experimenting with Miles’ powers. He pulls out his voltmeter (because of course he has one) so they can get a benchmark for his electricity output. It turns out that the smallest charge Miles can produce is neither small nor controlled. That’s fine, because they’ve only just started, and the applicable possibilities are worth the effort.

They order chinese food, which Miguel insists on paying for. He has too much money and Miles is only a college student, so it’s simple math. They tinker and debate and bounce ideas off each other. Miguel tries not to linger on how well they work together, how their ways of thinking and problem solving are very different yet strangely complimentary. Things that are obvious to Miles are perplexing to Miguel, and vice versa. They fill in each other’s gaps. Their minds run at the same pace.

Miguel also fights to dissipate the pull he feels toward Miles. He shoves it down because it makes him feel like a huge creep, and there’s bad news written all over it. That their age difference is probably the smallest of many red flags about going down that path speaks for itself, and helps Miguel keep his head on straight. Still, Miles distracts him, which is terrifying. Because he keeps forgetting about MJ; that he’s supposed to be finding a way to avoid canon events. He keeps forgetting to continue fixing his gizmo, or to check if Lyla has any updates. And he keeps forgetting that somewhere in another dimension, they’re mourning the loss of Spider-Man, whose death is on his conscience. In that dimension, a spouse is grieving their husband. Peter had died gruesomely, needlessly. And Miguel had forgotten. He doesn’t get to forget, doesn’t get to move on while others suffer in the aftermath of his shortsightedness. But he did, and he hates himself for it, even as his guilt is met with equal parts relief. His soul sobs at the paltry respite of forgetting. And it trembles with exhaustion in knowing that it’s only temporary, that it’ll end soon, because he can’t forget forever.

Sitting here with Miles in an apartment he’s coming to like and a dimension he much prefers to his own, far away from the pain and problems of his moderately short, incomprehensible existence, marks the first point in a long time that Miguel can breathe. There’s a bone-deep comfort in knowing someone has already seen the worst in you. It’s a weight off your shoulders, having your worst mistakes known. There’s no need to hide, to pretend to be something you’re not. When someone has seen the dark parts of you, the only possible option is to be better.

Without meaning to, he’s come up for air, and he’s gasping with its return. It burns, and he wishes he hadn’t, because he knows he has to dive again. In a few days Miguel will go back to 928. He’ll hold his breath like he always does. He’ll soldier on and have faith that things will work out. He’ll hope that he’s accomplished whatever had warranted the appearance of a second Spider-Man in his timeline. Maybe he’ll live up to the expectations of the first person who’d given him the title, whoever they were. Maybe he wouldn’t.

Who knows.

…

Miguel’s nightmares come back. It was only a matter of time. He didn’t avoid sleep just for the fun of it, and he wasn’t predisposed to insomnia. He was busy, sure, and stressed, certainly. Constantly running missions, catching anomalies and preventing other disasters demands an erratic schedule that’s hard to sleep around. But that's not the main reason. Fighting even the worst anomaly is preferable to what he sees when he closes his eyes. Since arriving in 1610, Miguel has been too exhausted to dream. But now that he’s not sleep deprived or drugged, the nightmares come running back. Though predictable and frequent, their pain never lessens. Most of the time it’s Gabriella; the day she glitched into oblivion, scared and confused in his arms.

Peter–the one the symbiote murdered–is a new addition. It’s the first time Miguel dreams that memory, but he knows it’s here to stay. The sound of the symbiote’s blade cleaving Peter nearly in two, and the vile smell of the gore that had clung to Miguel after he’d killed the creature had seared themselves into his memory from the start.

Sometimes events play out differently in dreams. Still, no matter what Miguel does, the memories end the same.

Peter’s next to him, though he hadn’t been in reality. When he bends into a deep crouch, preparing to leap for his protege, Miguel catches his arm.

“Don’t! It’ll kill you–”

Peter shakes him off. “You can’t stop me.”

“Peter, listen to me!” Miguel lunges for him again, frantic, but the older man jerks away, melting through Miguel’s fingers like smoke. “You’ll die!”

Peter only tilts his head. “I know that.” He nods at Jamie: “But he won’t.” Then he leaps, Jamie screams, and Peter’s gone.

There’s no respite, and the ending of one dream bleeds into the beginning of the next. This one is of Miles. He stands across Miguel atop the train. His shoulder is mauled, ripped open; Miguel’s talons have torn through skin and muscle, all the way down to the bone. Blood seeps and pours from the wounds, running down Miles’ left side and staining the train’s metal exterior red. Uncaring of the injury, he just stands, immobile as the blood pours down his side.

That’s not right, Miguel thinks. That’s not what happened. I didn’t wound him that deeply.

Didn’t he, though?

Miles gestures to his mangled shoulder. “Is this what you wanted?” His voice is eerily flat. Soulless.

“No! No, I never meant–I didn’t want–”

“You didn’t mean to? That’s pathetic, even for you.”

Heart stuttering, Miguel staggers backward–his breaths are coming too fast. Miles follows calmly, casually. Everything else is preternaturally still. Unlike the dizzying speed of the fight as it had played out in reality, here the world is utterly silent, motionless. Frozen beyond time. Not even a breeze dares disturb the silence.

Miles lays his palms against Miguel’s chest, over the spider on his suit. Miguel braces for the scorching heat of his venom, but it doesn’t come. Miles just pushes lightly, flippantly, against Miguel’s sternum. The way one might nudge a door open. As if testing to see if there’s any give, if it’s locked.

The laws of physics don’t apply in dreams. Miles’ gentle push sends Miguel hurtling back, and he tumbles into open air. Like it had been five years ago, the sky is bright and sunny–cloudless and azure-blue. As Miguel falls, it darkens and bleeds into the murky navy of nighttime, interspersed with technicoloured specks of light that swirl and dance. The lights of skyscrapers, speeding by as he plummets past them. He doesn’t know which way is up. His suit’s gone, replaced with a tattered shirt and jeans that he threw out years ago. Every fibre of his body hurts; trembling and screaming in the aftermath of a complete cellular restructuring. His teeth ache—he’s sliced his own lips to ribbons on canines that weren’t always so long. His head pounds. Everything is too much. Too bright, too loud, too smelly. Every sense shrieks, bombarded by more input than he knows what to do with. All he can do is shut his eyes, and pray for relief.

When they open, he’s not falling anymore. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. Sprawled on damp cold concrete, his eyes open to 928’s murky night sky. It’s starless, save for one twinkling speck–he’d always meant to check what it was–Venus, Jupiter, maybe?–but he’d never gotten around to it. He’s up high. On the roof of a skyscraper, probably. Bracing his palms against the ground, he pushes shakily to his knees. Claws scrape uncomfortably against the textured concrete, and he’s at once astonished to feel them and long-accustomed to their presence.

Then, same as always: “You have some nerve, Miguel.”

Ah. This dream. Arguably worse than nightmares, good dreams ache the most. Because he always wakes up, and reality is a brutal reminder of what he’s lost. What he’s long given up on. He’s always hoping that this one will last a little longer. It never does, because it’s a memory. It’s finite; he knows where the end is.

He remains on his knees, expectant. Standing demands strength he doesn’t have.

The figure’s little more than shadow, blending into the night’s gloom. He–if the figure even is a he, Miguel had no way of knowing–was little more than an impression, even as he—they?—had appeared in reality. They’d blurred strangely into the environment, as though corporeal existence was a pointless, bothersome exertion. They’re only the suggestion of a body, mostly transparent save for the golden-yellow glow of pupil-less, catlike eyes. Solid yet not, real yet not. Everything has only grown more hazy, more surreal, as details dissolved with time. Old memories tend to do that. Their sharpness and colour bleed and fade with each year stacked upon them. A decade from its outset, this one has become very, very difficult to see.

The figure crouches, balancing on the balls of their feet. Forearms draped across knees, they fold into the position with lethal, predatory grace. Battered, bloody, and trembling on the ground, Miguel wonders if he should be scared. Too drained to make the effort, he can’t muster the required self-preservation for it. He’s fighting to keep his teeth from chattering. It’s not cold in the slightest; he’s drenched in sweat. It’s likely he’s in shock. Had things gone this way the first time? Miguel can’t remember. He’s dreamt this memory so many times, in so many permutations, he can’t recall what the original was like, which fragments were true. And which were just hope. Wishful thinking.

“You need to be patient.”

“For how long?” His voice is a raw, jagged rasp.

“Just keep going.” The golden eyes are huge and unblinking.

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“You promised.”

“I did. I’m almost there.”

The figure fades into nothingness. Like the Cheshire Cat–there one moment, gone the next. Smoke and shadow.

There’s something small in Miguel’s hand. He tightens it into a fist, terrified to lose the one piece of proof he’d been allowed. It crinkles against his palm.

Don’t forget.

Don’t forget.

He doesn’t open his eyes when he wakes. Squeezing them shut so hard he sees stars, he swallows down the memory’s hollow ache while trying to hold onto its pieces. They slip away nonetheless, leaving him with an unsettling emptiness; the impression of loss. That makes a tendril of panic curl in his gut, and he shoots upright. It’s the sudden awareness of forgetting, or the noticing of an absence, that’s the most alarming. Like brushing your teeth and abruptly realizing that you have no idea where your passport is and you’re left wondering–Dear God, when’s the last time I saw that? Is it put away, or did I lose it?--and you’re left frantic until you find it.

Miguel kicks to extract his legs from the tangled sheets and drags himself to his feet. Teetering to the window, he braces a hand against it and wracks his brain. Something important…what was it? His eyes dart around the scene in front of him without taking anything in. Cars driving by, pedestrians strolling, bits of trash and paper scraps kicked up and tossed by the summer breeze; someone’s bin has tipped over.

Paper. A piece of paper, a corner torn hastily from a larger sheet. Was that…his mind loses the trail, and slips instead into the memory of a book he’s neither seen nor thought of in a long time. Its cover materializes in his mind’s eye, familiar as his own reflection. Once, it had been a constant in his life; he and this book were inseparable for years. He has the abrupt urge to pick it up again, to have it in his hands. What is it? He wants to ask it. What do I need? It’s strange the way objects that were once a cherished constant in your life can be forgotten like that; it feels almost like you’ve betrayed them. His fingers itch for the familiarity of its worn cover. For its creased pages; the margins full of his messy notes; the cracks in its spine, so numerous as to obscure the letters of the author’s name.

He’s calling Jess before the decision is fully realized. He stammers through the conversation without processing it, and he must sound either serious or dazed enough for her to relent. “Yes…I know, it’s important…need the physical copy…the exact one…yes, the whole book…in my lab…try the bottom shelf…maybe the desk drawer…if it’s not there, call me back…yeah, thanks.”

He ends the call, leaving his extraordinarily confused second-in-command to her book hunt. In his haste, he’d missed the new texts from Miles.

Miles Morales (1610): Had to go to lecture I’m TA-ing for. Haven’t been kidnapped/ killed by henchmen. See u later

Miles Morales (1610): Can u feed Ganke’s fish

Miles Morales (1610): pls

He probably left a while ago, because the texts are from over an hour ago. Miles was a teaching assistant? How many jobs did he have? Miguel didn’t know undergraduates were even eligible for TA positions, but maybe Miles was just so brilliant he’d been offered the job regardless. Resolving to ask him about it once he returns, Miguel goes about getting ready for the day. He stomps down inexplicable jitters and hopes Jess can track the book down soon.

Being in Miles’ apartment without him was…weird. He’d become so accustomed to Miles’ presence, the sudden lack of it was jarring and unpleasant. He’s come to like it, with all its colour and personality and lived-in-ness that his own home never had. Still, Miles was by far the most interesting thing about the place, and it didn’t hold the same intrigue with its owner gone. He’s embarrassed by the wistful thought; two hours gone, and already he’s straining his ears for the telltale pattern of Miles’ footsteps coming up the stairs, like a very large, very strange house cat, meowing plaintively at the front door.

He feeds the clownfish according to the schedule taped to the wall beside the tank. He makes coffee and has chinese leftovers for breakfast, because he’s starving. His appetite shocks him; it seems like way too much food. Encouraged by the return of semi-regular meals, his stomach now demands an ungodly amount of sustenance and it’s a bother to keep up with. The last time he remembers needing that much was over–ten years ago? When he was normal. Somewhere in his brain a rational voice insists that the appetite is necessary for running a body of his size. ‘Hey dipsh*t,’ it chides–God, it sounds like Miles, he’s inescapable–‘You should be eating more than you did as a normal human, not less.’ Looking back on his recent eating habits and comparing them to what his body is loudly demanding now has him…concerned. If not for his mutations and superhuman resilience, he thinks he could’ve died. An alarming realization, because he doesn’t want to die. As a self-apology, he eats until he’s full and tries not to freak himself out.

With a growing list of things he’s desperate not to linger on and little to do, he simmers with restlessness. He wonders if there’s any housekeeping he could do, but vetoes the idea. The space is already tidy, because Miles is a well-raised adult who picks up after himself, so there’s nothing to do on that front. Miles’ room was another story, and seemed to be in an eternal state of moderate disarray. He presumed that Miles was just a considerate roommate, and kept shared spaces clean even if he didn’t feel compelled to do so with his own private ones.

It’s an admirable trait. Miguel’s quarters at HQ were only clean because there were no belongings in them. His lab–not the one that he used for briefings and mission assignments, but his actual, personal lab–was much more his space than either of his apartments. It looked like a bomb went off in it. He had a terrible habit of forgetting where things were if he couldn’t see them, so the space was organized in a haphazard pile system that made perfect sense to him and looked like utter chaos to everyone else. He was also extremely prone to throwing things, and, well, that wasn’t exactly conducive to cleanliness.

He’s finished both of his novels, but he folds himself onto the couch and opens Frankenstein anyway. This is his third reread. Like most people raised on Earth, he read the book in high school. But that copy had been digital, like most books were in his time, and he finds himself relishing in the materiality of the real thing. He likes the way the pages smell, and the soft feel of them against his fingertips. For the first time in his life he understands the allure of keeping a library.

Being in possession of a reasonable intellect and more empathy than he knew what to do with, he appreciated the story the first time around. But after everything that’s happened–everything he’s done–it has a different significance to him; a twisted, sick sort of irony. “Learn from me,” Victor Frankenstein had begged the readers;

“If not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.”

Miguel had laughed coldly when he’d come across those lines again. Younger Miguel would have done himself a favour if he’d kept that nugget of advice in his back pocket. The irony in his utter failure to do so is not lost on him.

It’s unsettling, how much of himself he sees in this story. “Pathetic,” someone from his mostly-forgotten English class had said. “All Victor does is create problems and then run away from them; everyone he loves suffers or dies because he can’t face his own mistakes.”

Pathetic indeed.

Miguel and Victor, Victor and Miguel. The Modern Prometheus, Mary Shelley had dubbed her protagonist, bestowing the eternity of suffering that came with it. Miguel’s own name bore a similar weight: ‘he who is like God’ on one hand, and a variant of the archangel Michael on the other. Yeah, no thanks. From birth he’d been cursed to chase after an unfulfillable legacy. Every time he tried to run from it, it dragged him back kicking and screaming. Miguel and Victor…they’d accomplished the impossible. They’d meant well. But playing God never did anyone any good.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and static crackles in the air. He perks up in anticipation. A small portal opens, and out tumbles the requested book. It lands on the coffee table with an unremarkable thunk. Miguel flings Frankenstein to the end of the couch (he wasn’t reading it anyway) where it hits the cushion and bounces onto the floor with a flutter of pages. He’ll pick it up later.

It’s exactly as he remembers it. He lifts it gingerly into his lap-it's roughly the size of a textbook. At first glance, On Multiversal Wayfinding is an unassuming text. Its black-and-white cover displays a diagram of Metatron’s Cube. Pasting a shape from sacred geometry on the front of a physics text was unorthodox, if not entirely contradictory, but it reflected the contents in that manner. Ambitious at best and fantastical, if not academically irresponsible, at worst, On Multiversal Wayfinding was too eccentric for most reputable, responsible scholars. Thus, it never garnered scientific acclaim and was thoroughly dismissed by experts. This dismissal, in turn, explained why no one ever noticed the author had not just proven the existence of a multiverse, but solved interdimensional travel as well. That is, until Miguel picked it up some sixty years later. Everything the Spider Society can do is owed to this book. Talk about underrated.

Flipping to the first page, he rereads the opening lines he’d long committed to memory:

There is no such thing as a coincidence. At the multiversal level, coincidences are a scientific and mathematical impossibility. Simultaneity is never accidental; it is in every instance, resolute and indicative. If something happens once, it’ll happen a thousand more times. It’s happened a thousand times already.

The words are just as he’d left them, and they’re comforting in their reliable familiarity. Averting his gaze, he opens the book to the inner front cover. If it’s not there…he doesn’t know what he’ll do. It has to be. He lets himself look: it’s there. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he releases the breath he was holding. It’s still there when he opens them again.

Taped inside the front cover is a torn scrap of paper. It’s white, small–not even the size of a sticky note–and worn soft from too many passes of his fingers. Tracing a fingertip across its surface, he can only feel the cool smoothness of the packing tape. He’d trapped it beneath the tape for that reason; his constant touches were wearing the paper down.

It reads, plainly,

Monday. 09.02. 8am.

That’s all. Whether it was a date, a code, or something else, Miguel couldn’t say. He’d never figured it out. After a while, he gave up. He’d almost forgotten entirely.

His phone buzzes again.

Miles (1610): Ayo you got a minute?

Or twenty. Maybe half an hour?

Miguel (928): That depends. I’m a busy man.

Miles (1610): I know for a fact you have jack sh*t to do today

Miguel (928): Even so. I could be sleeping.

Miles (1610): You’re not sleeping, jackass. You’re texting me

The phone rings with an incoming call. It’s Miles, shocker.

“Can you do me a favour?” Miles blurts as soon as the line connects.

Miguel sighs dramatically. “I don’t know, can I? On a completely unrelated note, is ‘Asshole f*ckface’ still my contact on your phone?”

There’s a beat of silence. “You know that time you tried to murder me? I thought you wanted to atone for that.”

Ouch. That’s one hell of a trump card. It stings, and Miguel lets it. “You’re so dramatic,” he deflects. “That’s not what happened.”

“You’re the Drama Queen. Remember when I brought you an empanada and you went ballistic?”

“That was–” a deranged, wobbly giggle bubbles up his throat. He shoves it down before it can escape and coughs to cover it. “That was not because of the empanada.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He pauses. “So you admit that you went ballistic?”

His heart gives an uneasy thud, and he goes rigid. Thrust abruptly to the stand without his consent, Miguel wonders–absurdly–if he should hire a lawyer. “Given that there were like three hundred witnesses, I can’t exactly pretend otherwise,” he forces out uncomfortably.

“Fully apesh*t,” Miles continues after a tense beat of silence. “Like one of those Demon Skullmonkeys from Temple Run.” He starts emitting strange, growling ape noises that they both know never occurred in real life.

It’s a blatant attempt to piss him off, and surely a poor strategy for asking favours. But strangely, it–doesn’t. Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut in resigned patience at Miles’ everlasting dedication to being a sh*t. Though at his expense, he sees the dig for what it is. He now knows Miles well enough to understand that he’s been given an out. It’s the first time either of them has directly addressed their history, and Miguel is acutely aware that Miles redirected the conversation for his sake. Infuriating as he is, Miles is, at his core, an uncommonly generous person.

He accepts the lifeline, because he’s a coward, and replies: “Was the point of this conversation just to trade insults or did you actually need something?” By which he means, Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Miguel gathers that the topic has been flagged, an asterisk marking it for the galactic loose-end that it was: We are acknowledging that this happened. We can’t ignore it forever.

We have to talk eventually.

Miles understands him perfectly. “There’s a folder of exams on my desk–can you get them to Bethesda plaza within the next hour?”

Expecting an urgent Spider-Man-type task, Miguel deflates at the mundane request. “That’s it? Why the rush?”

There’s a long moment before Miles replies. “I need to have them marked before the lecture this evening and I forgot half of them at home.”

“How responsible,” he teases. Mostly to hide his relief at the humanizing admission of forgetfulness–it made Miles’ perfection a little more accessible. “What do I get for being your delivery boy?”

“My foot not up your ass,” comes the instant reply.

“Lucky me. See you soon.” He ends the call abruptly so Miles doesn’t get the satisfaction of hearing him laugh. Which he does. Genuinely, and completely against his will.

…

Miguel drops the folder down on the table in front of Miles, who’s so absorbed in marking the exam in his hand that he jumps when they land. He glares up at Miguel, but there isn’t any heat in it.

“Delivery, your majesty,” Miguel drawls, dropping into the–very tiny, uncomfortable–chair opposite Miles. The terrace Miles has chosen is pretty and spacious. The cobbled plaza surrounds a grand fountain, and is dotted here and there with small cafe tables, most of which are taken.

“Ass,” Miles scoffs. “Took you long enough. I was scared you’d gotten lost or picked up by George Lucas’ casting team. Word on the street is they’re desperate for Wookie extras, and they’re keeping their eyes peeled for people who look like Big Walking Carpets.”

Miguel has never heard a more baffling collection of words. “Am I,” he starts gravely, “supposed to know what any of that means?”

“You know, Princess Leia’s line. In A New Hope?” Making air quotes with his fingers, Miles recites: “Will somebody get this big walking carpet outta my way?” Miguel just shakes his head. Miles deflates and slumps back in his chair. “Wow. Guess not. Jeez. My point still stands though; what took you so long?”

“Was I supposed to run? I didn’t realize it was that serious.”

“You walked?!” Miles exclaims in horror. “Why didn’t you take the subway? Or a cab?”

“In case you forgot,” Miguel leans in dramatically and gestures around them, “I’m not from around here. I don’t exactly have a list of all the transit options. How was I supposed to know?”

Shutting his eyes, Miles shakes his head. “No wonder it took so long. You actually made great time: you did an hour’s walk in forty minutes.”

Miguel just shrugs. “I have long legs.”

“No sh*t. Damn. Guess you really earned this, then.” He thrusts a plastic coffee cup into Miguel’s face, making him go cross-eyed before he leans back and accepts the cup. It’s still plenty cold, though it’s sweating profusely in the midday heat. Miles must’ve just picked it up.

“This is for me?”

“No, it’s for my boyfriend over there. Can you give it to him?” Miles jerks a thumb at the table next to them, where a ninety-year-old man has dozed off while reading the paper. If not for the airy snores wheezing from his beaky nose, Miguel would worry that he'd died right there in his chair. Confirming that the man is in fact still alive delays his response, and it takes him an embarrassingly long few seconds to realize Miles is messing with him.

Miguel turns back to Miles and shakes his head. “I think he’s a little old for you, no?”

“That’s the point. When he dies I’ll get all his money.”

Biting down a chuckle, Miguel sets his cup down and leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “If you were tight for cash all you had to do was ask.” He means it as a joke, but it comes out much more suggestive than he’d intended.

Miles notices. He chokes on his drink, coughing a lungful of air back into the straw and causing large bubbles to erupt in the liquid. While he clears his airway, Miguel lets his eyes wander so he doesn’t dwell on the accidental sexual proposition. Bad images. Begone images. The large fountain behind Miles catches his attention. Was the angel supposed to have only one wing?

“What’s with the statue?”

Coughing once more, Miles rifles through the exam booklets.“Mm?” His eyebrows are scrunched in an adorable, focused frown.

“The statue on the fountain. She’s missing a wing. Why’s that?”

Miles twists in his seat. “Oh yeah. Funny you mention that: she had two until last week. Your fat head smashed one to bits.”

Miguel balks. “I–excuse me?”

“Your portal opened right there.” Miles points to the open air above the fountain. “You flew out headfirst, like nyooom—then bwoosh—hit the wing with your face, obliterated it with your dense-ass cranium, and landed in the water. It was nuts. What’s your skull made out of, by the way? Vibranium?”

Miguel resists the urge to throttle him. “My bad, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Miles laughs. “Imagine my surprise when I looked up and there you were,” he gestures dramatically to the sky, “plummeting from the heavens, then crash-landing on a beloved public monument. It was one hell of an entrance. You definitely earned extra points for dramatic effect. Kinda biblical. It woulda’ been funnier if you weren’t half-dead, though.”

Miguel heaves a long suffering sigh. “Sorry to disappoint. Next time I make a grand entrance, I’ll try to be all-the-way dead. Can’t make any promises though, ‘cause I’m frustratingly hard to kill.” He means for Miles to laugh at this, so the alarmed frown he receives instead is unexpected.

“Uh,” Miles starts warily, “I meant that I didn’t want you showing up half-dead. As in, try to make sure you’re alive and conscious the next time you stop by, yeah?”

Oh. Awkward. “I meant–that was a joke,” he backtracks with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to sound so…grim.” He also didn’t want to insinuate that his…state upon arrival was intentional. Because it hadn't been. He’s pretty sure. He’s not really sure where his head was at that night.

“‘Course,” Miles replies. “Noted.” There’s certainly more he wants to say, but he stops there. Miguel gets the feeling Miles is planning to hide all the sharp objects in the apartment, and he deeply regrets saying anything. He’d assumed Miles’ demonstrated dislike of him would’ve had him laughing at the macabre joke, but he miscalculated and overshot it. By quite a lot, evidently. Classic Miguel behaviour, always tanking the mood. Miles already thinks he’s hiding an appointment with the gallows, and Miguel’s gone and confirmed it by accident.

“I was aiming for a hyperbolic effect, alright?” He tries. “Was the statement not crazy enough, or do I just look like that much of a sad bastard?” A sort of pitying grimace crosses Miles’ face, and it’s answer enough. Miguel huffs in disbelief. “Miles. C’mon, really? Who goes around saying things like that?”

“I don’t know, okay?” He holds his hands up innocently. “You just have one of those faces. It’s very…”

“Very?” Miguel’s been told he’s aggressively strange-looking on more than one occasion, and he braces for another confirmation.

“Grave? Surly? I dunno, it’s hard to tell what you’re thinking. You tell jokes like you’re a doctor delivering bad news. Have you ever tried poker? You’d have a genetic advantage.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a Poker player phenotype,” Miguel quips dryly. At least Miles hadn’t said he was ugly.

“Ha!” Miles points with glee and smacks his opposite palm on the table. “You just did it again! Your delivery sounds like you’re reading from the world’s driest textbook.”

Miguel lets his face fall as flat as possible. “I’ve never read any Poker textbooks.”

At this, Miles laughs from his chest, and he throws his head back with it. He’s so animated when he finds something funny; he expresses joy with his whole body. It’s very…bright. “You’re doing it on purpose now.”

“Usually am,” Miguel admits, shrugging one shoulder. “People just don’t notice.”

“Man, that’s cold,” Miles marvels with a whistle. “You’ve been dunking on people left and right and no one’s picked up on it. Goes right over their heads.”

“Naturally. I have a genetic advantage for dunking,” Miguel shoots back playfully. It’s flirtatious, even to his own ears, but it earns him another series of laughs.

“Get his ass on the court!” Miles declares to the park at large. His phone dings and he checks it absently without breaking his rhythm; “Dr. Dunkenstein reborn, Miggy-Ziggs is dunkin’ them Back to the Future, breakin’ ankles 22nd-century style–sh*t!”

Caught mid-sip, Miguel coughs at ‘Dr. Dunkenstein.’ He’s utterly unprepared for ‘Miggy-Ziggs’ however, and the mild cough is overtaken by what should be a barking hyena laugh, and instead manifests as an aggressive spit-take. Thank god they’re outside. Only the cobblestones have to suffer the coffee shower, and Miguel keeps his clothes dry this time around. Still, he’s managed to go his entire life without a singular spit-take; that this is his second in a matter of days is ridiculous.

Miles starts rifling frantically through papers, and waves a begone, nuisance, hand at Miguel. “Stop distracting me! I need to get these graded and we just wasted half an hour.”

“What?” Miguel protests while wiping stray droplets from his face. “I didn’t do anything–”

“You did! Stop it! I need to make sure I have enough time to get back.”

Miguel throws his hands out in a baffled, sweeping gesture. “Why hang out here in the first place? The campus and your apartment are back in the other direction. They’re closer to each other than they are to here.”

“I like it here,” is all Miles offers. It’s as clear a dismissal as any, so Miguel shuts up.

While Miles is absorbed with speed-marking the midterms, Miguel takes the opportunity to study his face. Big doe eyes shaded by strong, angular brows. A wide button nose–cute, really cute–and high cheekbones. Full lips. Sharp jaw. In the years since they first met, Miles has grown into his features. As a teen, he had looked endearing in the way most young almost-adults did; wide eyes, soft cheeks. Now, a couple years into adulthood, Miles is stunning.

“There something on my face?”

Miguel stiffens, and hesitates too long before replying. “No.”

Miles raises an eyebrow and his face shifts into one of its Miguel-is-a-f*cking-weirdo expressions. Miguel forces himself to meet the stare until Miles grows bored of looking at him and returns to his work. Chewing on the end of his pen, Miles crosses one long leg over the other and tilts his chair back precariously. Miguel may as well not be there.

A handsome jogger raises his eyebrows in appreciation as he passes, raking his eyes down Miles’ graceful frame, then back up again. Miles is too focused to notice. Miguel isn’t, and he glares; he knows exactly what Mr. CamelBak is thinking, and he wants to smack the thoughts out of the blond thirty-something’s head. He also takes personal offense at the backward baseball cap atop said head, simply because it’s stupid. Why even wear it if you’re going to turn it the wrong way? He’d flick it off, but that might count as assault, so he refrains. The jogger promptly averts his gaze, as he should. Petulance rises in Miguel’s chest despite his victory, because he preferred when Miles was paying attention to him.

“Can I help?” He blurts to rectify this.

Miles doesn’t even look up. “With what?”

“Marking.”

“Why?”

“Just…because.”

Miles makes a face, but shrugs; “If you want?” Trust him to assume that everything Miguel did had some nefarious ulterior motive. He grabs the top half of the exam pile and passes it to Miguel along with a loose sheet of paper, which he shakes meaningfully. “This is the answer key. It’s all multiple choice.”

Accepting the papers, Miguel nods and gets to work.

“I’m surprised you remembered that,” Miles says after a couple minutes of silence.

“Remembered what?”

“My, uh,” Miles rubs his hand over the back of his head. “My contact name for you. From–that time in the elevator.”

Keeping his focus on his task, Miguel shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, I thought it was funny how you dragged Peter along with you for no reason–given that you didn’t even know each other.” He glances up at Miles, who’s staring at him in surprise. “Have you changed it since then?”

“I haven’t.” Miles pauses. “I should–”

“No–it’s fine,” Miguel interrupts, and Miles’ eyebrows rise. “Good times, you know?” He lets a timid smile crawl onto his face. It feels nice, stretching muscles in his cheeks that aren’t used often.

Miles snorts, then beams at him, showing white teeth. “Yeah, definitely going in the books, that one. Certified Classic.” He leans in, propping his chin in his hand. “What am I listed as? ‘Best Spider-Man’?”

“No, it’s ‘Bane of my Existence’.” Miles’ smile grows, so Miguel continues: “‘Best Spider-Man’ was already taken by Peter B.” He says this with utter seriousness, per usual. Miles likes this dig, and he gets it instantly. The chirpy laughter he lets out fills Miguel with gooey warmth. He makes sure none of it shows on his face.

They work in amicable silence for another twenty minutes. It’s easy, mindless work. Following the answer key is simple enough, and Miguel only needs it for the first exam. It’s content he knows anyway. One of his final booklets is scattered with little water stains. He squints at it in disbelief.

“Are these…?” He just holds it up in explanation.

“Tear stains. Yeah.”

Miguel balks. “What for?” He double checks the student’s result. “They did fine.”

“Who knows, man,” Miles sighs. “Some people have a rough time with tests. Bad vibes or whatever.” Fair enough. Everyone had their demons.

Miles starts packing up a few minutes later. He accepts the stack Miguel hands him before sliding it into his bag. Their fingers brush with the exchange and Miguel refuses to find the contact noteworthy. He expects Miles to lead them out of the park, but he heads for the fountain instead. Miguel is content to follow, so he trails along; like Miles pointed out earlier, he has f*ck-all else to do.

They pause at the fountain’s edge, where Miles digs in the pocket of his jeans and fishes out a coin. He ponders it for a second, then tosses it into the water where it lands with a plink. He unearths a second coin from his pocket, then offers it to Miguel. “Wanna make one?”

Miguel blinks. “Make one what?”

“A wish.”

Miguel looks from the coin, to the fountain, then back. “Is that what that was?”

“You don’t do that where you’re from?” He inquires, rather baffled.

Does his dimension have this tradition? Miguel doesn’t even know. It seemed like the kind of thing people did with their parents in childhood, given the abundance of families sitting and chatting along the water’s edge. His upbringing was…well, not like that. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “We might.” A drop of–concern? Sadness?--darkens Miles’ expression, though only just. He puts the coin in Miguel’s hand. It’s warm. “What do I wish for?” The sun glints off its coppery surface when he tilts it. Coinage was to him such a vintage concept. Physical currency had long been phased out in his time. He’d only ever seen Miles using cards, so it seemed it was happening here too.

“How would I know?” Miles replies. “It’s your wish.”

“Is it supposed to be a little wish or a big one?” Miguel presses. “Like, life or death, or just trivial things?” These distinctions seem important to clarify.

Miles, however, doesn’t share this sentiment and hangs his head dramatically. “Only you could make this so complicated. Just pick something–whatever you want. Whatever feels right.”

Unhelpful. Miguel wracks his brain for a small, random wish to make. “Okay, uh…I guess–” Miguel’s eyes bug out when Miles slaps a hand over his mouth, silencing him.

“Don’t tell me!” Miles cries. “Then it won’t come true!” The skin-on-skin contact sends an electric jolt through Miguel’s body, short-circuiting his brain. Miles pulls away, oblivious. “Just think it. Your wish is between you,” Miles jabs a pointer finger into Miguel’s chest, “and her.” He points with finality to the one-winged angel.

Miguel raises a doubtful eyebrow. “I don’t know if I’m in the best spot to be asking favours. I did ruin her wing.”

Miles waves a dismissive hand. “Eh, I’m sure she’s over it by now. It was an accident. Now, close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“You didn’t close yours.”

“f*ck’s sake, man!” Miles whirls on him. “You’re killing me here! I’m trying to give you the whole experience, and you’re supposed to close your eyes. So close them, will you? For the sake of--not being a buzzkill? I’m deadass this close,” he pinches his thumb and pointer finger together, “to drowning you all-the-way-dead in the fountain.”

Miguel suppresses a grin. “Your fingers are touching.” Sometimes Miles is irresistibly easy to poke fun at. Pulling pigtails wasn’t typically his style–Miguel’s not outgoing enough to be the teasing type–but it’s turning out to be dizzyingly entertaining.

“Exactly. Don’t make me regret hauling your ass outta there. So close your sh*t, otherwise you’ll be sleeping with the fishes.”

“Will I be closing my eyes for that too, or–” A pointy elbow jabs him in the ribs, cutting him off. “Fine! Fine, closing them.”

“Good. Think of a wish, then toss the coin in to cast it. That’s all you have to do.”

Confused, but willing to comply, Miguel tries to think of something. What does he want? Historically, him wanting things hasn’t ended well. In a twisted way, he’s had uncanny success with goal fulfillment, with the trade-off that the reality of the dream was always dreadful. He’d longed to meet his real father for much of his young life. Then he did, and learned he’d been fathered by arguably the worst person in the world. He’d wanted to get his gene splicing project working. He did that too, at the cost of extraordinary physical pain, irreversible mutation, and becoming the world’s first and only spider hybrid.

In the bleak aftermath of those let-downs, he’d turned his gaze skyward. He’d worked tirelessly to piece together the thoughts of an utterly insane physicist, whose work was so nonsensical it had to have been deliberate; it had no linear argument and looped around on itself to the point of futility. Miguel took this as a challenge. In hindsight, it should’ve been heeded as a ‘KEEP OUT’ sign. But his world was so unsalvageable that any alternative seemed paradisiacal, and that hope kept him going for years. Impossibly, he pulled it off and it got him…here. He’d been reaching for–hell, he doesn’t know. Something worth reaching for. Something that could make his life make sense, make the pain worth it, even if he didn’t know what to look for. Still, he hoped that by looking he’d find…anything. But he never did.

Instead, he’d woken to a never-ending nightmare of captaining the Group Project from Hell. Had he known he was putting himself up for the hardest job in the world, he might’ve reconsidered. Suddenly he’d had hundreds of people looking to him, and by god had he wished that some capable, all-knowing, dimension-transcending figure would step out of his shadow and take the job. But when he’d turned around, there was no one there. Miguel was, regrettably, It. How was he supposed to tell them he’d had a poster of Spider-Man in his childhood bedroom? That in his own universe he was the alternate, the second string Spider-Man? He’d wanted to raise his hand and say, ‘Hey guys. I am twenty-six. I’ve only ever had one job, which ended because I killed my boss, who was also my father. This is A Lot.’ But he’d kept his mouth shut. Everyone interpreted his silence as masterly stoicism, and now here he was. All that considered, the consequences of reaching that goal were skewing generally negative.

Then there’s Gabriella. She hadn’t been something he wanted, strictly speaking. But she’d been a child who needed someone. For once, there was a role Miguel wanted to step into. He saw a version of himself that was good, that was content. Made all the more tantalizing by how familiar that man was, how much of Miguel was visible in him. A fatherless child and a man who was becoming very good at being what others needed him to be were not strictly what the other was lacking, but it was enough. Until it ended.

Considering that veritable minefield of data leads him to the probable conclusion that the things he wants aren’t good for him. So he’s avoided wanting, reaching, hoping as much as possible ever since. But if Miles wants him to wish, he can wish. He’ll tread carefully: keep things reasonable. He settles on three things; he’ll probably only do this once, so he’ll make it count.

For most of his life, he’d been searching desperately for the answer to a question that he could never verbalize, that he’d never been privy to. It had always been hanging over his head. Not threatening, but–expectant. He’d been holding his breath waiting for it for as long as he could remember. Keeping an eye out for something he’s never seen, watching for shadows, glimpses in his periphery. Straining his ears for a sound that never came. Combing his memories not just for something he’d forgotten, but got something he’d never known or understood in the first place. Forever plagued by an underlying hum of suspense, seeing patterns and figures that weren’t there.

He doesn’t know if this thing is something that can be found–perhaps it’s just chronic dissatisfaction. So his first wish is this:

1. If I find it, let it be what I’ve been looking for. If I don’t, let it be because it doesn’t exist, and not because I failed.

His second wish is more tangible, but more complicated. Miguel may be dense, but he’s not stupid. In record time, Miles has become one of his favourite people. He’s also a very attractive person. And A + B, given enough time, inevitably equals C, which is dangerous, if not fatal. Its possibility crept up on him while he was vulnerable, and now its fangs are nearing his throat. But it’s early yet, and they haven’t snapped shut. Miguel can retreat, snap the tether that’s tugging him into the maw, and run for it.

Smother it, his rationality insists. If you hesitate, it’ll be too late. It’ll hurt, but you’ll be okay. Otherwise, it’ll spread too far, grow too deep, and when it ends–because it will–it’ll kill you.

His whole life, things have been done to him, taken from him, chosen for him. Alchemax, his pig of a father, the canon, the powers that be, the greater good; his life and will had always been second to theirs. He’d been an instrument to things much larger than himself, and his choices had rarely been his own.

MJ is inevitable. The canon–currents of time and reality–flows like a river. It’s liquid; shapeless and versatile as water. When it encounters an obstacle, no matter how large, it’ll flow around it. It can be delayed, but never stopped. Even if halted entirely, the buildup of pressure will either destroy the blockade or devastate the surrounding environment. A stream diverted from its parent waterway will return to its source eventually, even if it takes thousands of years, because gravity demands it. To do so, it will cut paths where none exist.

There’s no stopping forces of nature. Miguel’s time by Miles’ side is finite, and ticking away. But it’s also precious, and he won’t waste it. It’s a miracle that Miles is letting Miguel near him at all. If the person he’d wounded so terribly can allow him that, then there’s hope for him still. Miguel will cherish it, even if the proximity dooms him. He won’t pursue someone knowing he’s on borrowed time; that’s cruel. So Miles never needs to know, and Miguel is already tipping over the edge–there’s no reason to drag Miles down with him. He’ll take the fall on his own, and accept however that ends for him. But until then, he’ll enjoy it. Because it’s good. Because it’s his. It’s enlivening to care for someone.

Given the options he has, his choices are limited. But they’re still his to choose from, so he chooses. He smooths his thumb over the surface of the coin, and draws his arm back.

His second and third wishes are composites of a whole.

1. When MJ happens, let me survive it.
2. Until MJ happens, and after it happens, let me stay a part of Miles’ life.

He releases the coin.

Once he hears it plop into the water, he opens his eyes and is surprised to find his vision blurred with unshed tears.

“You ready?” Miles is still gazing contentedly at the water, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I’m all for careful wish-making, but I do need to head out.” He turns with a small smile that drops when he sees Miguel’s face. “Miguel?” He leans in with a deepening frown. “Why are you crying?”

Miguel hastily wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I don’t–I don’t know. It’s nothing.”

Miles shifts to stand an arm’s length in front of him. He traces his eyes around the planes of Miguel’s face. There’s no judgement, just worry. Curiosity, perhaps, but he doesn’t pry. Miguel meets his eyes, because he can’t not.

“Must’ve been an important wish,” Miles finally says.

“It was.”

They turn back to the water. The sun glints prettily off its dappled surface, and the coins scattered along the bottom glimmer in the afternoon light. The basin is tiled with delicate white tesserae that make the crystalline water appear aquamarine blue. Miles co*cks his head and makes a contemplative humming noise.

“I wonder how they got the blood out.”

Chapter 14: Fathoms

Chapter Text

Miguel’s tears send Miles reeling, knocking the world topsy-turvy while simultaneously snapping it into stark perspective. It wasn’t crying so much as weeping. Just a few silent tears, barely enough to wet Miguel’s cheeks before he wiped them hurriedly away. There’s a wrongness to the vulnerability of it; Miguel had seemed forever above those human things. Seeing him so fragile makes Miles’ skin crawl with an unplaceable, uncomfortable feeling. The reality of him chafes against the caricature in Miles’ head. It forces him to confront the possibility that Miguel is a wounded, damaged thing just like the rest of them. And it makes him realize that maybe, just maybe, it’s unfair to expect Miguel to be above that humanity.

It’s easier to hold his mistakes against him when he appears icy and unfeeling. Untouchable. And it’s easier, too, to fault someone for hurting you, for making the choices they did, when they appear to have done so effortlessly and without remorse. The longer Miles spends with Miguel, the more he suspects this was never the case. Miles’ anger was ebbing away, but the blame held strong. He felt justified in it; rightfully superior as the wronged, and Miguel the sinner.

But mounting doubts flicker and swirl in his mind. Miles’ surety in his own choices weakens as a panicked, sinking regret takes their place. He’s poked and prodded at the past for years, pressing his thumb into the bruises. Over and over he assured himself that choosing his dad was right. How could it be wrong to want to prevent anyone’s death? But as time passed his surety wore thin, grew volatile and weak. He never understood why the canon didn’t destabilize or fulfil itself. He knows that the Spot’s defeat was a fluke. It was neither human will nor fate that saved his father–it was chance. Sheer dumb luck.

It feels unbalanced, though. Like it simply…shouldn’t have happened. And though it’s five years past, to say that chapter is closed feels off. The coin has been tossed, but it hasn’t landed yet. Action demands reaction, so land it must. Losing the Captain was Spider-Man’s…well, fate. Every timeline said so, as much as he was loath to say it. Miles always thought fate was an ugly, heavy word. It reeked of doom; an executioner’s blade; a cheek laid on a dripping, red-stained block. People say someone ‘met their fate’ as a nice way to say they kicked the bucket. Is that all fate was? Endings?

Those blasted cards... The tarot reader’s words had struck against Miles’ spider-sense like a gong, reverberating through his psyche. He doesn’t know why Miguel’s reading had resonated so. His spider-sense caught and intertwined with the woman’s words, pinging and echoing against one another. Warnings, promises, whispers from every direction.

The cycle has already begun. The path was set a long time ago. All will come full circle.

Miles doesn’t know where to look, where to dodge, where to run. Does he watch over his shoulder, or run forward? Are they too early or too late?

The shackles of the past will be burnt to ash; only then can the future be reached.

An expectant, suffocating tension—a bow drawn back to its breaking point. Death astride his horse. At the horse’s feet, a great serpent reared to strike.

They’re standing in the shadow of something, but Miguel either can’t or won’t see it. Apprehension skitters across his skin. He chokes it down and grasps Miguel by the arm. He’s still solemnly silent. Miguel was hardly a talkative guy: he was often content to sit in silence (probably doing mental multiverse equations or whatever), but the harrowed, far-off look in his eyes made Miles think the man was stuck somewhere in the past. He tugs Miguel by the arm so he’ll return to the present. “Come on.” Miguel lets himself be turned and led away from the burbling fountain. He’s not crying anymore, but he’s pulled down by something. Miguel shakes his head once as though to fling it away. He was supposed to have wished for something, but he’s heavy with the aura of loss.

Miles is overcome with the urge to jerk him close and squeeze him around the middle, even if just so Miguel would squirm and elbow him away and become Miguel-like again. Either that, or Miles could flick him on the forehead so he’d bitch and scowl and not be so clearly in the Depths of Despair. “I need to get back to campus,” he declares to stop himself from doing anything of the sort. “We can catch the train. I’ll teach you the subway. For next time.” He lets go of Miguel’s arm. The skin of his inner forearm is velvet-soft.

Miguel clears his throat. “Fine.”

The urge to ask is overwhelming, but Miles bites his tongue. It’d be an overstep. But he’s curious. So curious. It strikes him how little people know about Miguel. He deviates from the Spider-Man norm in so many ways, but exactly why or how is a mystery. Miles knows something’s off with Miguel’s canon, that the events don’t apply the same for him. Has anyone thought to ask why? Ever spared a thought for why Miguel is the way he is? Or wondered, even, about his interests, the things he likes? People respect him, but they don’t seem to know him. He’s prickly, sure, and keeps people at arms length. But most overwhelmingly, he’s an utter enigma. Behind the spider-suit and the scowl and the intellect, he’s one big blank.

People betray themselves with the things they want. Desires and ambitions seep through their cracks, bleeding into their words and actions. It reveals a lot about a person, the things they’re reaching for. It’s why Miguel seemed so impenetrable: he didn’t seem to want anything at all. If there was something he was looking for, it was something no one else could see. Either that or he’d given up hope of ever finding it.

There was an intelligible vastness to him. Looking at Miguel was like looking at the surface of the sea; Miles suspected that his darkness only appeared so because of the depths he contained. If Miles could dive beneath that surface and see what lies beneath, what would he find? Icy, abyssal fathoms? Or something more?

His mind flashes with images of creatures–massive things that dwell in darkness. Sharp teeth and glowing eyes that flash with iridescence in the sun.

The plunge is too daunting. For now, he’ll splash at the surface.

They walk in amicable silence for a few minutes. Miles lets his trepidation fade away, focusing instead on the sunlight, the greenery and the birdsong of Central Park. As always, Miguel peers around with the open interest that only tourists can have. Mundane things like shawarma carts and hundred-year-old street lamps fascinate him, though he never stops to look at them, seemingly content to let them pass by. Not for the first time, it strikes Miles that Miguel has essentially traveled a century backward in time. If Miles was dropped suddenly into 1920s New York he’d be gawking too.

Miguel walks with his hands shoved in his jean pockets. He slouches, and his broad shoulders are rounded as though weighed down by an invisible burden. He does that a lot; it’s like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Miles has only ever seen him extend to his full height and breadth in his spider suit, and he’d always thought him severe and wooden because of it. But now he thinks it’s because that militaristic air isn’t quite natural for him.

The sudden lack of Miguel’s large presence has Miles pausing. He turns to see Miguel staring pensively, if not wistfully, into the window display of a department store. Turning back to join him at the window, he co*cks his head when he sees what’s caught Miguel’s attention.

“Glasses?” He questions, then smiles and looks up at him. “Thinking of trying a new look?” Miguel ignores him, and his strange expression doesn’t drop. If anything, it deepens. He points to a gold-rimmed pair and taps lightly on the glass.

“Those are mine.” Miles co*cks his head at the cryptic response, eyeing the frames quizzically. “I mean,” Miguel clarifies, “I had—have—a pair just like that. I used to be nearsighted; I wore them for years.” Miles’ interest piques—they’re more antique and hipster-y than he’d have guessed would be Miguel’s style. He doesn’t have a chance to ask, however, because Miguel is pivoting and ducking into the store faster than Miles can process it.

“Hey—wait!” He darts after Miguel, who beelines for the display and picks them up with fascination.

“They’re…exactly the same.” He runs a finger along one of the arms, then puts them on. Miles chokes on his own saliva.

Sweet baby Jesus. The rounded gold frames look unbelievably hot on him in an unexpectedly arty, academic manner. Miguel looks like a professor who’d walk down a hallway and leave a trail of swoons in his wake. Well, he looks like that already, but the glasses make it twice as bad. Miles opens his mouth to say…something, but closes it again to keep anything embarrassing from tumbling out.

Miguel catches his reflection in a nearby mirror, and when he makes eye contact with himself, his face drops slightly. “Hm,” his mouth presses into a solemn line. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Their eyes meet in the mirror. Miguel shakes his head once and takes them off. Miles holds out a hand, and Miguel sets them on his palm. Holding them up to examine them, he says, “So, your spider…thing fixed your eyesight? That’s kinda Peter Parker of you—“

Static pops in his ears and prickles along his arms. His stomach drops, and the world fractures into technicolor. He meets Miguel’s startled eyes, and sees there the recognition of what Miles suspects; an incoming anomaly. But no anomaly appears.

A strangely familiar voice, distorted and far off, yet loud in Miles’ ears, sounds from everywhere and nowhere. “Is it working? Did it connect?”

Miguel isn’t the one speaking, but he’s the only person there who’d have an idea of what’s going on, so Miles, in his confusion, just blurts: “Miguel??” The man only shakes his head once, wide-eyed in confusion.

The glasses in Miles’ hands heat, flicker with increasing intensity, then disappear with a pop. The world snaps back into normalcy. No one in the store notices the glitch.

Miles stares at his empty hands. Miguel stares at Miles’ empty hands. Miles turns them over dumbly, looks at the backs, then flips them over to the palms once more.

They both gape blankly. A second passes. Five more trickle by.

“What just–where–” Miguel stammers.

“What’d you–” Starts Miles, but he similarly abandons his inquiry.

Taking a small step back, Miguel’s eyes dart around, trying to locate the missing frames. “Where’d they go?” He looks down at their feet, as though Miles had just dropped them, but there’s nothing but a wayward dust bunny.

His brain stutters and trips over itself. Miles points at Miguel. “Bring them back!”

Affronted, Miguel gestures to himself comically. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re the multiverse guy. What was that?!”

“I don’t know! I’ve never seen—”

“Are you gentlemen finding everything you need?” They both start and turn to the store employee, who’s somehow snuck up on the both of them.

“Yeah, we’re great, we just,” he hooks Miguel’s elbow and pulls him to the door, “gotta be going. Thanks!” He shoulders the door open and tugs Miguel outside, then sets off at a brisk pace.

Miguel falls into step with him, face pensive. Miles elbows him in the ribs.

“Oy!” Miguel cries, rubbing the sore spot. “What’s your problem—”

“Explain.”

“I don’t know—“

“Nuh uh. You’re thinking so hard it’s making my head hurt. Spill, man.”

Miguel stays infuriatingly silent. Stoic bastard.

The subway comes into view. A stray breeze, sluggish, humid, and carrying the sewer-smell of underground, rustles the trash at their feet. Miguel’s mouth twitches downward at the sight, and his steps slow with hesitance.

“It seems less gross once you’re down there,” Miles offers, sensing the reason for Miguel’s reluctance. The subway wasn’t known for its aesthetic appeal or cleanliness, that’s for sure. “It’s good exposure for the immune system,” he adds.

“It smells.” Miguel wrinkles his nose primly.

“Always has, always will. Consistency is a virtue.” Miguel hesitates for a second longer than Miles likes, so he reaches over, hooks a finger into Miguel’s belt loop, and jerks him along.

“I’m gonna be late, man, get down there before I push you. I know it’s no Wonderland, but it’s not that bad–it’s only six stops.” Miles releases him, and Miguel’s face twitches oddly, but the curious expression’s gone faster than it appears. Miles releases Miguel’s belt loop, but Miguel grabs his wrist before he can retract it. The contact sends a jolt up Miles’ spine, and he freezes.

“Will you quit yanking me around?” Miguel asks. “And while you’re at it, stop tugging at my pants, or people might get the wrong idea.” He tugs at Miles’ own belt loop for emphasis.

Miles puts his hands up and steps away immediately, face heating. Then he pivots and jogs down the steps as fast as is socially acceptable. Miguel doesn’t say anything more, but Miles can sense his presence at his back.

There are no available seats in the train car, so they have to stand. Miguel grabs ahold of one of the overhead bars to stabilize himself. With each jostle of the train, his shapely bicep flexes distractingly. Miles didn’t know it was possible for a black t-shirt to look so obscene. It’s hardly even tight; Miguel had sized up rather modestly.

“So,” Miles blurts. “You used to wear glasses.” Miguel’s eyes drift down to meet his, and his skin prickles with heat when they make contact. He raises an eyebrow as if to underscore the stupidity of Miles’ inane comment. To fill the silence, Miles tacks on: “You’re a genuine nerd, huh?” Deflecting to making fun of Miguel is a safe fallback.

Red eyes flick to the ceiling. “I’m not.”

Miles inches closer, to be annoying. “Are too. You solved inter-dimensional travel in your spare time.” This close, Miguel has to tilt his head down to converse comfortably. It brings their height difference into stark contrast; even at his respectable height of 5’10, Miles could comfortably tuck his head under Miguel’s chin. It makes his tummy go all gooey.

“Can’t a guy have hobbies?” Miguel shrugs his huge shoulders.

Miles cracks a smile. “You’re not even a physicist, Miguel.”

Miguel shakes his head. “I didn’t solve inter-dimensional travel. Someone else did.” At Miles’ confused look, he adds, “Most of the work was done by another scientist; the theory was all there, I just filled in the blanks.”

“They hit a dead end?”

There’s a pause, and Miguel’s eyes drift away once more. He’s thinking very hard about something, but Miles doesn’t know what. “In a way,” Miguel finally says. “She was ahead of her time. The tech was decades from being ready. She would’ve been born around the same time you were, actually. She’s probably alive here somewhere.”

“Why’d she never finish it?”

“She passed away.”

“Oh,” Miles says lamely, disappointed. “Bummer. It would’ve been around for decades by the time you got to it, though—no one else touched it before you?”

Miguel shrugs again. “It was largely theoretical, and with enough theoretical leaps to be written off as speculation. That and academics found it hard to follow; eccentric. Impertinent, even.”

“Hah. Not for your genius, though.”

Miguel makes another face at that, looking down at his feet with a shake of his head. “I don’t know, it just…made sense to me. Mostly. Eventually. Still, I got stuck at the end. Someone else helped me.”

“Yeah. But you still did it.‘Cause you’re a nerd,” Miles quips with a smirk and a teasing poke at Miguel’s belly (bad idea, his abs were wonderfully rock solid). Miles clears his throat awkwardly, “Who helped you?”

“I don’t know.” Miguel’s mouth flattens, and he looks away strangely. “I didn’t get their name—we only met once.” Miles’ face twists. So cryptic.

“Someone helped you finish the project of a lifetime and you forgot their name? Nice, man.”

“I didn’t forget it, sh*thead. They wouldn’t tell me. They disappeared after that.”

Miles blinks. “They disappeared. What, like into thin air? A puff of smoke? Vanished behind a passing bus?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s weird, man.” Miguel gives him a flat look, as if to say, Yeah, no sh*t. “You have access to the entire multiverse,” Miles adds, “what’s stopping you from checking in on one guy?”

“You think I haven’t tried? I looked. For a long time. I don’t think they want to be found. If that’s how it is, then—I can’t drag them out before they’re ready.”

Miles can’t help but be curious. Someone Miguel can’t find must be something special. He chuckles dryly. “What are they, like, a god or something? Deus ex machina?” Miguel’s mouth tightens. Miles’ eyes widen. “Wait, for real? I was joking, the hell–”

The other man puts his hands up in a submissive gesture. “I don’t know, Miles. Besides, it was a decade ago. I haven’t seen them since. They’re long gone.”

“Hmph. So many things you don’t know today.”

“There are a lot of things I don’t know.”

They stew in silence after that. There’s a weighted, solemn honesty to the statement that settles gravely in Miles’ gut. Miguel was supposed to be the guy that knew things. That Miguel didn’t consider himself the guy that knew things was disconcerting.

Miles glances over—Miguel has a slight five o’clock shadow. He wants to rise up on his tiptoes and rub his cheek against its stubbly texture. A jostle of the train forces Miles to shift a step closer to maintain his balance. Miguel’s heady sandalwood and deodorant scent is overwhelming and Miles tries valiantly not to visibly sniff him.

To distract himself he asks, “Does your universe have a subway?” Miguel’s striking eyes meet his. There’s an irritating prettiness to his thick, dark eyelashes.

“Of course. We were on it, you know.”

Miles barks out a crisp, startled laugh. Out of left field, that one. “Oh yeah, the Lunar Express. I think this train ride went way better than that one, eh? Unless we try to kill each other again, who knows.” He tilts his head up to check the map. “There’s like thirty seconds until our station. Think that’s enough time for a rematch?” He means it as a joke, but Miguel’s lips press into a thin line. The train slows to a stop, and they step off when the doors open. Miguel has to duck slightly to fit through the doorway.

After a beat, Miguel says, “I’m…truly sorry about that, Miles.” It’s the first apology he’s heard from Miguel. He thought he wanted it, but it makes an odd discomfort prickle up his spine. The subway entrance comes into view, and he speeds up the stairs, drawing his shoulders stiffly up to his ears and feeling suddenly off-kilter.

“It’s whatever. Come on.” Miguel speeds up to keep pace with him.

“It’s not—it’s not whatever, Miles. I’m serious. I never got the chance to properly apologize. I just–want you to know that I didn’t–”

“I know,” he bites out. “It’s fine.” Miles mutters under his breath, “Five years too late, but whatever.” They emerge above ground once more, and the sudden piercing sunlight makes him squint. He makes it only a few steps–Miles’ heart plummets to his feet when Miguel yanks him into an alleyway so fast his vision blurs.

“Hey!” He squawks. “Now who’s yankin’ who?! What are you, kidnapping me?” He whacks Miguel’s hands off.

“Don’t put that on me,” comes the stern response.

“Put what—“

Miguel leans in, and Miles shrinks. “You wouldn’t let me anywhere near you. You wouldn’t talk to me. You wouldn’t look at me. All I did for years was respect the boundaries you set. You finally let me get close enough to apologize, and now it’s my fault that I didn’t do it sooner? Don’t give me that. Don’t blame me for something you wanted,” Miguel jabs a pointer finger into Miles’ sternum. Miles slaps it away, just to be a sh*t.

“It’s not that. It’s that it took you five years to feel bad for what you did to me.”

Miguel’s jaw clenches, eyes flaring wider with anger. “I always felt terrible. I know that I went too far. Even as it was happening, I didn’t—it’s like I couldn’t…” He grimaces, cutting himself off. “You never gave me the opportunity to address it, and you don’t get to decide what I feel just to make yourself feel better.” Scalding anger flares in Miles’ stomach.

“Me?! You’re the one who attacked me for not obeying your every word. You couldn’t handle that someone questioned you. Don’t act like there’s justification for that.” Miguel jerks his face away as though struck, then faces Miles once more with hardened, blazing eyes. Miles hates that he has to tilt his chin up so far to look at him.

“I chased you because you put an entire universe at risk—your own, I might add—and you were too caught up in preserving your own happiness to care, or to listen to a word we were telling you. You shouldn’t have run.”

“You put me in a cage,” Miles seethes. At that, Miguel’s eyes narrow and he straightens to his full height, looming over Miles even further. It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is—Miguel does that predatory head tilt thing that makes Miles’ stomach go all fluttery.

“We told you disrupting the canon could destabilize the multiverse, and you didn’t care,” he bites. “ What’s your excuse for that?”

“You wanted my dad to die!”

“Of course I didn’t!” Miguel barks, voice echoing down the alley. The emotion in it sends Miles reeling. “I don’t want anyone to die! God, is that what you think of me? Why do you always do that?” A wounded, sad look crosses his face. Then he pulls the mask down. Miles has never noticed it before, but it’s unmistakable now. It’s uncanny, the thorough ease with which Miguel pulls all traces of himself from his own face. His soul vanishes back into the depths, and he closes off.

“Do what?!” Miles’ gut twists with panicked regret. No! He wants to say. Come back!

“You assume the worst of me. No matter what I say, you twist it into the worst possible version before I’m finished. It’s like you decide what I think, what I’m going to say, before I’ve even decided myself. And when I’m not this, this, thing that you expect me to be, you don’t like it. You don’t give me room to be anything better than the monster you’ve decided I am.”

Miles flinches back. Miguel could’ve struck him and it would’ve been less jarring. “That’s not true,” comes his reflexive response. It’s true in the sense that Miles believes it when he says it. Then the accusation sinks in, and Miles doubts. Ears ringing, he deflates, slowly, dazedly shaking his head. “I don’t–I don’t think–” He swallows dryly. Maybe it wasn’t quite true now. But had it been true once?

Miguel shrugs weakly, as if to say, ‘Don’t you, Miles?’

He looks at Miguel, really looks at him, and in the blazing afternoon sun with the sounds of the city around them, realizes that he’s just a man. A very tall, very strong, very overworked, very broken, unperfect, sad, person. He’s always just been a person.

“You scared the sh*t out of me,” Miguel says softly at Miles’ stunned silence. “There were billions of lives at stake, and you were on your way to jeopardizing them. Some of us are mature enough to place stakes like that over our own happiness. I tried to save you from having to make that choice, and I’m sorry I hurt you because of it. I lost it because—because I was terrified. That’s all I can say.”

That first day they met, Miguel had seemed so cruel. If that’s what Miguel was offering, Miles forced himself to expect it. But it never came. It was frustrating to expect cruelty only to be proven wrong. But somewhere between now and that night Miguel had tumbled out of the sky, Miles had begun to want Miguel to be that good guy Gwen had promised him all those years ago. He wanted Miguel to have always been that good guy, but he didn’t know how to reconcile that with the person Miguel had seemed when they first met. Miles felt like he was turning in circles, being yanked this way and that, trying to see what’s real. To scrub away the illusion of hurt and prejudice between them. Had Miles been the one to put it there?

Miles had tried so hard to prove himself worthwhile. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But Miguel shoved him away. Threw things at him. Screamed at him. Attacked him simply because he ran. Fine, some part of Miles had decided. I’ll give you something to hate. I’ll push you first. He’d been prodding, stabbing, being irritating on purpose not just in anger, but to incite a counterstrike. To be hit back. To flush out the threat before it snuck up on him. To prove that it was dangerous. But Miguel refused, and the blow never came.

Miguel speaks again, startling Miles out of his musings. “I’ve done things worthy of hate. I can’t claim innocence. If you’re going to hate me, do it for the right reason. Not because I did what I had to to keep the multiverse safe.”

“The…right reason?” Miles parrots, squinting with befuddlement. “What are you talking about?”

Miguel looks up at nothing in particular; he’s far away again. “Do you know how I came to own Alchemax? How I got my powers?”

Are the two related? Miles doesn’t understand the sudden turn in conversation. He just offers lamely: “Not…really?”

Jaw set, Miguel begins, “I inherited all of Alchemax’s capital because I razed it to the ground and its monster of a CEO died in the process. I didn’t know he was my father until the will was released. All his wealth, his shares, his estate, passed automatically to me. It was a disgusting amount of wealth obtained through disgusting means.” Miles has to swallow a pang of nausea. His arm twitches as if to reach out. He doesn’t let it, and it remains limp by his side. He opens his mouth to backtrack somehow, but bites his tongue when Miguel soldiers on.

“It’s a Cinderella story,” Miguel laughs so bitterly. “As long as you ignore the part where he drugged and enslaved me. Have you ever heard of Rapture, Miles?” He’s still so empty. But he’s not angry. He should be; Miles has just stomped on an old, deep wound. He’s hurt Miguel, badly. Voiceless, Miles can only shake his head. Miguel starts pacing from wall to wall. It saves Miles the burden of having to meet his eyes.

“Rapture was perfect. Sustained euphoria. Clear head. No side effects. No health risks. And certain death for anyone who tried to stop using. I was proud, for a time, of how thoroughly I’d completed my assignment. Objectively, scientifically, it was flawless work. Nothing was more effective at bringing people to heel.” Lips curl in disgust, revealing the tips of white fangs.

There’s more; Miles isn’t ready to hear the self dissection that’s coming. Finally, he’s able to get words out: “You don’t owe me–”

“I didn’t understand what I’d done until it was too late,” Miguel cuts in solemnly. Miles purses his lips at the hatred laced in the admission. Sorrow tightens his throat. Miguel presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t run. I tried to back out, but he collared me, caged me, with chains I forged myself. I handed them to him. I practically wrapped them around my own neck. A taste of my own medicine, as they say.”

Miles can’t help reaching for him, even if only to get him to stop pacing so aggressively. Miguel flinches and steps out of range.

“I was desperate. I was dead already. But Rapture is harmless to non-humans.” Miles knows this part. It’s common knowledge how Miguel’s Spider traits came to be. “I shouldn’t have survived,” is all Miguel says, following a charged silence. Finally, he looks at Miles. His red eyes are haunted and striking in their richness. Miles has always found them beautiful. “I had a better chance of surviving a bullet between the eyes than this. None of the test subjects had ever survived the process. Death or escape, I figured. Even if it didn’t work, then–” Miguel catches his own words, halting their escape. He weighs them. In the moment he chooses to let them go, the mask dissolves. “I’d be free either way. And Alchemax couldn’t wield me any longer. In that at least, I’d have won.”

The confession drops like a stone between them. Miles bites his tongue, chilled to the bone. He doesn’t know how to respond. What can he say? There’s nothing he can offer that will fix the past. Or make the wounds go away.

“At least, I thought I would be.” Miguel sighs tiredly. “All I did was make myself more valuable–I was the goddamn Philosopher’s Stone. He just put me in another cage, and I didn’t…react well. After that, well–you know what they say about cornered animals. I lit the place up. I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking–I’d hit my head at some point, and I inhaled a lot of smoke. Everything’s blurry. I’m just lucky there was no one else inside. He burned to ash, and I was dumped with the biggest pile of blood money the world had ever seen.”

The loathing in Miguel’s voice sends a bolt of pain through Miles’ heart. If he were any other one of Miles’ friends, he’d envelop him in a hug. But Miguel is…different, so he doesn’t dare. “I didn’t know,” he offers hoarsely. “About…” Miles doesn’t want to say ‘father’. “Him. What he did to you.”

“You couldn’t have–no one knows.” Miguel stops pacing, finally, and stares blankly downward in vulnerable bewilderment, as though shocked by his own openness. “I never told anyone. I’ve never spoken it out loud, until now. I couldn’t.”

“Wha–you,” Miles swallows painfully. “You didn’t confide in anyone? Why? That isn’t something you can just…” At a loss, he throws up his hands in defeat.

“I promised myself I’d never say it out loud. For my own sanity, I needed it–silent. He doesn’t deserve to be remembered. Even for his crimes.”

That’s so asinine it ticks Miles off, and he scowls: “f*ck him, he’s dead. He can’t do sh*t.” Miguel’s head snaps up in astonishment, as though he’d never considered that reality. “He’s gone. You’re not. Why’re you letting him haunt you? It’s pointless. You’re just…dragging this evil dead dude around everywhere you go, for no reason other than to punish yourself. Why’d you even keep it locked up this entire time, just to let it out now? What, I insult you a couple times and it all comes spilling out? The hell even is that?”

For some reason, Miguel finds this incredibly funny. He buries his face in his hands and laughs; it’s weary, if not a little crazed. “Spider-Man is supposed to be…whatever Spider-Man is. Something good. Not a killer, at least. First thing I did when I got my abilities was kill. I should’ve been disqualified from the start. But then everything just happened, and I was in too deep, and everyone was looking up to me and seeing this person I never was. So I couldn’t. I couldn’t let them down by telling them the truth.”

Miles flinches against a pang of hurt. “But letting me down is fine?” He rebukes. “You’re just cool with that? Wow. Okay. Way to make a guy feel valued.”

“What? No! That’s not what–what I’m trying to say is that–urgh!” Miguel rakes his hands through his hair, mussing the dark waves. “You’re so bad at listening.” He stops and takes a breath before continuing. “You already think I’m a depraved lunatic with a villain lair–”

“Spider-lair,” Miles corrects. “I called it a Spider-lair.”

“It doesn’t matter what kind of lair it is.”

“So you admit it’s a lair?”

“Forget about the lair! It doesn’t matter. It’s just a lab, anyway.” Miguel is stepping forward suddenly, and Miles is silenced by a hand over his mouth. His entire body begins to buzz at the proximity.

“Will you let me speak? For once?” Miguel asks. Wide eyed, Miles nods, and Miguel removes his hand. “It’s easier to tell you that I killed my father because you already think I’m a monster. If you prove that I’m a monster, it means that what happened five years ago was because I’m Bad, and you’re Good. If you can do that, you’ll be absolved. I told you the truth because that’s the version of me you want to see. If I tell everyone else, they’ll mourn the person they thought I was. Then I’m just killing him too, and I’m sick of washing death off my hands.” Miguel steps back. “That’s the worst skeleton in my closet. Dig all you want, twist my words all you want, but there’s nothing else. No better proof. So,” Miguel spreads his arms, as if to expose himself, to accept an attack. “Are you right?”

“I…” Miles wants to back away. His foot slides back a half step, but he doesn’t–can’t–get any farther. What good will running away do? He shakes his head, but he doesn’t know what he’s refusing. “I don’t…” He doesn’t have anything to say. He’s stripped bare, flayed to the bone. Discomfort plummets like an icy block in his stomach. He turns his doubts over to the facets he never lets himself see. What if he’d been wrong? What if his dad had died despite all his efforts, and still that intervention was enough to rip reality apart, and he lost on both counts? How close had Miles come to that devastation?

Miguel had warned him, pleaded with him. What Miles had taken for hate and anger was terror. Blind, desperate panic that had made Miguel’s claws unsheathe, made his strength go unchecked.

And all this time, Miles has been punishing him for it. Accusing, lashing out with every small chance he got. Piling the blame on Miguel as though the majority of Spider Society hadn’t also agreed, hadn’t also acted in the best interest of the multiverse for the same reasons. He didn’t even realize he was doing it. It was thoughtless and small to let his anger, his insecurity get the better of him. It spilled out so easily, desperate for release, and he’d allowed it.

He’s confused. He’s shaken. He’s ashamed. The best he can do is deflect. He shakes his head, and this time he knows what he means by it. “I can’t tell you that.” Miguel stiffens, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. He doesn’t speak, but his face betrays him, and his hands fist at his sides. There’s an answer he’s looking for too; he wants a sentencing. Miles refuses to give it. He sets his shoulders. “Who you are,” he clarifies, “isn’t up to me.” He meets Miguel’s severe eyes. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I can’t condemn you for what happened between you and your father, because I wasn’t there. And because I…like you.” Miguel’s head co*cks warily at that, catlike and predatory. “I mean,” Miles scrambles to clarify, “because you’re my friend.”

Something like pain settles over Miguel’s features. His eyes slide away, preferring to look at the cracked brickwork than at Miles. “It would be easier if you didn’t like me.”

The words are weighted with something Miles can’t place, but it makes his heart pang all the same. “What does that mean?” What does Miguel want from him?? One second he’s railing on Miles for resenting him, and the next, he’s begging him to hate him? He steps forward, and Miguel mirrors it with a step back. He reaches for Miguel’s wrist: “I don’t understand what you-“

Faster than he can register, Miguel’s hand flicks out and flexes down. Miles’ hand is jerked backward and stuck—webbed—to the wall. He gawks at the gossamer webbing securing him to the brick, then at Miguel, still poised with his arm out. He’s not wearing any web shooters. He lowers his arm slowly, looking almost as surprised as Miles feels.

Miguel pivots and darts out of the alley without another word.

…

Miguel runs the entire way back to Miles’ apartment. Now that he’s allowed his feelings to form, given shape to the thoughts, the desires, he can’t escape them. They swirl and clamour in his head, swooping and battering at each other so he can’t think about anything else. Things were so much less complicated when Miles hated him. That was familiar; that was safe. Miles accepting Miguel’s presence, liking him, was not.

He’s a superhuman, so the short run back shouldn’t wind him, but he’s choking on the balmy air all the same. The sight of the now-familiar facade of the apartment building is a welcome one, and he ducks into the air conditioned lobby with relief.

After dragging his feet up the winding flights of stairs, he tries the handle only to find that he’s locked himself out. Miles neglected to mention the front door locked automatically. Miguel doesn’t have a key; he’d assumed that by leaving it unlocked behind him he’d be able to get back in, but the universe had other plans. He rests his forehead against the door and laments his sh*tty luck. Of all the universes he could’ve fallen into, why this one? Miles should’ve kicked him out the moment he was coherent and saved them both the grief of having to be near each other. Briefly, he considers calling Jess and begging to be portaled back to 928, but she’d never relent. She was still pissed at him. It seemed like most were these days.

The thought of home leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Where would he go--what would he do? Sit alone in HQ, or at the apartment he detested? He’s barred from active duty for days yet. The thought of wallowing away back in his native dimension makes his skin crawl with cold discomfort. He’d be expected to be Spider-Man there, and right now, he feels far from it. He’d rather be in 1610 where the only person who knew him was Miles and he could comfortably be a huge mess.

Trudging back down the stairs, he settles for using the fire escape. He’d just scale the building, but it’s broad daylight and there are too many pedestrians out enjoying the sunshine. Thankfully, it leads directly up to Miles’ apartment. Less thankfully, it only connects to Miles’ bedroom window. He’d rather not go in there without Miles’ permission, but he doesn’t have much of a choice—it’s getting unbearably hot outside and he doesn’t feel like loitering about the city.

The window slides up with some cajoling, and he ducks inside. Like the last time he’d been in there, he’s overwhelmed with Miles’ scent. Trying his best not to savour the heady vanilla smell, he’s almost at the door when he sees it.

The closet to the left of the desk–still covered in an array of parts–is open. It had been shut the last time–Miles had made sure of that. It doesn’t have any clothes in it. There are neither shelves nor clothing racks to speak of; it’s home only to a small, angled drawing desk. There are several sheets of drawing paper laid on it, but it’s the one on the top that catches Miguel’s eye, because it’s him.

Miles has drawn him in profile, looking out what was presumably the living room window. He’s haloed in sunlight, which glints off the waves of his hair and highlights the angular planes of his face. It’s a lovely portrait, even though Miguel’s less-than-lovely features, like his subtly broken nose and aggressive bone structure are very accurately captured. He looks, well…pretty. Miguel is not a pretty man, so why Miles has drawn him so he couldn’t say; he’d be less surprised if Miles had drawn him with devil horns. But there was something like affection in the soft, faithful strokes of the likeness. An unwelcome, hopeful feeling claws up his throat, and he just about sprints out of the bedroom to escape it.

The proceeding series of events are exceedingly unfortunate. In his haste his strength gets the better of him; he rips the door open, runs out of the room like his pants are on fire, then slams it behind him so hard the whole building probably hears it, and the brass door handle—plate included—comes off in his hand. The mounting screws tear out and go skittering loudly across the hardwood floor.

Panic brewing, he turns and just about sh*ts himself, because Rio Morales is standing frozen in the entryway with her mouth hanging open. His first instinct, tragically, is to hide the door handle behind his back. Apparently, one poor screw had held onto the backing plate; the movement flings it out and it goes bouncing across the floor with a deafening clack-clack-clack before rolling to a stop. He simply needs to kill himself.

“Ah—hello,” he says articulately.

In person, her resemblance to her son is even more striking. She assesses him warily, but enters and closes the door gently behind her.

“Hi,” she says after a moment. “Sorry for barging in like that—Miles told me he needed the spare key for the new sub-letter? I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop it off. He said you probably wouldn’t be in.”

His heart stutters. Miles was giving him a key? He was giving Miguel a key, even after the disaster of a confrontation they’d just had. Miguel left him stuck to a wall in an alley, for chrissakes. Not even ten minutes have passed; he must’ve contacted Rio immediately to make sure Miguel could get in. “Thank you,” he responds tentatively, caught rather off guard. “I only just got back.”

She blinks big, familiar eyes at him. “How? The door was locked.”

He gestures behind him. “The fire escape,” he clears his throat, “Miles’ window was unlocked, thankfully.” He doesn’t elaborate further, at risk of sounding too guilty. Hopefully it was explanation enough for why he’d been in the bedroom. He realizes with a pang of embarrassment that he’d gestured with the hand holding the doorknob. He drops it limply to his side.

Rio tsks. “What is it with young people and their aversion to doors? At this rate one of you will fall to your death.” She says it warmly, and her eyes sparkle with kind humour.

“Yes, well, the door was locked, as you said. I try not to make a habit of it.”

She laughs, and doesn’t comment on the doorknob, to his relief. “Here.” She steps forward and holds the key out. It’s small, gold, and unassuming. Miguel accepts it gingerly, as though it were something precious.

Distracted by something above Miguel’s head, Rio’s chin tilts up and she scrutinizes the ceiling in confusion. Curious, Miguel follows her gaze.

f*cking hell.

On the ceiling are footprints; six perfect prints left by Miles-sized Jordans. They’re faint, but noticeable. Trailing from the corner of the kitchen over to the breakfast bar and just into the dining area before disappearing, they’re the unmistakable sign of footsteps.

It’s a leap to assume that Miles is Spider-Man based on the prints alone. But Miguel doesn’t know how many–if any–of Miles’ spider-related eccentricities Rio has noticed over the years.

“We uh–” He begins weakly, “there was a spider up there. It crawled away and disappeared somewhere before we could squish it.”

Any other explanation is simply too ludicrous, so she seems to let it slide.

“I…see,” she says. “Again, I’m sorry for intruding like that. It was nice to meet you…?” She holds her hand out.

“Miguel,” He supplies, returning the handshake. “It was nice to meet you too, Mrs. Morales.”

She smiles warmly at him. “Please, call me Rio.”

His stomach twists with equal parts happiness and guilt. Had the canon played out as he’d predicted, had tried to ensure, Rio’s husband would be dead now. Meeting her eyes again is too difficult; instead, he stares down at the key in his palm. The trust that it signified–the uninhibited access to Miles’ space that it permitted…he couldn’t believe it.

“Are you alright?”

He snaps his head up. “Yes–fine.”

She’s scrutinizing him again. Her eyes slide from his face down to his feet, then back up again. “Your jeans are too short.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’m aware.” It comes out terser than he’d like—most of his sentences do—and he fumbles to make sure his first impression isn’t utterly ruined. There’s no way to explain that all his clothes are in another dimension, so he offers instead: “Miles put them in the dryer.”

“Ha!” She barks merrily, eyes crinkling. “Of course he did. Hopeless, that one; he owes me two cashmere sweaters.”

Miguel lets a small smile creep onto his face. “I’ll be sure to remind him.”

Rio smiles at him again, and it makes her look even more like Miles. They have the same dimples.

“Well,” she hoists her purse on her shoulder, “I need to run back to work. It was a pleasure, Miguel.” As she turns toward the door, she pauses and gives the apartment a pensive once-over. “Dios mio, I’ve never seen it so clean in here. Miles must be trying to impress you.” She winks at him as though they’ve shared a fabulous inside joke, and Miguel’s throat tightens. She’s stepping over the threshold when she seems to remember something, and turns back to call, “Oh! Miles won’t be back for another few hours. That should be enough time to get that knob back on the door.” She wriggles a finger at the hardware in his hand. Clearly, the ability to execute a lethal mic drop was in the Morales bloodline.

Grinning widely at him, she shuts the door, leaving Miguel to his embarrassment and his doorknob.

Lamenting—for the nth time—the absurdity of the past several days, Miguel tosses the knob onto the couch and ponders what to do with the key. He’s prone to misplacing things, and he’s keen not to lose this one (if only because it doesn’t technically belong to him). With few other options, he unties the string around his neck and threads the key onto it. It slips easily down to rest against his glitch chip with a clink. Then he retries the string and tucks his pseudo-necklace under the neckline of his t-shirt, where it comes to rest over his heart.

So he won’t suffer the shame of crawling around looking for wayward screws, he pulls Lyla up on his phone–she’ll be able to scan for them and save him the effort. He’s missed her. Reminding himself for the thousandth time that she’s not real, that he shouldn’t rely on her so, that she’s not more than an approximation of a human being, he can’t help the wash of comfort that sweeps over him at the familiar sound of her voice.

She locates the screws easily and informs him that all is running smoothly at HQ. Peter’s death has been handled, and his dimension has been mourning their Spider-Man. That, and welcoming their new Spider-Woman, one May Parker. Seventeen and not even a fortnight from losing her father, already she was taking over the mantle. Parkers were selfless to the death, every last one of them. Apparently she’d portalled herself into HQ with her father’s spare gizmo and demanded to start immediately. Jess offered for that dimension’s patrol to be taken over by a rotating shift of spider-people, but May had refused and insisted it was hers to care for.

Lyla directs him to the screws, two of which are under the couch. As he crouches down to fish them out, his thoughts turn–as they always did–to the canon. A Spider down and already another was there to take his place. It was just like what happened in 1610; both dimensions had another Spider waiting in the wings the second the first was killed. And both times the canon coughed up another Spider to fill the void, it did so instantly. In Miguel’s dimension, however, it had taken nearly seventy years for another Spider to be made. That it had taken so long had made him suspect that he wasn’t a genuine Spider variant. That, and the fact that he’d never experienced a canon event (that he knew of). While the sudden bestowal of the MJ canon event had been a sorely unwelcome shock, under the layers of fear and frustration, it was validating in a dark, twisted sort of way. As though the canon had finally claimed him. At least in that regard, he wasn’t a fraud.

He couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse. Was it better to fumble in the dark, in the freedom of not knowing? Or was it better to have a set path, to be able to put one foot surely in front of the other, even if it meant you could see clearly that what lay ahead was not only difficult, but painful? Miguel had been stumbling in the shadows for a long time. It was a small comfort to know that it had all meant something, that it had led to him becoming Spider-Man, that it had happened because the canon required it. That maybe, just maybe, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Once all the screws are retrieved, he leaves Lyla on and lets her babble about mission reports and anomaly occurrences. He doesn’t really need to know, and truthfully he doesn’t pay much attention to anything other than the timbre of her voice. The woman who’d programmed her was the best friend he’d ever had, and Lyla was the best gift he’d ever been given. While she couldn’t be here, her work, her reflection, her memory, could. It’s not enough, and it never would be. But Lyla was all Miguel had for a long time, and while AI could never replace a person, at least Lyla couldn’t die. And that was enough.

One of the screws is bent, probably from being pulled so roughly from the door. No matter what he does, it refuses to screw in; it’s too mangled to fit back into place. Miguel finds a passable replacement after rummaging in the toolbox, but it’s the wrong colour. The lone silver screw stands out against the brass plate, but only if you know to look. Hopefully Miles won’t. The door won’t click shut properly either–it pops back open with every attempt to shut it fully. Whether it was always like that or it’s some fault of Miguel’s repair, he couldn’t say. Ah, well. If Miles asks about it he’ll just play dumb. Blame it on the weather, something about wood swelling in the heat. Ideally, it wouldn’t be noticed until after he was gone, and he and Miles were back to…being whatever they were.

The thought of going back to the terse professionalism of the last five years pains him. Miguel is half bewitched already, spoiled and drunk on the easy warmth of Miles’ company. It hurts already, the inevitable cold shock of not being able to see Miles every day after weeks of basking in his sunlight. The thought of some small mark of Miguel’s presence in the apartment remaining after everything goes back to normal was comforting, somehow. Even if it was just one tiny silver screw, it was evidence enough that the past several days hadn’t been some sort of strange dream.

Mind drifting back to the events of the day, he cringes at his behaviour. He’d lost the plot earlier, word-vomiting all over Miles about his past and his father in a manic, desperate manner that already has him embarrassed to face him again. Revealing the dark scores on his past had been a last-ditch effort to get Miles to pull away so Miguel wouldn’t have to. To insist that he wasn’t the man everywhere thought he was, to make Miles want to shut him out once more once he saw the depth of Miguel’s mistakes. But somewhere along the way, the relief of the confession overwhelmed him, and he got lost in the vulnerability of being seen. Of letting himself be seen. Miles hadn’t responded at all how he was supposed to; the sadness in his eyes when he’d reached for Miguel was the look reserved for small, broken things. Miguel wanted to be shoved away. But he’d wanted to be understood, and forgiven, even more. He wanted it desperately, painfully, after so long of shutting himself away in darkness. And Miles just…gave it to him.

So he ran. It’s what he did. Day after day, year after year. Run, run, run.

A long-repressed memory floats its way to the surface. His father’s voice, eerily distorted and deeper than it should’ve been, echoing through Alchemax’s deserted halls, penetrating the overwhelming smell of smoke, the taste of blood, and the crackle of electricity in the air.

“Run, rabbit! Run, run, run…”

…

Miles is in the mood for a brawl.

After unsticking himself from the alley wall—Miguel had organic webs, who knew—he makes it to the lecture with seconds to spare. The two hour class passes in a blur. He takes cursory notes, only enough to ensure he can teach his tutorial sections, and hands the midterms back as the students file out the door. Most are freshmen who failed the course in their first year. The rest are baby-faced high school graduates looking to get a jump on their college career by taking summer courses. Miles is still an undergrad himself, but they all seem so childlike to him; unburdened and bright-eyed, with both feet solidly on a path toward a life that made sense. A life that could be planned for.

Miles is not a macabre person. He liked to think of himself as hopeful, if positivity wasn’t always feasible. Nevertheless, being Spider-Man, his safety and the safety of the people he cared for was never guaranteed. He’s accepted that his own wellbeing never comes first. He’s accepted that he could die tomorrow; his dimension’s Peter Parker only made it to twenty-six. Peter had seemed so adult, so capable to Miles’ fourteen-year-old self. But the closer Miles creeps to that age himself, he wonders how much of the confidence and bravado was an act. Had Peter really had things so in hand? Or was he struggling the same as the rest of them? Miles has been Spider-Man for six years now. He’s six more away from the age Peter was when he died. If he crossed that line, would he be able to look at himself—if not chronologically, then in longevity— as the principal Spider-Man of his dimension? Or, would he die young too?

Maybe it’s these uncharacteristically grim ruminations that have him buzzing with the need to hit something. Maybe it’s a simple craving for patrol, to swing freely—Miguel’s arrival had thrown him off his schedule. Or maybe it’s Miguel’s presence in general. He considers the therapeutic benefits of greeting Miguel’s handsome face with a solid right hook, but the image doesn’t incite positive feelings in the slightest. It actually makes him feel worse.

Thinking of Miguel only makes his thoughts buzz around with increasing fervour. Miguel was…all over the place today. One moment he’s crying, the next bemoaning Miles’ (admittedly) unfair treatment of him, only to flip around and insist on his being terrible. Miles has no idea what Miguel wants. It would seem that the man himself had little clue either.

Miles finds an alley to ditch his bag, changes into his suit, and launches himself into the skies. He patrols with silent military efficiency, too lost in his thoughts to quip or joke as he often does. His skin crawls with an unshakeable sense of confusion and unbalance, worsened by the sticky humidity of the day. He stops a handful of petty criminals and looks the other way when he comes across a young mother shoplifting baby formula. His strange mood lingers, and he prays for an excuse to hit something.

His wish is granted.

There’s a moral code that Miles follows. Attack to subdue, not to injure. Keep the spider-strength under control. Protect without bias. Use any alternative but killing, and so on and so forth. The core tenets of Spider-Man; he kept people safe. He didn’t deal out punishment. He was neither judge, jury, nor executioner. He didn’t have the right to cause pain, or to make the choice to take someone’s life. By and large, these were values he believed in. But in some distinct cases, they were utter horsesh*t.

The scene he stumbles upon is one of them. He’s paused on a rooftop in a semi-sketchy area of Harlem, which was becoming more gentrified by the day. Low voices reach his ears, and the direction of the conversation sets him on edge. He follows the sound across a few rooftops, listening as he closes in.

“C’mon, baby,” a male voice croons. “You know we’re good for the money. A little extra…service is all we’re asking for. How much you want? Five-hundred? A grand?” Miles’ mouth twists. Entitled prick thinks Daddy’s money can get him anything he wants.

A feminine voice responds warily: “You can’t buy me. I’m not a prostitute.”

Trust Fund opens his smarmy mouth again. “You take your clothes off for money–what difference does it make, going a little farther? Don’t be a tease.”

Miles finally pinpoints the location of the voices, and prowls to the edge of the roof. The alley he peers down into is unassuming enough, cluttered with stray bins and taken up largely by staff parking spots for the businesses that back onto it. The emergency exit for one of them is open, leaking thumping bass into the muggy night air.

Two men have a scantily-dressed woman backed onto the wall beside the door.

The man he’s dubbed Trust Fund–boy, really, he can’t be older than Miles–leans in closer, bracing a hand on the wall by her head. “You’re a stripper. Everyone knows what kind of girl you are.” The woman sneers in disgust, but discomfort is visible in every muscle.

“We dance, that’s it. Anything more is against the law, and this isn’t that kind of club. You want to pay someone for sex, go find a professional.”

“How much do you want?”

“No.” Her tone is cold and hard, but she swallows and shifts her feet. Her hands are shaking. The other man, the one who hasn’t yet spoken, slowly shuts the door, silencing the music. The staccato thump-thump-thump of the woman’s nervous heartbeat thunders in Miles’ ears.

“Your pretty face makes you a lot of money, doesn’t it?” The second man has a slight British accent–the Tory boarding school kind. “It’d be harder to bring home that cash if that pretty face was covered in bruises. You don’t want that, do you?”

Turning invisible, Miles descends the wall.

Trust Fund reaches up and twirls a lock of her hair around his finger. “Don’t be so uptight. We’ll make it good for you.” He smirks then, displaying a row of too-white teeth. “You have to admit, we’re hardly ugly.”

“Stop it.”

“Two grand,” Trust Fund offers. He traces the back of a finger down her neck.

Miles has seen enough. Their chance to back off came and went. He drops the rest of the way to the pavement, releasing his invisibility as he does so, and lands silently behind Trust Fund, who doesn’t notice a thing. Tory’s eyes widen, and he stiffens. Miles taps Trust Fund lightly on the shoulder, and he jerks around with a start. “Who the f*ck–” Miles doesn’t let him finish his sentence, delivering a right hook that sends Trust Fund sprawling and clutching his jaw with a bleating groan.

“She said no.”

Trust Fund spits bloody saliva onto the concrete. “Spider-Man?!”

“The one and only.”

Tory turns to book it out of the alleyway, but Miles trips him before he can make it two steps. The woman takes the opportunity to dart back inside.

“Look, man,” Trust Fund says as he scrambles clumsily to his feet, “we were just joking. No harm done.”

“I disagree.” Miles gives him a nasty kick to the solar plexus, sending him flying once more. He makes a raking gasping noise when he lands, thoroughly winded. Miles hears the door open, then shut once more. Tory has retreated into the relative safety of the club, wisely calculating that Spider-Man won’t beat up two would-be rapists with onlookers around.

Miles stalks over, making sure to step on Trust Fund’s fingers when he circles around him. The man tries to yelp, but hasn’t quite gotten his breath back, so it comes out as a breathy whimper. Miles puts his hands on his hips and peers down at him. “That all you got? You were talking a big talk a couple minutes ago.” He kicks Trust Fund in the gut, just to be petty.

The prone man gasps and holds his hands out. “Uggh—stop!

Miles does pause, but only to say, “How much?”

“Wha?”

Miles kicks him again, a little harder this time. “How much are you gonna pay me?” Another kick. “That’s how your type works, right? Buy your way through the world?” Trust Fund fumbles with his wallet, unearthing a wad of cash and shoving it at Miles, who slaps it to the ground in a flutter of bills. “Jesus, I don’t actually want your money.” Instead, he snatches the wallet and rifles through it until he finds the man’s driver’s license. He slides it out, along with a Columbia student ID. Bingo. Miles retrieves his phone from the invisible pocket at his lower back and takes a picture of them.

From the ground, Trust Fund groans, “Wha’re you doing?”

“Just taking your info so I can report you. Say goodbye to your future.”

Trust fund goes white. “You don’t have enough to go to the cops. Those reports never go anywhere.”

“True. Good thing I’m not going to the cops.” He flicks the wallet back at Trust Fund so it bounces off his forehead. “You meet tons of people as Spider-Man, y’know? Columbia’s Dean is a lovely lady–she has a sick corner office, waves at me when I swing by. She was really thankful when I pulled her out of that car wreck a couple months ago. I wonder what she’d think about this, Mr. Campbell.”

Trust Fund’s response is drowned out by the door slamming open. It’s Tory, followed by a whole posse of Wall Street Idiots. One throws a terrible punch that Miles dodges easily. He leaps out of range and considers his options. Leaving is the most obvious one. He has what he needs, and has every intention of bringing it to the Dean, who is really a nice lady. There’s no fight here. Miles could swing away before any of these morons could blink.

But he wants to get his hands dirty. If they’re rushing to defend Trust Fund, they’re all the same sort. Miles is itching to let his frustration out–he wants to make them howl. To do that, he needs to get in close, to let them think they have a chance. And to do that, he needs to take a few hits. So he flips nimbly into the center of the group and starts swinging.

Including Trust Fund and Tory, there’s eight of them. No biggie; he can fight off a barrage of shoddy punches from Hamptons boys in his sleep. One guy’s wearing a Columbia University hoodie, for chrissakes.

Miles turns it into a game: how many petty strikes can he get in while remaining mostly untouched himself? The answer is a lot–a few civilians are no match for Spider-Man, and it’s a fabulously fun game for a couple solid minutes. He takes a couple decent hits, to really sell it.

All this taken into consideration, the knife is a surprise.

His spider-sense was still acting strange, you see. The low-level hum of uncertainty was still there, prickling at the base of his skull. It was throwing him off, and what he wrote off as a weak, underhand blow to the side was actually a well-aimed stab. He’d been smothering his senses all day, and the warning flares too late. The blade is driven to the hilt in his side in one clean movement. The assailant–Columbia Hoodie, who would’ve thought–pauses, visibly shocked his attack actually worked.

The searing pain takes Miles’ breath away. In the split-second pause he takes as his senses white out in agony, a hefty punch connects with the side of his face, snapping his head to the side.

Things are less fun after that. He switches to webbing, immobilizing rather than hitting, and the number of assailants quickly dwindles. But he’s utterly thrown off, and he takes a few solid hits in the process. Miles sends the second-to-last assailant to the ground with a flashy kick that knocks him out cold. The movement costs him, jostling the knife in his side so painfully that he gags on bile and staggers on his feet as black spots bloom across his vision. It’s just Tory left now, and he takes the opening. He rushes Miles, bending low and driving his shoulder into his stomach with so much force that it lifts Miles, who’s rather light, completely off his feet. This movement hits the knife directly, driving it in further, and he screams as his back collides with the ground. Tory sits on his hips and cracks one good punch across Miles’ face before there’s an aluminum baseball bat coming down over the back of his head with an echoing clang.

“Get off of him!” It’s the same woman from before, back to take her revenge. Tory does get off, but she doesn’t stop hitting. The echoing clang-clang-clang of the aluminum bat hitting Tory across the back is rather funny, but Miles is in too much pain to really appreciate it. One last hit to the head has Tory dropping to the ground, dazed.

Breathing hard and wobbling in her towering pleasers, she turns to Miles, “Are you okay?”

He really isn’t. “Yeah,” he squeaks out. “Fine. Thanks for that.” He eases himself to his feet, blinking away more black spots. “I gotta go. Call the cops to come pick up,” he gestures vaguely at the scattered men around them, “this.”

“Wait!” She drops the bat and steps toward him, “You have a f*cking knife in your–”

Miles swings away before she can finish.

The journey home is torturous. He nearly blacks out three times, and has to stop each time and catch his breath for several minutes. Getting to his feet after each pause is harder than the last, and he’s trembling with exhaustion and blood loss by the time his building comes into view. It’s past midnight now: hopefully Miguel will be asleep.

Wriggling through the living room window headfirst, he flips over and thuds to the floor awkwardly. After tugging his mask off, he gives himself thirty seconds to catch his breath, basking in the relief of being home. Compared to the hell that was swinging with a knife in his gut, lying on the floor was utter bliss. One mississippi, two mississippi… Though he’s surely bleeding all over the hardwood, he can’t find it in himself to care. Thank god for dark floorboards. Seven mississippi, eight mississippi… He’s really taking cherry stained wood to the next level, hah. Eleven mississippi, twelve–

“Late night?”

If Miles wasn’t so exhausted (and stabbed) he’d have jumped a foot in the air. Still, a bolt of alarm sparks in his gut; he hadn’t noticed Miguel sitting on the couch. All the lights are off, but he’s come to learn that Miguel doesn’t much need them. The moon is out in full, and is luminous enough to shine through the windows enough for Miles to see alright. “Yeah,” he sighs. It turns into a wince when the heavy exhale pulls around the knife in his abdomen. He squints over at Miguel, who’s scowling, as per usual. “Do you always have to lurk like that?”

The comment goes ignored. “There’s a knife in your side.”

“I noticed.” The wound starts to itch madly; a telltale sign that his body’s wanting to get the injury closed. If he doesn’t pull it out now, he’s just prolonging the pain for no reason. It’ll heal fast enough.

“Let me remove that–we need to pack around the wound first, otherwise–” With gritted teeth, Miles reaches up, fists the handle in a firm grasp, and pulls the knife out in a quick, clean movement. He only grunts a little, and stars bloom across his vision. “...or you could just do that,” Miguel finishes flatly. “Care to share why there’s a knife in your gut?”

Miles breathes deeply against a swell of pain and nausea. “What, this?” he breathes. From his spot on the floor, he waves the bloody blade around weakly. “Thought it was cool. Wanted to take it home with me.” At Miguel’s bland, irritated stare, he tacks on: “Oh, and I also got stabbed with it.” It is, in truth, a nice knife; its solid weight and fine detailing spoke of quality. Damascus steel with an abalone handle, the folding pocket knife must have been pricey. Colombia had probably plucked it from a display stand in his dad’s study.

“First aid kit?” Miguel’s tone is clipped and low.

“Kitchen. Top shelf.”

Miguel leaves to retrieve it without a word. The harsh set of his face when he returns suggests that he’s less than pleased. “Roll the suit down so I can disinfect it.” Miles stares at him, and Miguel’s scowl deepens. “Now, Miles,” he barks. “Do you want to get an infection? Your healing factor will trap the bacteria inside at this rate.”

Miles holds his hands up to profess his innocence. “Hey, I’m the one who got stabbed. What’re you gettin’ pissy with me for?”

“It was reckless. Pointless.” Miguel rips open the gauze much too roughly. “Sloppy. You’re too good for damage like this–you can outmanoeuver hundreds of Spider-People but you can’t dodge one civilian with a knife? Don’t give me that sh*t.”

Miles scoffs darkly, averting his eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

Irritation flashes across Miguel’s features, and his mouth twists sharply. But he doesn’t deny it–he’s self aware enough for that, at least. Pot, meet kettle.

Miles reaches to undo his suit, but pauses, hesitant to undress in front of Miguel. Truthfully, there wasn’t anything to see, but shyness bubbles up nonetheless. As a child he’d been terrified he’d take after his mother’s curviness. Alas, fate smiled on him and he inherited the Davis physique; long, lean, and angular. His frame would’ve been sharp and wiry even without the help of testosterone–but with the combined might of hormones and a radioactive spider bite, he’d never developed any breast tissue. A small miracle, because his healing factor probably made top surgery an impossibility–he’d likely just grow them back within the week. The horror.

Still, he hesitates; he just wasn’t the type to rip his shirt off all willy-nilly. If anything, Miles always kept a shirt on because he couldn’t explain why he was, as acquaintances called it, ‘stealth shredded,’ when he was known to have never played any sports or gone to the gym a day in his life.

He shoves his shyness down. There’s nothing to be afraid of, because Miguel has no reason to give a flying sh*t what Miles looks like.

Teeth gritted against the pain, he reaches awkwardly behind himself to tug the suit zipper down. He snakes one arm out, then the other, and shimmies the fabric down his torso. He has to wriggle a bit to get it down far enough–the knife wound is just above his hip bone, and the suit gets bunched under his lower back when he tries to tug it all the way down. His spider sense gives an oddly sluggish, molten tingle. He looks up to find Miguel’s eyes tracing slowly down his torso. He averts them when he sees Miles looking. The tingle goes away immediately.

Eyes still averted, Miguel pours disinfectant over the gauze pad, then settles down on his knees. For a man of his size, it’s a very graceful movement. “This’ll probably hurt.”

“Just do it.”

Miguel gives a terse nod and complies, pressing the soaked cotton over the wound. It stings like a bitch, and Miles hisses involuntarily, face scrunching up. “Motherf*cker!” Hands flying to grip around Miguel’s wrist like a vice, every muscle goes rigid, and his back arches off the floor slightly. With eyes squeezed shut against the pain, his head tilts back of its own accord, exposing the taut line of his neck. His spider sense gives that sluggish tingle again, alerting him of Miguel’s attention. He doesn’t know why–Miguel’s been looking at him the entire time. There’s no reason for it to go off at that moment.

The bones in Miguel’s wrist creak and shift under Miles’ grasp–the pain is making his strength slip out of his control. His eyes fly open in alarm and he releases him as though burned. “Sorry! Sorry—didn’t mean—you okay?”

Jaw clenched, Miguel clears his throat. His eyes are focused pointedly downward as he cleans the worst of the blood from Miles’ side. “I’m fine.” A look down at his wrist confirms it looks normal aside from quickly fading white marks left in the shape of Miles' fingers. But Miguel’s voice has a breathy wobbliness to it that suggests discomfort. Miles feels bad.

Miguel clears his throat. “Go shower, get all this blood off, then come back so I can bandage you properly.”

“In a bit–hn–” he tries to bite off his groan as another sharp wave of pain hits him, making him inhale sharply.

“No. Now.”

“Ugh,” Miles squeezes his eyes shut and thunks the back of his head lightly against the floor. He’ll need to use his core muscles to get upright, and he can’t do that without pulling at the wound, which is only just starting to knit itself together. The thought of moving again makes his stomach twist with nausea. “It hurts too much to stand. Gimme thirty minutes and I’ll be healed enough to get up. This isn’t my first rodeo, so let me just,” he inhales slowly and shuts his eyes with a tiny, exhausted shake of his head. “Let me do my thing.”

Warm hands slide under his knees and upper back, and his eyes snap open. “What’re you–” He’s lifted in a bridal carry before he can protest. It’s so gentle, and blissfully painless. Miguel carries him like he weighs nothing, which he probably doesn’t, not with Miguel’s enhanced strength. Miles could carry Miguel like he weighs nothing, so he doesn’t know why the act makes his tummy erupt in butterflies–he’s the only person in the world that shouldn't be impressed by it.

Miguel bumps Miles bedroom door, then his bathroom door, open with his shoulder, turning sideways to fit through with Miles in his arms. He sets him down gently in the shower.

“My hero,” Miles coos so Miguel doesn’t see him go all starry-eyed.

“f*ck you,” comes the expected response.

“Noble saviour, how can I repay–” Miguel turns the shower on, and the ice-cold water hits Miles directly in the face. He sputters and squawks, then paws blindly at the dial to turn it to a warmer setting. Blinking water out of his eyes, he shouts at Miguel’s retreating back, “I should’ve left you for dead, asshole!”

Miguel gives him a wry smile and shuts the door behind him.

After kicking his suit off into a sopping pile, Miles sets the shower as hot as he can manage and basks in its warmth. He keeps his head angled away from the spray–his hair was still clean and there was no need to wet it. With the knife out, the pain begins to fade. Miles scrubs himself gingerly, and the water runs bright red. Eventually it fades to pink, then clear. The wound is still bleeding sluggishly, but nowhere near as heavily as before. He turns the shower off and steps out, grabbing his towel from its hook and wrapping it tightly around his waist. Then he wads up a ball of toilet paper and holds it to his side so he doesn’t get blood everywhere.

He opens the door and peeks his head out, “Miguel? Can you bring the first aid kit here?” The sound of footsteps indicate he was heard, and he swings the door open in invitation. He regards himself in the reflection, wincing at what he sees. His torso is mottled with a litany of bruises dark enough to show up on his skin. His face is worse, with a split lip and cut eyebrow. His left temple is one giant bruise. Spider-Man beat up by a couple of college kids. How embarrassing.

Miguel appears in the doorway. Holding a hand out, Miles expects to be handed the first aid kit, so is stumped when Miguel doesn’t relinquish it and instead enters the bathroom fully. He sets it down on the counter and rifles through it.

Miles blinks at him. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the suture kit. Sit up on the counter, will you?”

He opens and closes his mouth stupidly. “I can do it myself.”

“Not recommended,” Miguel states, patting the counter. “Up here, Miles.”

“But I don’t–hey!” Miguel grabs him by the waist, wary of the wound, lifts him, and sets him on the counter like Miles is an actual child. Miguel’s hands are so big, they span the majority of his waist. When he lets go, goosebumps prickle in their wake.

“Wha–you-what,” Miles stammers, face hot. “I could get up there myself!”

“You weren’t fast enough. I would like to go to bed eventually, y’know.”

Scowling as viciously as he’s able (to hide the butterflies from the contact) Miles looks up at the ceiling with a scowl and a huff. “You’re so obnoxious.”

“And you’re a terrible patient.” Miguel peels Miles’ toilet paper bandage away to assess the wound. “Hm. Looks okay. You have a good healing factor.”

Miles just scrunches his nose. He doesn’t reply, focusing instead on arranging his towel so he doesn’t flash Miguel by accident. Not that it matters at this point. There are a few empty testosterone bottles on the counter–Miles was terrible at throwing them away–and Miguel definitely noticed them. He’d had to shove them aside to set the first aid kit down. Miles saw him see them, but Miguel hadn’t reacted. Miles feels uncomfortably exposed, state of undress aside, but there’s nothing to be done now, and he’s too exhausted to bother worrying.

“You got lucky,” Miguel says, breaking the silence. “The knife didn’t hit anything important.” He jerks his chin in the general direction of Miles’ battered, injured person. He turns the tap on and washes his hands. “You let mishaps like this happen often?”

“That’s a dumb question. You know what this job is like.”

“That’s not what I asked.” After rinsing and drying his hands, Miguel begins preparing the needle and thread with practiced efficiency.

Miles rolls his eyes. “No, I don’t let myself get stabbed on the reg. That seems like your gig.” At Miguel’s dour look, he adds, “Hey, you’re the one who showed up f*ckin—” he gestures vaguely “—filet mignon-ed, then walked it off like it was no big deal. That was batsh*t, dude.”

“Filet mignon isn’t a verb. Also, I don’t think it means what you think it means—”

Miles cuts him off, “Yeah, whatever, Lord of the Pedants. You know what I meant.”

The crooked little grin on Miguel’s face proves that he did know exactly what Miles meant. Then it disappears, and Miguel’s frown returns. “What does Ganke think, seeing you come back all beaten up like this?” He draws in closer, needle in hand. “I’m starting now.”

Grinding his teeth, Miles nods and looks away. The prick of the needle is uncomfortable, but bearable. Miguel’s nearness is distraction enough. He swallows against a dry throat. “What Ganke doesn’t know can’t hurt him. I just patch myself up when I need to. Which is not,” he rushes to elaborate at Miguel’s pissed glare, “not often, ‘Kay? f*cking, chill man. Look,” he gestures to himself, “I’m fine. No permanent damage or anything—ow!” He yelps when Miguel begins another stitch.

“Stay still.”

“I am!” Any further protest is halted by a large hand on his waist, making him freeze. Miguel is so close he can feel his exhales on his skin. Miles turns his eyes back to the ceiling. “What does it matter if Ganke knows?”

“It matters that you’re taking injuries like this without telling anyone. Often, if the state of your supplies is to be believed. You’re not getting them looked after at HQ either; you’ve never visited the med-bay any of the times you’ve been there.” Miguel gestures to the first aid kit. “Everything in there is half empty. That thing has seen a lot of use.”

“Aw, are you concerned about me?” Miles elects not to comment on Miguel’s apparent monitoring of his 928 visits. Had he really been paying such close attention?

“Yes.”

Miles' jaw clacks shut, closing his eyes against the prick of another stitch. “Ganke deserves a normal life. I can’t burden him with this. It’s…a lot, and not worth the worry it’d cause. It wouldn’t be fair, ‘cause he never signed up for this stuff. I heal quickly, so there’s no harm in taking some damage every now and then. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“I dunno what you’re getting at—”

“You don’t go out. You don’t spend time with your peers. You don’t do stupid college things—fun things. When you’re not patrolling or at one of your fifteen side jobs, you’re here. And I know it’s not ‘cause you like hanging out with me.”

“You calling me a loser?”

“Miles.” Miguel pins him with a stern look.

He scoffs in exasperation, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Something about Miguel’s presence turns him into a giant brat, and if he rolls his eyes one too many times he’s sure to do some permanent damage, but so many of Miguel’s sentences can only be appropriately responded to with such an expression. “Why don’t you?” He says instead.

Miguel glances up at him. “Why don’t I what?”

“Do fun things. You do nothing but work. Someone had to die to get you to take a break, and taking it easy for once is making you have a mental breakdown. You’re worse than I am.”

“It’s different.”

“It’s the exact same.” Miles looks down at his hands, exhales. “What would we talk about? Me and my ‘peers’ as you say,” he asks softly, accentuating the word with air quotes. “Their lives couldn’t be farther removed from mine. We live in different worlds. I can’t get through more than three sentences with a classmate without running out of things to say. They’re nice, and I like them. But…nothing about them fits.”

“You’ve been talking to me all day,” Miguel points out.

“You’re different.” Miguel looks up at him. There’s an unknowable, searching look in his red eyes. Miles looks away, face hot once more. “You know, you and the other Spiders. You guys get it. It makes up so much of our lives, of who we are, to not be able to talk about it is, I guess,” he picks at his fingernails, “to never be able to have anyone know you.” He looks at Miguel once more, but he’s focused entirely on finishing Miles’ last stitch. Miguel ties it off and sets about dressing the wound, so Miles continues after taking a deep breath. His pain is fading quickly now, and he lets himself relax and slouches back against the cold mirror. “Before Gwen came to see me, and before—well, you, I was set on figuring it out. Interdimensional travel, I mean. So I could see them again.”

Miguel pauses. “…Sorry to ruin your dream?”

Miles laughs, then hisses when his stitches pull. “Nah, it’s fine. I just wanted to find them again. You saved me a lot of work, really.”

“I’m sure you’d have figured it out,” Miguel offers. “In another universe, where I didn’t come along and ruin it.”

Miles’ tummy warms at the praise, and he can’t fight the pleased grin that curves his lips. “Damn straight I would’ve.”

Miguel finishes bandaging and steps away. “Get dressed, then come sit.” He jerks his head in the direction of the living room. “I need to show you something.”

Miles returns to the living room to find Miguel sitting on the couch once more. Leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees, he ponders the glasses set on the table before him. Miles sits gingerly next to him, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands. Losing a lot of blood makes one a bit chilly, it turns out. “You found them? Which dimension were they floating around in?” Miguel’s brows only furrow further.

“These are mine. I’ve had them for over ten years.” Miles picks them up and examines them, intrigued.

“Damn. They do look similar.”

“They’re the same glasses. Lyla analyzed them.”

Miles’ breath catches. He glances up, “…What?”

Miguel sighs and musses his hair again. “Just watch.” He sets his phone face-up on the coffee table. “I began looking into multiverse theory a long time ago, while I was at Alchemax. On my own time, of course; they wouldn’t sponsor any official research on it since I was approaching it from a rather…unorthodox direction. This log,” he taps the phone, “is the first time we successfully connected to another dimension. Tape 279 please, Lyla.” Light spills out of the phone’s camera, projecting a life-size three-dimensional image of a cluttered lab across the living room. There’s a very familiar sigh, then Miguel walks into frame. Miles’ breath catches again. He…so different. Miguel’s just as tall, and his shoulders are still broad. But the bulk isn’t there; he’s lean and long in a still-athletic but very normal way. His hair’s slightly shorter, in charming disarray presumably from running his hands through it, as Miles knows he’s wont to do. A pair of unassuming black-rimmed glasses sits on his aristocratic nose. And his eyes are brown.

Enraptured, Miles leans in, propping his forearms on his thighs, wound forgotten. Comparing the Miguel in the log to the one beside him has his chest welling with a profound sadness. It’s not that Miguel looks bad now—he’s probably the hottest guy alive—but the one in the projection has a spark, a liveliness, an unburdened vibrancy that present Miguel lacks. It was taken from him. The years separating the two Miguels were painful ones, undoubtedly. Taking in the severity of his face, the heaviness of his air, the haunted, faraway look his eyes sometimes had, Miles can only wonder, first: What happened to you? And second: How much of this pain was caused by me, of the circ*mstances of my existence in relation to yours? Overtaken suddenly by frustration, he wishes that the universe hadn’t put them so viscerally at odds with each other. Miles feels in his soul that he and Miguel would’ve taken to each other had the powers that be not ruined their chances; they simply…fit, didn’t they? He feels almost cheated. A thought flickers in the depths of his mind. He doesn’t let himself verbalize it, not even mentally, but it sounds something like: He was supposed to be one of my people. One of my friends. One of…mine.

Of course, he doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he asks, “How old are you here?”

Miguel’s face tightens in discomfort. “That’s—hardly relevant.” Miles pins him with a look. Miguel scowls, but admits: “Twenty.”

Twenty…the same age as Miles. The youth is still visible in the angular lines of his shoulders and the fuller slant of his cheeks. He looks so light. He looks cute as hell.

“Alright,” younger Miguel says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Beginning test run two-seventy…whatever the f*ck.”

“Two-seventy-nine,” comes a familiar voice from out of frame.

“Yeah, that. Thanks Lyla. Here we go. Just let me know before the building loses power this time, will you?”

“‘Kay!” Comes her chipper response.

Younger Miguel takes a steadying breath, then hits a button on a small control panel by his hip. Before him is a machine that looks vaguely like a miniature crossover between Alchemax’s Collider (if it were turned sideways, hamburger style) and the go-home-machine, sans the spider robot. After a moment, it whirs to life and begins to rotate. As it gets up to speed, beams of white light begin to form, stitching together a shape that looks vaguely like a true Metatron’s cube. Miles supposes that it’s the basis for the gizmo portals, flattened and condensed into a human-sized door rather than a roiling, tumultuous three-dimensional shape like the one before them. The lights begin to flicker, and the room glitches subtly. Younger Miguel doesn’t notice, too focused on the measly portal forming before him. Examining it warily, and he visibly braces himself. The portal, still beaming white, brightens to the point of unbearability, but younger Miguel doesn’t look away. He leans closer, eyes alight with anticipation. The overhead lights flicker once more, and the glitching intensifies. Miguel’s brown eyes grow alarmed, and he glances to the side with concern, as though the machine had never produced that effect before.

“Lyla?”

“Holding strong—numbers look good.” Miles tilts his head. He can’t put his finger on it, but Lyla sounds different somehow.

“Are you sure?” For whatever reason, Lyla doesn’t respond. It’s no matter, because younger Miguel doesn’t notice. As though in a trance, he steps closer to the machine, and in a very reckless, un-Miguel-like move, reaches a finger toward the writhing shapes of light. He breathes in amazement, “It’s never done this before.”

Still off-screen—Miles wonders why her avatar is so far away—Lyla says with alarm, “Miguel, what in the hell are you—”

Miguel’s finger breaches the edge of the shape, and the room explodes into myriad colours. Younger Miguel flinches back, squinting at the sudden shifting light. Then his jaw drops, and he stares at the technicolor fractals in astonishment. Miles wagers the 278 previous attempts hadn’t yielded that effect.

Then: “Is it working? Did it connect?” Lyla doesn’t respond, but younger Miguel tilts his head with a frown, as though listening to something far off. Then the glitching worsens, the machine whirs harder, and the pair of glasses—the glasses—materialize in the centre of the shape, hovering for a second before clattering to the platform. The machine powers down, and the silence is deafening. Breathing hard, younger Miguel stares in astonishment at the gold frames.

Then he lets out an ecstatic whoop, which is a sound Miles wouldn’t have thought Miguel capable of making. Still aghast with amazement, he laughs when he’s tackled in the side by a tiny, slight woman. With the biggest grin Miles has ever seen on him, he picks her up and spins her around. She laughs—it’s more of a cackle, really—and it’s a bright, infectious sound.

Miguel pauses the log there. Miles can’t take his eyes off his ecstatic grin, all teeth and crinkled eyes, and the figure of the woman clutched to his chest. He can’t see her face—it’s tucked into Miguel’s neck—but she’s got short, dark hair tied into a tiny, spiky ponytail. There are stripes of blue in it.

“Who’s that?”

Miguel’s eyes don’t leave the projection. “A…friend. Another Alchemax scientist.” The word ‘friend’ has a strange undertone to it. Miles senses there’s something more to it, but doesn’t press.

A weighted silence falls.

“It was you.” Miguel nods gravely, equally struck by the revelation. Miles sets the glasses down, overcome with a strange feeling. The portal had been so precise, it had plucked the frames right out of his hands. “I heard you,” he says softly. “When you—“ he gestures to the paused clip “—asked if it was working. I heard you.”

“I heard you,” Miguel parrots. “On the other side, I heard—you said my name. The camera didn’t pick it up. All this time, I thought I imagined it. I’d forgotten it even happened.”

For the briefest moment, both aged twenty, Miles and Miguel had stood on either side of an open door, just out of reach. How odd to think that as Miguel was reaching out for something he wasn’t even sure existed, at the moment that tether connected, the person on the other side was already thinking of him. He’d reached into his own future.

“Why 1610?” Miles presses after a moment. “Why this dimension, this year? Would it have connected at that spot even if we weren’t there?”

Miguel drops his head into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets with a small shake of his head. “I couldn’t say. My tech was too rudimentary to pinpoint a desired dimension, let alone a location within that dimension. We were reaching blindly.”

“But you have to have some ideas—“

“I really don’t, Miles,” he bites out, but there’s no real anger in it. He just sounds tired. “It’s in the past now, so it’s best to just…leave it there.” With that, he stands wordlessly and retreats to his room. Miles can tell that Miguel needs time to think, so he leaves him to it, and lets his own thoughts run amok.

He considers the glasses once more. Now that he looks, he can see the signs of wear; the discolouration and scratches on the metal of the rims and arms that hadn’t been present the last time they were in his hands. Signs of use, of love. For whatever reason, he puts them on, and sees with Miguel’s pre-spider vision. Sweeping his gaze over his blurry apartment, he takes it in with a new perspective. Miguel’s prescription was middling. Miles files the absolutely useless yet oddly interesting information away and removes the glasses, folding them and placing them reverently on the coffee table. Just this morning, these exact frames had been thirteen years younger. And now here they were, back from the…future? The past? Miles didn’t know, it was all so confusing.

What he did know, however, was that the first dimension Miguel had ever reached was 1610. And that he’d carried a piece of Miles’ dimension around with him for years, presumably in hopes that he’d reach it (and others) again. His first piece of success.

And Miles truly didn’t know what to make of that. It didn’t mean anything, not really. It was an accident that the portal connected to 1610, an accident that it appeared exactly where Miles and Miguel were standing. It was an accident that Miguel fell into 1610 the week before. So too was it an accident that 1610’s Alchemax collider tore a hole in the multiverse, just as it was an accident that Miguel managed his first multiverse jump at that very same time, and had the technology to combat the anomalies just as the need arose. None of it meant anything.

But that was a lot of accidents.