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Miguel knows something is wrong with Miles Morales the moment he wakes up. 

Later, he knows, he will try and understand why—he will pour over the footage with Lyla, analyze each moment, search for patterns and interactions and elements—and see why he was on edge, even if he has no danger sense to put him on it. But that is for later. 

For now, he simply knows that something is wrong.

They"re in the medical bay of the Spider HQ, crisp white sheets and tiles, pearlescent walls humming away with excess energy and the stink of cleaning solution. He doesn"t particularly enjoy being here, with how the medical personnel needs blinding lights and harsh scents which tend to play like hell with his enhanced senses, but it"s late, this has been a mission gone wrong, and he was the one to assign it, so he"s holding himself accountable. 

Miles had been sent off to stop another collider in some distant universe they"ve barely made contact with, and then promptly missed his call-back date; so Miguel, languishing in the scant few minutes of non-mission time he has, went in to find him. 

And by find him, he means fishing him out of the alter-dimensional space between worlds where the collider"s explosion had sent him after shattering his watch. 

Miles had been passed out for the trip back, the medical check-up, the panicked visits from his friends; the doctors have been examining him and they"re pretty sure they know what happened, but they want confirmation from the source, which means that they need a report, which means that Miguel is stuck sitting in this horrible blank-white room until the kid wakes up. 

His favourite. 

He shouldn"t even be here. This is where Gwen or Pavitr or Hobie should be—they"re friends with Miles, are close with him, and can be the comforting presence when he wakes up. Miguel shouldn"t be here. 

But he is here, and he can"t well go to sleep at noon, and Lyla is busy doing everything that keeps the HQ running, and Jess is on maternity leave, and Ben is unreliable for reports on the best of days, and Miguel really just wants to get this done. So.

He"s halfway through Web Weaver"s report, scrolling past searing insults to a villain that was already defeated and can"t defend themselves because the spider loves to put full audio transcripts into his reports despite there being no damn reason, when he hears it—a slight inhale, the whisper of fluttering eyelashes. 

Miguel sighs, sets his tablet off to the side. As soon as he gets this report, he can go back to his lab and work on things in peace and quiet, in the dark, in a sterile environment, and maybe this headache will remove its claws from his skull. 

Miles shuffles a bit more, limbs twitching, and opens his eyes. 

Miguel, for a reason he can"t put his finger on, stills. 

It"s nothing dangerous. Nothing discernable, nothing that should make the hair on the back of his neck rise, nothing that should have his talons flexing against the air. It"s just a spiderman waking up after a mission gone wrong.

Nothing that should have him reacting like this. 

Miles shifts, mumbling under his breath—he looks impossibly small in the hospital sheets, curled up under the plain white-cream, hands wrapped around the edges of the blanket. 

Miguel grimaces. Exhales. Forces his shoulders to relax like a parent with a disobedient child. 

Hard to be a decent leader when you get paranoid at nothing. 

Miles blinks, dragging his eyes away from the ceiling with a muffled hiss, pupils flexing and shrinking as they adjust to the light. He wriggles under the sheets for a second, getting a hand free and slapping it over his face—then winces, because he hit himself with enough force to echo through the hospital room, hand flopping as he tries to pull it away. That"s worrying; it has to be an intense bout of incoordination for his superstrength to be a problem. Spiderfolk tend to work that out early in their journey. 

But eventually Miles figures it out, inching upward enough to rest his head higher on the pillow and get it out of the direct light, and then he"s squinting blearily around the room, and they lock eyes. 

Miguel exhales, very lightly. Get the report. Get out. 

"Morales," he intones, impassive.

Miles keeps staring. His eyes flick to every corner of the room, still hazy, but with discernible levels of awareness. He tightens his grip on the blanket. 

The hairs rise on the back of Miguel"s neck. 

Miles turns to fully face him, brows drawn low over the bridge of his nose, eyes hesitant. "Um." He licks his lips, bumping his hands together. "Is this a kidnapping?"

A pause. 

Miguel narrows his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Those aren"t nurse scrubs," he points out, not incorrectly, because it"s Miguel"s suit. The very recognizable suit, awash in technicolor lines and graphics, with an obvious spider logo across the chest. "And I don"t know you. So. Kidnapping?"

Miguel exhales, once. He"s tired. It"s early. This room is far too bright and loud. "What do you mean you don"t know me?"

Miles panics at that, staring at his suit like the very obvious spider logo somehow isn"t obvious enough. "Um. Sorry? Are you a supervillain? Did I miss your debut or something?" He pulls his fists out from under the sheets, tucking them close to his chest. "I"ll do what you want, but I"m not a great hostage. My parents aren"t rich."

There"s an even longer pause. 

"Morales."

Miles winces, a little helplessly. "Alright. You know me. That"s– that"s not great. Do you want me to. I guess. Call someone? Is there a list of demands?" 

Miguel purses his lips. Miles, for all he"s Spiderman, is a terrible liar—and he"s got the nervous eyes, white-ringed knuckles, and beading sweat that speaks to something more true. There"s nothing deceitful in his eyes, just confusion. 

Miles doesn"t know what"s happening. 

That makes two of them. 

"Miles Morales," he tries, because maybe he got a concussion in that alter-dimensional space and just needs a quick reminder to bring him back. "I"m Miguel O"Hara. You"ve just returned from a mission gone south. You"re in Nueva York, in HQ"s medbay."

Miles looks at him a bit like he recited that phrase in Latin. His eyes are wide. "Miguel… O"Hara?" He sounds out, pondering the words. "That. Sounds like a real name? Aren"t you supposed to have codenames?"

"...Spiderman."

That provokes a real reaction, Miles furrowing his brow and refocusing on the logo on his chest. He thumbs his chin. "Nah," he decides, with all the authority of someone who knows they are right and the world might as well acknowledge it. "You"re close, kinda, but you"ve got too much blue. And your gloves are wrong. Your logo looks like a skull more than a spider."

Report be damned. Something is seriously wrong here. 

Miguel rises to his feet, towering over him, who just blinks up at him in that same open, honest confusion. "Stay here," he says, because if anyone is going to run off it"s the kid that decided to challenge the multiverse, and Miguel not-quite flees into the adjacent waiting room to the sound of Miles" offended spluttering. 

The Spider HQ"s medbay is a small enough thing, a dozen private rooms with an open wing before; their accelerated healing means they rarely need medical assistance, and if they do, they"re often in and out before anyone else could need a room. Most of the time, he hires nurses and doctors from Nueva York, paid for by the city proper, but there are a few spiderfolk with the abilities to help out. 

The doctor on call glances up as he enters, mask sticking out of one of her pockets and latex gloves pulled up to her elbows, face framed by golden ringlets and paired with flint-grey eyes. Her suit is mostly a pale blue, with a crisp white cape-cloak that wraps around her upper body and flares at her neck like a lab coat, covered in the web-pattern design that every single spiderfolk decides to use on their own and must feel terribly clever for. 

She"s one of those unfortunate spiderfolk bitten late enough in life to interrupt a proper plan for her future; a medical degree and a certification on the way, thrown out the window with new arachnid abilities. At least here, she still gets to use all those years of schooling, and other spiderfolk are more than willing to help out in her dimension with all the treatment she does for them. Accelerated healing only takes things so far. 

"Is Morales awake?" She asks, which is comforting to know that no other patients are in that require her attention, and also great that he doesn"t have to explain the accident history to anyone, because the present is confusing enough. 

"Yes, but–" Miguel hesitates. How the fuck does he phrase this? "Lyla?"

She blinks into existence just to fritz a few times, hands bouncing between her hips and her chin. "Hard to say," she says, which means that her processors are likely running hot enough the air conditioning has kicked on in his lab. "Didn"t recognize Miguel, doesn"t know what"s going on. Acted different."

The spider—he thinks vaguely she"s a Mary Jane, but Masha Yana instead—frowns, swiping a tablet from a counter covered in beakers just in case the room didn"t look cliché enough. "He is Miles Morales," she says, pulling up medical records and squinting at the cyrillic letters in the notes section. "DNA matches, both his and spider, and we have found no anomalies able to mimic someone to that level. And if they were that good, they would not miss such a key element as not recognizing you." Her frown deepens. "Any chance he was concussed?"

There"s a muffled thump. "I can hear you," Miles calls, but he sounds confused, like he"s not sure why he can hear them, given Miguel is a full room over. 

Worrying. 

"Possibly," Miguel says, before biting out a sigh. "Just– could you talk to him? Please."

Masha laughs a little—his efforts on going from growling grizzly to teddy bear, as Peter so elegantly puts it, haven"t gone unnoticed in the Spider HQ, and everyone has been taking it mostly in stride. It"s utterly exhausting. But he"s broken fewer monitors in these past six months than any other time in his life—and sets the tablet back down, closing out Miles" medical records just in case anyone walks in the room after them. 

Miguel goes in first, Lyla disappearing again so she doesn"t freak the kid out, and Masha pads in after them, rolling off her latex gloves with an efficient snap. Miles refocuses on them, hesitancy written over every inch of his face, which then promptly goes slack as he takes in her suit. Something incredulous enters his eyes. "Another Spiderman?" 

That. Yeah, that. Something"s wrong. 

Masha takes it right in stride, smiling. "Spiderwoman, actually! But yes." There"s something very sharp in her eyes. "Are we the only two spiderfolk you know?"

Miles blinks at her, eyes flicking in the way that means he knows he"s about to give the wrong answer but he doesn"t know what the right one is. "Y…es?" A pause. "Well, no. There"s… Spiderman. You know. The uh. Main guy around New York?"

They"re all staring at each other. 

"He"s got a red and blue suit," Miles adds helpfully. 

Something is seriously wrong. 

"That is your Spiderman?" Masha asks, lips pursed. 

Miles looks genuinely bewildered. "I mean. Yeah? I thought you guys were, like. Dressing up as him?" He examines their suits with increased scrutiny. "Like, you"re close, but I thought that was artistic license? Changing a few things so people don"t, I dunno, think you"re saving the day when you"re just a bystander?"

Miguel wants to hit something. There"s an eleven-day streak back in his lab begging him not to. It might not be enough. 

"Fascinating," Masha hums, which is not necessarily comforting to hear from a doctor. "Well. One question more, Miles, if you do not mind—what is the date?"

Miles squints. "December, uh—December 4th, 2018?"

Silence. 

This is the moment, Miguel notes, that everything starts to go downhill. 

Masha smiles, a little strained. "Thank you, Miles. We will be back in a second." Then, without waiting for confirmation, she sweeps out of the room, Miguel on her heels. God, he hopes she has answers, because he absolutely doesn"t. 

She leads him to the far end of the next room, hopefully enough distance to keep Miles from overhearing them through the door, and then leans against the wall, exhaling. One hand comes up to cover her face, which continues to not be particularly reassuring. 

"What"s wrong with him?" Miguel asks, talons tapping against his forearms. 

"Something serious." Masha tugs on one of her ringlets, eyes grim. Her jaw is set in a harsh line. She doesn"t have her tablet so she drums her fingers over her forearm instead, something to busy her hands, mind moving so fast he can practically hear it. 

"Though it actually clarifies things," she says, with a tone of voice that says she wishes it didn"t. "There were more changes in his DNA than we could explain—one theory was time moved differently there, in that alter-dimensional space." Her brows furrow. "Day for us, but week for him; what we have been able to read from his cell regeneration rates, at least. He was likely unconscious for all of it, which is good, but if you had not fished him out when you did, I do not know what would have happened. That collider was a… certain type of invention, to be sure."

That sounds terrible, yeah, but it also explains nothing. Miguel waits impatiently. 

"I think that is true," she says, fingers steepling beneath her chin. "Is only thing that explains why his cells replenished that much. But a week without a functional watch for protection. Well."

Oh.

Oh, Miguel doesn"t like this. 

"Under normal situations, I doubt much would happen we are not familiar with, but he has two dimensions of DNA in his system—standard and spider. With that, he would be glitching twice, and in the extended time period, that had… adverse consequences."

His talons are extending. He wrangles them back with a force of will that could move mountains. 

"If I had to guess," she says, which is also not comforting for a doctor to say. "His spider DNA has gone into hibernation. Not physically, should still have all his changes, but his mind has retreated for… как сказать —healing is best way to put it."

Miguel really, really doesn"t like where this is going. 

"He is suffering from total retrograde amnesia from before he was bit by his spider," Masha says, quickly, like ripping a bandaid off. "I do not think he has any memories of the past two years."

Maldita sea. 

"Are you sure?" He asks, not because he doesn"t believe her, but because he doesn"t want to.

She shrugs. "We can go ask more questions. But I believe we would get the same each time. His reaction to both of us was odd, and he does not seem to know that he is Spiderman, too. Something missing. And typical amnesia does not work like this, not at all; he was able to remember what was said earlier in conversation, what the date should be, how to converse properly. That is not normal amnesia."

Nothing about this situation is normal, actually. 

Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose, talons pressing into the skin. He"d known something was wrong, for all he didn"t want to confront the thought, and Masha is a fantastic doctor, perhaps the best in all worlds to work on spiderfolk. Their shared and mixed DNA causes more problems than people could predict, which was before they added glitching into the mess, and she has been studying that since the beginning. He trusts her. 

Unfortunately, he trusts her, which means he now has to think about the reality that the Miles Morales sitting in the other room has absolutely no idea about anything.

His headache returns in full force. 

"For how long?"

She hums, tapping away on her arm, brows drawn over the bridge of her nose. "This is not exactly something we have encountered before, but likely a week. How long he was under the effects. Presumably, once those seven days pass, spider DNA should be able to reconnect with his cells and memories will come back." She pauses again, glancing back at the door like she can see the boy through it. "Although is unlikely he will remember anything from this week, when he comes back. No storage for these memories. A… reset, if you will. Temporary reversion before regular self can heal."

Miguel avoids ripping his suit with his talons by a hair"s breadth as he tugs on his watch, gritting his teeth. "Okay. So we have a week where one of the most harebrained, stubborn Spiderman doesn"t know to listen to any of us?"

Masha shrugs, a little helpless. "Maybe. But this will not be the Miles you know—memories gone, and with them, personality. I imagine he will act like he did two years ago, not like now."

Fantastic. What"s another unknown to throw into the pile?

"I will go run more tests," Masha declares, stepping across the room to pick up her tablet. If he knows her, which he does, she"s about to turn the medbay upside down in her quest to find proof of this utterly insane scenario. He appreciates that. He truly does. He just also can"t help but be irrationally jealous that she gets to leave. "Be gentle with him. I do not know how he will react to this."

Miguel manages a nod. 

She exits the room and he gives himself a second, counts ceiling tiles, runs through a few deep breaths, before going back into the medbay. 

Miles has pulled himself up into a sitting position, hospital scrubs on and sheets pooling around his waist. He gives a bit of an unsure smile as Miguel reenters the room, the last of his bleariness fading away and nerves taking their place. "Is everything okay?"

No. No it is not. 

Miguel"s never been one for sugarcoating. "You have amnesia." 

He"s also never been known for his tact. 

Miles blanches, mouth falling open. "I have what?"

"Amnesia. Memory loss. It"s January of 2020, not December, not 2018. You"ve lost all memories from the past two years."

Miles stares at him. Miguel stares right back. 

Eventually, Miles loses, because he is a fifteen —thirteen, now, what is even going on— year old boy and Miguel is a fully grown adult. He wavers, picking at his nails, glancing at the room like a magical answer to his problems is going to pop out of the tile. 

Unfortunately not. 

"Okay," Miles says, hesitantly. He pushes the blankets off his lap and stares at his scrubs-covered legs for a second. "I"m not saying I don"t believe you, because that"s, uh, rude, but is there any proof you can offer that I wasn"t just in an accident or something woAH–"

The woah, Miguel presumes, comes from how he gets out of bed, trips from unsteadiness, tries to catch himself, activates his superstrength, and is now crouched upside down on the ceiling. 

Miles shrieks. Miguel"s headache redoubles. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Sometimes he really, really hates his job. 

"There"s some proof," he says, because maybe if he says it blandly enough the whole situation will seem normal again. "In those two years, you were bitten by a radioactive spider, and are now Spiderman."

This is going swimmingly. 

"Dude," Miles breathes, staring at his hands like they hold entire universes. "I"m. I"m on the ceiling."

"Brilliant observation."

"On the ceiling."

"You"re welcome to keep repeating that."

Miles laughs, but his eyes are wide and it sounds more desperate than anything else. "Oh my god. What about– can I–" He peels one hand off and splays his fingers in the classic spiderfolk pose, but without a webslinger on his palm, nothing happens. He wilts a bit. 

Then he frowns, shuffling around until he"s able to peer at Miguel, still clinging to the ceiling like he could die from a mere eight-foot fall. "Wait, but. I thought you were Spiderman? And there was Spiderwoman earlier? Or what about, y"know. Spiderman Spiderman? The. Normal one?"

Right. Fantastic. He"s had other people in the Society doing this job for so long he forgot about how many levels of introductions they have to go through with bringing someone new in; Spiderman first, multiverse second. 

"Alternate dimensions. There"s an interconnected web of universes—the Spiderverse, if you will." Yes. It sounds stupid. But the Arachno-Humanoid Poly-Multiverse was more stupid. Miguel claims no credit for either. "We are all the spiderfolk of our own dimension, and we team up to help each other. This is the Spider HQ, our home base, and I am the leader of the Spider Society."

Miles stares at him. Maybe that was a bit much a bit fast. 

"That"s– alright," he says, tilting his head to the side as best he can while still upside down. "I"ll be honest. I"m not creative enough to come up with this, and I don"t think I"m important enough to prank with this level of dedication. So. You"re probably telling the truth?"

"That is correct."

Miles huffs. "Okay, you can"t– you can"t blame me for not believing you right off the bat, man. This is crazy. Like, completely crazy."

Miguel can assure him, it"s just as much on the other side. He settles for sighing. 

Miles shifts, hands splaying. "It"s probably– what are we going to tell my parents? And Uncle Aaron? Or, wait, would that upset the, uh—I want to say timelines but I know it isn"t—would it cause problems?" He freezes. "Oh god, they know my secret identity, right? I haven"t, like– man, I can barely lie about skipping assignments, could I keep being Spiderman a secret? Holy shit. I"m Spiderman."

Miguel pauses. The name Uncle Aaron isn"t familiar to him, he doesn"t think he"s ever heard Miles mention him before, but the term uncle certainly is—and in Lyla"s demonstration, he remembers seeing Miles kneeling above a hologram of someone in a dark, purple-black costume. One of his Canon Events. 

Or simply events, now. 

Dead, then. 

"They are aware," he says, which he has to force out. God. If only this could be simpler. "They know about you being Spiderman, but without training, they"re not equipped to handle your powers when you don"t remember how they work. As for informing them–" he pauses, thinking it over. 

Two years is a long, long time, especially with how action-packed they"ve been for Miles. Disorienting at best, actively upsetting at worst; calling his parents, especially if he"s not about to go stay with him, will only bring up questions and confusion and panic that doesn"t need to happen. 

And. Well. It should only be a week before his memories come back. There"s no reason to tell this Miles about the death of his uncle, the year of isolation, the near-death of his father, the Spot, the chase. That"s dumping trauma on a kid who isn"t prepared to deal with it, and for all that his parents would mean well, Miguel can"t guarantee they won"t slip up and mention it to him on a call. 

This is for Miles" sake. 

"It would be best if you weren"t the one to talk to them," he decides.

Miles wilts. "Yeah. Yeah, no, that– that makes sense. Right."

There"s a pause as he shuffles a bit more, powder leaking from the tiles as he starts to move around; he keeps looking to the floor, like he knows logically he should be on it, but that little thing like fear of gravity keeps him firmly pinned upright. He"s starting to sweat. 

"Um." Miles stares at the ceiling. "How do I, y"know, get off?"

Miguel cannot believe this is his life. "Relax your hands."

"Right. Right right right." Miles closes his eyes, brows furrowing, and with a sound like removing velcro, his fingers peel one by one off and drop him in an unsteady flump; the spiderfolk instincts take over and he lands in a crouch, arms out and braced, eyebrows firing through his hairline. 

"Oh my god," he breathes, straightening up. He flexes his hands, eyes impossibly wide, and flashes Miguel a grin that"s a mere several thousand kilowatts. "I did it!"

Miguel stiffens, just a little. 

It"s been easy enough to hide beneath his headache and the insanity of the situation and the looming threat of the next week, to slot this person into new spiderfolk territory, but this is Miles Morales.

If he thinks about it, which he doesn"t want to but can"t help himself, this is the longest conversation he"s had with Miles since. Since. 

Well. Since he was slamming him into the side of a train. 

They haven"t talked, not really. Snippets between reports, asking about anomalies and fighting style developments, avoiding eye contact in hallways. Miles had accepted the official invite to the Spider Society, wears the watch—well, not right now, considering it had been fried to hell in the alter-dimensional space and he"s currently in just a day pass while it"s repaired—and he keeps going on missions. To all the new spiderfolk joining, they"re simply distant. No real history between them. No trains or cages or hunts. 

The elephant is starting to grow too large for the room. 

But Miguel is focused on breathing exercises and flexing his fingers and counting every sensation he can feel whenever his heart rate picks up, so he doesn"t have time to talk about it. He had sworn a promise there, in his lab, when he"d thrown the anomaly containment shield down—he would be allowing Jefferson Morales to die, and Miles Morales would hate him for the rest of his life. That was the exchange. He had made his peace with it, just as he had guiding every other new spiderfolk to let go of their uncles and captains and loves, as it was always supposed to be. 

Then Jefferson Morales didn"t die, Miles Morales came back, and the promise went discarded. That was fine. He accepted it, recognized it, and moved on—kept holding the Spider Society together as they rebuilt from the ground up, searched for anomalies and rifts and destruction, brought new spiders in and showed them the wonders of the multiverse. 

There"s no time for talking, in that. And Miles seems fine with it. They exchange nods in hallways, reports in meeting rooms, get check-ups in the same medbay. Normal. If Miles isn"t going to bring it up, Miguel certainly isn"t, and they"re both fine with it. 

But now he"s talking to Miles, and he"s not so much on the back foot but actively falling backward. 

Miles, unaware of his mental spiraling, paces a bit around the room. "What do I, uh." He keeps looking at his hands like there should be instructions written on the palms. "Do? For the week?"

Miguel wishes he knew, too. 

"It"s best if you stay in HQ," he says, because there"s not a chance he"s letting the kid gallivant around the multiverse with no memories or control of his powers. "There"s free food, plenty of entertainment. Rooms in the eastern wing."

"Oh! Thanks." Another pause. "Eastern wing. Right. Can I, um." Miles taps his fingers over his sides in an anxious little beat, looking around the room again like something new will reveal itself in the corners. "Have a tour, or something? Getting lost in a superhero base sounds like a terrible plan. Like, truly terrible. Do you have bad guys here? Just like tucked in a corner? Or, god, what about weapons? Could I just stumble around a mad scientist lab if I take the wrong left?" 

Eleven-day streak. Keep it together. Deep breaths. "Yes. You can have a tour. I will find someone to give it to you."

Miles pauses. Blinks. Reevaluates him with curious eyes. "Why wouldn"t I go with you?"

Miguel pauses, too. 

"Are you busy?" Miles says, and for all his brightness, there"s an undercurrent of disappointment there, a brushing pass of dismay. 

Like he wants it to be Miguel. 

Miles doesn"t know. 

It"s an odd thing to think. Miguel knows that Miles is suffering from amnesia, that he has no memories from the past two years, and it"s only basic reasoning that because Miguel is the first one he"s seen, he"s the one Miles is latching onto as a familiar face in an unfamiliar world. If anyone else had been in that room to collect the report, they would probably be the one that Miles wants to travel with now, to stay beside. 

But Miles doesn"t know.

There are plenty of good reasons why Miguel shouldn"t be the one helping Miles. Why he should call down any other spider, maybe one only tangentially associated with him, no memories to build off, no past orders of containment that led to Miles sprinting for his life through an unknown world, escaping with a clever plan he wove out of half-spun hopes and prayers. It should be anyone else. It shouldn"t be Miguel. 

But Miles doesn"t know that, and he thinks he knows Miguel, and he wants it to be him. 

"You"re definitely busy, what am I saying?" Miles is saying, leaning back against the bed, dragging a hand over his face with a faint air of embarrassment. "You"re, like, the super-secret leader of a bunch of superheroes, of course you have other things to do, forget I asked–"

It shouldn"t be Miguel. 

"I"ll grab you some clothes," he says instead, "and you can come with me."

Something traitorous and warm sinks through him at the sight of how Miles perks up.

This is wrong. This is horribly wrong. He"s lying to the kid, creating a power imbalance of one who knows their rotten history and one who doesn"t, and he"s not saying anything. He needs to say something. 

But instead, when Miles grins, he simply nods and goes to find clothing. 

-

Miles is practically vibrating out of his skin as they walk, running his hands over his arms and trying to map out the new dimensions of his fade. He"s in simple sweatpants and a faded graphic tee, the first thing Miguel had found in one of the break rooms, and they"re a little tight on his shoulders but otherwise fit fine. He could technically wear his suit, as soon as it finishes being repaired, but Miguel really doesn"t think he could handle seeing his own custom suit. 

Not that he"s handling everything else all that well. 

"I"m so tall," he marvels, poking at his bicep with wide eyes. "Like, I knew I still had more growing to do since Uncle Aaron"s a giant, but I didn"t think it was this much. Are you sure it"s only been two years?"

"It has."

"And I"m actually Spiderman, right? Not like. A sidekick, or something?"

"You are."

They turn the corner, out of the central hall, and then there are windows over half the hallway, sprawling things awash with the midday sun—Miles" jaw drops right open, every molar visible.

Right. New dimension. This is probably surprising. 

Miles bounds right up against one of the windows, smushing his nose into the glass and peering over the skyline. "Woah," he breathes, squinting like that"ll help him see past the lingering smog. "This is. You called it Nueva York, right?"

"Yes." A pause. "This is my dimension."

"Wild," he says, decidedly. "Flying cars, man. I thought we"d never get there."

Miguel doesn"t bother with a response, turning away from the window and keeping on down the hallway. After a second, Miles realizes the silence and trots to catch up with him, arms swinging by his sides and rubbernecking at every window they pass. No other spiderfolk are here, which is beautifully convenient, but Miguel knows he can"t be lucky for that long, and then he"s going to have to start answering a lot more questions very quickly. 

Miles hums a little, under his breath. "Where are we going, actually?"

Miguel has no idea. His feet are walking the well-worn path back to his lab, more for a comforting familiarity than any actual reason, but when faced with a Miles Morales he somehow has to keep safe and alive for a week, HQ suddenly feels much too small to entertain him. 

The Miles from before barely spent any time at HQ, only to hang out with his friends in the brief stints they stay here before heading to one of their dimensions, and it"s only because Miguel is trying to be a better leader that he knows where they go and has Lyla monitor their health through their watches. But the kid doesn"t stay here, which he can"t exactly fault him for, and it means that Miguel thus has no idea where he likes to go or hang out. Which means he doesn"t know what to do with him for a week. 

For a week. God.

Tour. Basic tour. He should probably show him the cafeteria, the break rooms, pick him out a unit in the mostly unused condo near the eastern wing—there"s a long list of things he should be doing, but instead of any of them, he keeps walking to his lab. Miles doesn"t know any better, because of course he doesn"t, and Miguel is doing four-in-four-out with a ferocity that feels delirious. 

Then, from around the corner, three figures appear, strolling and chatting and gesturing wildly with voices echoing down the hall. They"re headed in the exact direction of the medbay. 

Miguel remembers, very quickly, that he has not alerted anyone else to the current predicament. 

This could, potentially, be a problem. 

Because of course the first spiders they encounter are the ones that will, without a doubt, recognize this situation as wrong.

If he grabs Miles and webs backward, he could potentially get them both out of here fast enough, and then he just has to keep the kid in a random apartment for a week and tell everyone he sent him home. The idea is discarded, a little unwillingly. 

The three spiders come within range. 

Pavitr, mask pulled off and snugly wrapped in a cashmere sweater, sees them first—he breaks off mid-sentence, eyes flying wide open, hand frozen half over Hobie"s shoulder. "Miles!"

Miles, for his part, goes very still. 

The three of them drop their conversation like it"s yesterday"s trash and start sprinting, all teenage lankiness and energy, and with spiderfolk abilities they"re across the hallway in a second. Miguel resists the urge to jump back as they"re surrounded, the kids clamoring for attention—they must have been on their way to visit Miles, check on his recovery, and the object of their destination has just come to them instead. What luck. 

Miles still isn"t moving.

"Bro!" Pavitr shouts, getting in close and reaching out like he"s about to pinch Miles" cheeks before Hobie slaps his hands away. "Man, you can"t do that to me," he chirps, all bright and grinning and wild. "We didn"t even know you were on a mission until you didn"t come back—call for backup next time, seriously! I can skip class!"

"You have no idea how worried I was," Gwen says, dragging a hand through her hair, fingers leaving watercolour streaks through the blonde. "I know you"re hot shit with all your powers but those watches exist for a reason, I mean, I would"ve come right away–"

For the first time since they"ve appeared, Miles manages a complete reaction, blinking twice. "Gwanda?"

Gwen draws off. Her brows furrow until they"re almost conjoined. "Er– I guess?"

Hobie notices something is wrong, which fits, and he"s got a bite to his frown that makes it look like fangs. "You a"ight, mate?" There"s a drawl there, something soft, that makes Miguel think of flattened palms and resignations. Hobie"s shifted so he"s a little closer, the lanky sprawl of his body closing off Miles from everyone else. Giving him room. 

But Miles can"t recognize that, and his eyes have widened to fill up all of his face, and he"s still spluttering through a sentence he"s failed some dozen times now. Miguel can hear his heartrate skip, warble, and speed up.  

Even if the kid remembered everything, this situation would be hell for someone who"s just woken up from a day and a half of unconsciousness. Miguel steps forward, hands neutral but a solid wall of body, breaking eye contact between them all. 

Gwen balks at that, mouth opening. Hobie"s gripping his guitar pick more like a dagger. 

"Quiet down," Miguel says, looming over Pavitr"s confused questions. "He isn"t Miles." 

Miles, past his panic, looks vaguely offended. 

Miguel closes his eyes. Deep breaths. "His mission went wrong. Things happened, and essentially, he"s suffering from amnesia. He doesn"t remember anything from the past two years."

There. Succinct. Now if only that was all he had to say on the matter. 

The teens all blink, thrown off their groove; they stare at Miles, who pulls up a worried little wave that"s barely more than a twitch of his fingers. "Um. Hey? I think– I"m guessing you know me? Knew me?" A pause. "Are we, like. Friends?"

In one moment, they go from suspicious to believing it entirely.

"Fuck," Hobie says, eyes wide. This is the most surprised Miguel thinks he"s ever seen the teen, hands plucking the edges of his jacket, rocking back on the heels of his combat boots. Pavitr"s mouth is hanging open and Gwen"s hands have frozen midway through pushing her hair back, both partially through a sentence they"re never going to finish. 

Appropriate reactions, but the fact they"re shocked means that Miguel, as the unfortunate adult of the group, has to handle things. He always has to handle things. 

"So," Miguel says, slowly, because Miles still looks a hair"s breadth away from spiraling and he"d like to ease him into a mental breakdown if he can"t avoid it altogether. "Introduce yourself. Calmly."

That seems to do the trick and they collectively take a step back, giving Miles a bit of breathing room, which the kid looks almost pathetically thankful for. He"s still got his hands raised, graphic shirt taut over his shoulders, and he keeps flicking his gaze between them like eventually the memories will come back. Miguel doubts it"ll be that easy. 

Gwen steps forward first, tongue pushing at the gap in her teeth. Miles seems to recognize her, which is confusing for a multitude of reasons, but she hardly looks like she understands anything more than him. 

"I"m Gwen," she says, still dragging fingers through his hair and messing up the part. "Gwanda was. A fake name."

Miles blinks. 

"And yeah, we"re friends. Close friends. We"re, uh, all Spiderman and Spiderwoman together? We team up and help out in each other"s dimensions?"

Miles" eyebrows have disappeared into his fade. 

"You"re right terrible at this, luv," Hobie says. Gwen makes a halfhearted groan. "Alright. Let me take over."

He splays his hands, tugging down his sleeves to show off the patterned red-white fabric hidden beneath his jacket. "All spiderfolk here, from our own dimensions. Mates "n" all the best. We"re real close, friends-like, for "bout six months now."

He"s playing up like this is normal for him, all cool and suave, but his eyes betray him. Miguel can see how sharp they are, how discerning, trying to puzzle out the situation while keeping Miles at ease. 

"Hobie," he says, tapping his chest. "Hobart Brown if ya hate me. Gwendy"s—Gwen—known you the longest. An" this one"s Pav," he finishes, jerking a thumb in his direction. "Right cunt o" the world."

Miles squawks on his behalf. Pavitr just rolls his eyes. "Pavitr," he corrects. "But Pav is fine!"

Miguel can taste the hesitancy in the air—it"s clear to anyone watching that the three of them know Miles, know him well, but Miles can"t return the favour. He"s holding onto their names, trying to piece out their mannerisms, searching for how he slots into the group, but there"s just a black wall there. Hard as he might try, he can"t pull up the memories that everyone else has. 

It"s getting to him. Miguel sees how his spine has straightened out to iron proportions. 

But still he tries. "Hey," Miles offers, doing his little half-wave again. "I"m Miles? It"s nice to meet you. Um. Again."

"You too!" Pavitr says, and he"s still bright, but there"s something strained in the way he says it, like the situation is catching up with him. His hands twitch and he pulls off his bangle seemingly for something to do, eyes still wide, spiraling it through some elaborate weave. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah. Fine, really." He"s looking at them, a little shy, something unsure but wanting in his eyes. "We"re—close, right? Good friends?"

"The best," Hobie drawls, reaching out, slowly, choreographed, giving Miles plenty of time to react before he flicks the younger boy"s forehead. ""course, you"re right shit at respondin" to messages, but we can"t all be perfect."

Miles lets out a surprised laugh, high and startled. He smiles different, now. Wider. All his teeth show, like he can"t contain them in his head, and it"s open and brilliant and shining. Free. 

There"s something uncomfortable in the thought that he hasn"t seen the kid smile like this before. 

Gwen notices it too, eyes going wide, and then she"s leaning in, hesitant. "Are you okay, though? This is. Completely crazy." 

Miles huffs, rocking back on his heels. "Yeah. Don"t have to tell me twice. I"m barely wrapping my head around it." He looks around the room. "I"ll probably have to ask you to tell me again tomorrow, just to make sure it sticks."

Miguel pauses. For all that Miles doesn"t need to talk to his parents, someone certainly does, and just for his luck, he"s the only one he trusts to keep the situation controlled. 

Well. At least there"s someone to keep Miles entertained so he doesn"t find some ledge to plummet off of without proper control over his powers, and judging by how Gwen and Pavitr are inching forward again, they won"t be leaving Miles" side unless he chases them away with a pitchfork. That"s fine with him. 

Hobie he"s less sure about—if anyone is willing to bring up the trauma that Miles doesn"t need right now, it"s him—but they"re a package deal, so Miguel is just going to have to hope for the best. 

"Morales," he says, and Miles" attention jerks back to him. "They can show you around the place, but I"m going to go talk to your parents so they understand the situation." Wait, that"s a terrible idea. "Can I have your phone?"

His eyes go all wide like a startled rabbit. "It can call across dimensions?"

Watches yes, phones no. "No. But I can travel to yours and call them from there."

A face-to-face meeting with the man he tried to let die and the mother of the kid he beat into the steel hull of a train is asking for trouble, since there"s not a world in which Miles hasn"t told them everything that"s happened, and having it be a call gives him at least some distance to avoid having to defend himself. Again, it would be fantastic if someone else could do this—but Miguel"s well past trusting others to do the hard things. 

No more Canon Events, which is a poor man"s balm over the infection of the doomed world he remembers each time he closes his eyes, but even then, being Spiderman isn"t all clean. There still has to be someone willing to do the grey between the black and white. 

And Miguel is the one who steps up, like always. 

"Dude," Miles breathes, completely missing the fond look Gwen sends his way. "That"s– like, I know you told me already, but you can just casually travel to different dimensions. How are you guys so calm about this?"

"Travel to a couple hundred and it starts feeling normal," Gwen offers. 

Miles chokes. "Hundred?"

As amusing as that is, Miguel"s got a job and a talk and a splitting headache still waiting for him, and the faster he wraps this up, the sooner he can sleep. "Your phone, Morales."

"Oh, right–" Miles fumbles through his pockets, catching on the unfamiliar sweatpants, and pulls out his phone. It"s cracked in one corner and wrapped in a clear case, a sun-bleached polaroid slipped between; he pauses, eyes flicking between the four in the photo and the kids standing around him. It"s clear they"re the same. 

In it, Hobie"s wrestling Pavitr to the ground, Gwen laughing so hard her face is a splotchy purple, and Miles is trying desperately to get a bunny ear behind her head despite both hands being webbed together. They"re all smiling. 

He stares at it for a second longer, running his thumb over a tagged bouquet of sunflowers painted over the back in his style, before handing it over. Miguel accepts it gently. 

"I don"t know if my password has changed," Miles says. "But it might still be two-zero-one-one? If you want to try that?"

Right. The kid doesn"t know about Lyla yet. Passports are, quite literally, the least of Miguel"s problems. 

"And, uh–" he bites his lip, shifting weight between his feet. "Tell them I love them, alright? Um. I know I shouldn"t call them, but. I"d like them to know that?"

Miguel"s chest tightens, just a hair. Nothing annoying. Nothing noticeable. "I will."

Miles nods, looking more relieved than he should. Hobie is watching him with a faint look of worry.

Lyla inputs the coordinations without manifesting and the portal crackles to life, lashing out in great kaleidoscoping beams of light—Miles yelps and skitters backward, crashing into Gwen"s chest with a startled oof. She catches him, and that familiar fondness is sprawling all over her face as she helps him stabilize, but there"s something raw in how she keeps her grip feather-light, ready to pull back, prepared to maintain that careful distance they"ve been hovering at over the past months. 

But this Miles doesn"t seem to care that they"re touching. There"s no awkwardness, no dancing around the topic; he just grabs onto her proffered hand, hauling himself upright, and grins in her direction. "Thanks!"

Gwen blinks. Smiles a little. "No problem."

The portal hums and fractals, throwing gold over everyone"s face. Miguel steps towards it, keeping a careful grip on Miles" phone, drafted plans already racing over his thoughts. "Don"t do anything," he warns, which really shouldn"t be necessary but Hobie"s got a gleam in his smile and Pavitr has eyes that point in every direction but safety. "I"ll be back in a bit."

"Wouldn"t dream"a it," Hobie all but purrs. Gwen slaps him over the back of the head. 

But Miles is grinning, a little unsure but warmly, and Miguel just shakes his head and walks through the portal. 

Earth-1610 welcomes him in an explosion of sounds and smells, lit up with midday sun and screech of a million moving bodies; his suit is already closing over his face, lenses muting and dampening and doing their best to keep the light from digging daggers into his overly sensitive eyes, blocking off the scent trails already clogging up his background thoughts. God. There"s a reason HQ is so clean.

The instant he arrives, the phone lights up a dozen different ways—reconnecting texts, missed calls, news updates, calendar events, reminders for studying. It crackles once, doing that odd thing of its cells readjusting to being back in their home neighborhood, but it handles it significantly better than living things. After a second, it"s content in his hand. 

Content beyond the nineteen missed calls from Miles" parents. 

It"s been about… forty-eight hours, he thinks, with the routine mission and the day spent glitching in the time-span alter-dimensional space; he"s never spoken to Miles" parents, but he knows they know about his secret identity, and he"s overhead multiple complaints about coming home every weekend from his school to be mothered. 

Considering it"s Sunday, that means Miles missed his normal meet-up time period, and his parents are presumably displeased with this update. 

Lyla appears over his shoulder, fritzing a few times in the unfamiliar dimension, stretching her arms above her head and adjusting her heart-shaped glasses with an exaggerated yawn. "Certainly something," she chirps, peering around. This Brooklyn is admittedly calmer than Nueva York, less industrial, still littered with scars from the fight against the Spot. If he narrows his enhanced eyesight and ignores the burn of the distant sun, he can see the shattered rib cage of the Alchemax building where it all happened. "What"s your plan, big guy?"

Miguel sighs, tapping on the edge of the phone. He"s never had to do this before—normally, when something goes wrong, spiderfolk can just be packaged up and sent back to their dimension, where their support squad awaits and they can heal in a safe environment. Removing two years—two extremely formative years—from Miles" memories means that wouldn"t be a safe option, not with his secret identity and powers, and his parents aren"t equipped to handle a teen who has suddenly been granted the superstrength capable of leveling their flat to the ground if he builds up enough of a running start. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He"d love to leave Miles at his house for the week. But that"s just not an option. 

The kid exists to make things complicated, it seems. 

As if on cue, the phone lights up again—a yellow-green profile picture of an abstract drawing, the tagline of Mamí with two heart emojis. Miguel spares a brief moment of preparation, Lyla leaning in over his shoulder, before accepting. 

Silence, for a second, then–

"Miles!" Someone shouts directly into his ear—he winces and pulls the phone further away, a good three feet, which makes him look stupid, but he"d like anyone with advanced senses to handle cell phones normally. At least they"re not the bizarre cochlear implants from the absurd technified dimension he"d made the mistake of traveling to only once. 

After a moment, the voice picks back up—still loud, still panicked, still ringing through his skull. "Miles! ¡Mijo! ¿Dónde estás? ¿Estás herido?"

He can make a decent guess this is Miles" mother. 

"No puedo creerte," she barks. "Se supone que debes estar aquí el sábado a–"

"Rio Morales?"

She cuts herself off. Sound, something moving, and the click of someone walking over. Miguel stares over Nueva York, over the distant falling snowflakes. He can hear her heartrate pick up, the hesitancy of her nails clicking across her phone. This is about to be a wonderful conversation. 

"Who is this?" She asks, curt. "Why do you have my son"s phone? Is he okay?"

Deep breaths. 

"Your son is safe," he offers.

There"s silence. 

"Safe?" Rio says, and her voice is taut and loud, echoing through the speakers like she"s shoved it right against her mouth. "You"re calling me on my son"s phone and telling me he"s safe? Is this–" there"s a brief scuffle of movement, and he can hear Jefferson Morales" voice, deep and rumbling, a little away from the microphone. "Is this a situation? Are you about to ask for money?"

Great. 

"Pinche mierda," he mutters under his breath, because yeah, this is not exactly how he anticipated this going. In the corner of his eyes, he can see Lyla, hands clasped over her stomach as she fritzes through a silent laugh. "Mrs. Morales," he tries, because surely he can"t fuck this up twice. "I assure you, this is all a misunderstanding. Your son is not injured, he is fine. I am calling on his behalf."

This is twice in one day he"s been accused of kidnapping someone. That"s got to be a new record. 

"Put him on the call," Rio says, and her voice brooks no argument. 

That is a disaster actively waiting to happen. "I can"t."

She"s practically hissing. “He is my son, what do you mean we can"t talk to him, tu cabrón, mamabicho, pedazo de mierda–"

Someone pries the phone away, her voice disappearing under some muffling presence, with a whispered baby, baby it’s fine, let me try. Miguel closes his eyes and prays for patience. Deep breaths. 

The phone shuffles a bit, trading hands, and the breathing on the other side changes, slower, more even. Still furious, because Miguel"s advanced hearing picks up the thump of the other person"s heart even through how far he"s holding the phone away from his ear, but at least measured. He can guess who this is as well. 

"I am Captain Morales," Jefferson says, gruff, and Miguel doesn"t say I know because he had been watching that man and analyzing just how he would die for months before. "Want to explain what"s going on here?"

He"d love to, if they give him more than a moment. 

"I am Miguel O"Hara," he says. "I know your son is Spiderman. The reason he was missing is because he was on a mission for me."

A touch of silence, movement. Rio mutters something under her breath.

"You"re… Miguel O"Hara?" Jefferson tries, as if the name is unfamiliar to him. "You"re a part of that Spider Society?"

Something in his mouth dries. "The leader, yes."

"He mentioned you," Jefferson says, with the tone of voice that suggests he wishes Miles had done more than mention him. "You the one who gave him that watch?"

Miguel drags his gaze over the distant buildings, the grime and graffiti, the burn of the midday sun reflecting off scattered piles of snow. His voice echoes over the New York skyline. "I did."

He thought Miles would have told them who he is. He thought they would be two more shoulders he could lean on for healing in the wake of it all. He thought Miles had someone to talk to who wasn"t connected to it all. 

Maybe he didn"t. Maybe he doesn"t. 

"A mission," Jefferson repeats, and he can hear the man"s frown through the phone. "But you said he"s fine? Why can"t he talk to us?"

Ah. Here comes the interesting part. 

"Yes," Miguel says, inching the phone a little closer to his head so he doesn"t have to talk so loud. "Physically, he is completely fine. But unfortunately, on that mission, something happened, and he has suffered a–" how did Masha phrase it "–total retrograde amnesic event."

Lyla waves a little hologram flag, a picture of a hospital appearing over her raised fingers. Right. Rio Morales is a nurse. She"ll have questions. 

"It"s not normal amnesia," he clarifies. "It"s tied to his spider DNA. But essentially, he has forgotten the last two years. In seven days, by our predictions, he will return to normal, but until then, he doesn"t remember anything."

There"s silence on the other side. Deserved silence, really. He"s had a bit of time to adjust to the bombshell, and he can still barely think of the upcoming week with anything even nearly resembling calm. 

"I"m sorry," Jefferson says, voice tight. "Explain that again?"

Great. "He can"t remember the past two years. Complete memory wipe from after he got bit by the spider. For a week, he"ll be like this, and then he should wake up perfectly fine afterward. We"re looking at protecting him for that week here, in the Spider Society."

That gets a different reaction, at least. "And why can"t he come home?"

"To be frank, Captain," Miguel says, and there"s a reason he"s the leader of the Society despite his less-than-optimal social skills, because he"s spinning this all on the fly but it"s coming out decently convincing. "Your son has some of the most advanced abilities of any Spiderman out there. By the time he was with you, he already knew at least how to roughly control them, and even then he destroyed his room both at your flat and at his school multiple times. Since then, he"s increased his power tenfold, but now he doesn"t have any of the training necessary to contain it."

Lyla fritzes before him, flipping a screen in his direction; it outlines the word HQ and then a little drawing of iron bars. She clicks her fingers and a cartoonishly large X appears on top. 

Fair point. 

"I"m not saying that we trap him in my dimension," he says, and he can hear the thump of the anomaly containment device striking the floor of his lab. "But we are uniquely equipped to help him relearn his powers and be safe. It"s just for a week, Captain Morales. I understand that"s a long time, but in situations like this, we"re looking out for both Miles and Spiderman. Having his secret identity revealed because he can"t control his powers or can"t answer questions is the worst-case scenario if he were back in your dimension, and I imagine you know how badly that would harm his future."

There"s the sound of the phone getting pulled away, a muffled conversation as if the speakers have been covered; Miguel waits, impatient, staring over the bleary skyline with heat mirages coiling off the surrounding roofs despite the snow. 

They want to argue, he knows. They"re the kind of loving parents that won"t accept such things at face value. 

But for all that Miles has apparently been keeping things vague or secret, he"s open about staying Spiderman, and both Rio and Jefferson seem invested in protecting that. None of Miguel"s arguments are false, they"re all more than valid, and considering Jefferson has already been balancing his relationship with Miles and Spiderman, he knows how badly it would be to have his secret identity revealed. 

That"s only happened a few times across all the dimensions he"s visited, and it never goes well. 

"Let us talk to him," Jefferson says finally, voice swimming back into range of the phone. "Then we"ll decide. But we want to hear from him."

Ah. And here comes the part where he has to be extremely convincing. 

"I don"t think that"s for the best," Miguel says, very lightly. "From our best estimates, we don"t think he will retain any memories from this week when he wakes up. So we"re trying to keep him as calm and unconfused as possible, so his recovery is smoothest. Adding in dimensional travel could have adverse consequences."

It"s not quite true. But if Miles comes here and his parents mention the Spot, or the hunt, then things at HQ are going to get very awkward very fast, and if Miles tries to run when he has no control over his powers, people are only going to get hurt. Miguel can"t afford that. 

This is for Miles" sake. 

Jefferson makes a sort of sound that echoes up from his throat. Rio, in the background, exhales shakily. 

"I"m sorry," Miguel says, and finds that he means it. He wishes he didn"t have to put anyone in this situation. But he does, so he will, and he will bear the burden of having to be the one to break the news. "I wish I had better things to tell you. But it"s only a week. He"ll be back to you before you know it."

Miles" last request flashes before his eyes. "He said that he loves you," Miguel says, and it comes out quieter than he anticipated. "He"s sorry he can"t talk, but that he loves you."

There"s a pause, and then Jefferson fades away, and Rio taps her side of the screen. "Tell him we love him, too," she says, soft, somber. "And if– and if he needs anything, or he wants out, he comes back to us, yes? We can keep him inside for a week. And fix walls, or rebuild, or anything." Another pause, an exhale. "But tell him we love him. Tell him we love him so much."

Miguel knows that. He can hear it in their voices, the quiet want just to see their son, their pained understanding that it"s best to leave him elsewhere for a week. They love him more than they can say. 

He had that, once. 

And he ruined it. 

"I will," Miguel says, and ends the call. 

He spends a while longer there, just staring at the Brooklyn skyline, before he reopens the portal and steps through. 

-

When he comes back, Hobie has an arm and half his weight slung over Miles" shoulder, Pavitr and Gwen practically attached to his other hip and chattering up a storm—and despite Miles" dark skin, Miguel can practically see the heat burning off his cheeks. 

They"re in one of HQ"s many break rooms, stacked high with coffee machines and lazy couches and holographic whiteboards covered in leftover math from whatever meeting took place in here last. There"s food piled up on one of the counters, half a dozen different cuisines—all of Miles" favourites, it looks like, which the other teens apparently grabbed from the cafeteria. At least they took him on some sort of tour. 

Sprawled over love chairs or leaning against the back of the couch, they"re surrounding him, but it looks more comfortable now—Miles has untucked from his previous posture, accepting Hobie"s arm with only an adjustment of how he"s sitting, and he"s chattering with wide, excited eyes. About their different dimensions, it sounds like. Pavitr"s halfway through an elaborate description of Goregaon Park. 

Miguel pauses, just outside of the room. Miles" phone is heavy in his hand. But there"s no use in waiting, not anymore, not ever, and so he enters. 

"–have leopards in your Central Park?"

Pavitr tilts his hand in a so-so motion. "We used to have many! But Goregaon Park used to border a protected national park—they got separated thirty years ago, I think, when Mumbatten"s population kept increasing and we needed another housing district—and most of them stayed in Sanjay when they divided. But some stayed in Goregaon! Less than a dozen." His eyes curl up. "They"re very shy, and very protected, but if you"re lucky, you can see them in the early morning."

"Dude," Miles says, eyes wide. "Imagine, like, walking your dog and running into a leopard. I think I"d lose my mind." He pauses, squints. "You"re telling the truth, right? Any chance I can see proof? Preferably in pictures?"

There"s a shuffle of movement as Hobie shifts, arm still draped over Miles" shoulder. He leans in, right against his side. 

"C"mon, luv, think we"d lie to ya?" He purrs, grinning, and there"s only teasing in his eyes, but Miles can"t see it, because he"s staring quite determinedly at the floor. Miguel can hear his staccato heartbeat from here. 

But it"s not fear, in the way it was before. 

This time, it"s because he"s flustered. 

"Of course not," he manages, and starts examining the tiles like they"re the most interesting thing in the world. "Just sounds. Wild."

Hobie laughs, rich and deep. Miles skips another heartbeat. 

Gwen, for her part, leans over and raps Hobie"s skull with her knuckles. "Lay off, loverboy. Get your kicks somewhere else."

Pavitr"s cackling. 

Miles leans back with a groan, because this is clearly not the first time this has happened, but as long as he keeps showing such reactions Hobie"s going to keep doing it, so it"s really his fault. But as he leans back, head spilling over the cushions of the couch, he manages to see Miguel in the doorway.

He perks up. That same sense of wrongness burns in Miguel"s chest. 

Miles sends him a near-pleading expression. 

He cannot believe this.

But still he steps forward, watching Hobie"s eyes snap to him and Gwen freeze halfway through reaching out to grab Miles" shoulder. 

"Morales," he says, calm, impassive. "Do you want to continue your tour?"

Pavitr perks up, all eagerness, but Miles is untangling from the group with a muffled apology, bouncing to his feet. "Yeah!"

Hobie and Gwen exchange a look. 

"How"d the call go?" Miles asks, ambling forward—the rest of the group assembles behind him, but it"s clear that however much they"ve adjusted to Miles" amnesia, they aren"t prepared for him willingly get close to Miguel, and it"s thrown a wrench in whatever their plans were. Miguel can relate. Miles walks right on up to him, eyes bright, and he has to concrete on keeping his hands loose and untaloned by his sides. Deep breaths. 

"Fine," he says. "They said they love you." 

Miles" eyes soften. Not quite tears but something warm and fond and melancholy fills them, spilling over the rest of his face, before he wipes it away with a rueful chuckle. "Yeah. Sounds like them." He glances, a little hesitantly, over. "I know you"re busy, but, uh. Maybe tomorrow you could go to Uncle Aaron? Tell him the same thing?"

The dead uncle. It seems they"re as close as he is with his parents. Miguel will just keep lying to him, then. "Sure."

Miles brightens, walks the rest of the way over, accidentally nudges the couch with his toe, and launches it about five feet back into Gwen"s chest. She falls over with a thump.

He stares. "Um. That"s new?"

She picks herself up, rueful grin in place. "Yep. Superstrength. Always fun."

Miles looks at his feet. His eyebrows have reached the ceiling. "Man, I have no idea how I could have kept this a secret from my dad." He raises an arm, pokes at his bicep again, flexes, squints like an enormous muscle is about to pop out of his skin. "Can I, like. Bench-press a car?"

"Train car, if you push it," Gwen says, because she is a horrible influence, and the way that Miles perks up at the mere thought is enough to make the rest of the teens start clamoring to go down to the strength and conditioning room. 

Miguel is going to have nightmares about this for years. "This way, Morales."

"Oh! Right right right." Much more carefully, he walks around the couch, keeping all his limbs tucked in like he"s on a rollercoaster.  "I"ll, uh, catch you guys tomorrow? I want to get a tour of everything, get my room—I"m getting a room, right?—but I"ll see you after!" Something a little sheepish crawls over his face. "I loved talking, seriously, but I also think I could sleep for, like, a day straight."

Hobie"s eyes are narrowed, but not at Miles—they"re flicking between him and Miguel, noting the lack of distance, noting the lack of tension. His gaze slides up, slow, accusing, to latch onto Miguel. 

You haven"t told him, it says. 

No. No, he hasn"t.

And if this week goes smoothly, he won"t.

"Sure?" Pavitr says, head tilting to the side. "We"ll see you tomorrow, then!" 

"Of course!" Miles says, bright, and when Miguel leaves the room, he follows right on his heels, bouncing in place even with his newly-found cautiousness over his superstrength. In the grand scheme of things, a moved couch is a pretty minor thing to break, but Miguel"s got a lot of fragile things around HQ he would really prefer not to be the next target. 

But the instant they"re alone, Miles rounds on him. His eyes are wide and flighty, shoulders curled tight to his sides, and Miguel stiffens, because he knows that face, has seen that face when he beat it into the steel hull of a train–

"I"m not. Like." Miles exhales, tugging on his sleeves. "Dating any of them. Am I?"

Oh. 

And he wants to laugh, just a little, because god, he"s just a kid, isn"t he? Just a kid. 

Maybe he"s always been just a kid. 

"Would you like to be?"

Miles manages a truly withering glare through his panic. "Dude. Not the time. Seriously not the time."

He wants to laugh and for some reason he does, barely more than a huff, shaking his head. Miles" glare increases and he swipes a hand over his hair, picking at his nails with manic energy. Hobie"s faux flirting must feel plenty real, and Pavitr"s never been anything less than excessively touchy, and Gwen has been the one trying hardest to welcome him into the group with all the knowledge she has of him before. 

Miles, in contrast, looks like he"s about to run as far as possible from the break room before his cheeks burn off.

Just a kid. 

"If there"s anyone in particular…"

"Oh my god shut up–"

-

It"s growing late, and Miguel has been up for two days now, but Miles has been dancing around a topic for the entire ambling tour they"re taking. Which. 

Miguel, unfortunately, has never been one to halfass things. So when he said he would give Miles a tour, apparently that means doing everything the other teens didn"t already do, and there"s really only one thing Miles has on his mind. 

They"re right outside his lab, Miles marveling over yet another damn view of the skyline, when Miguel finally decides to cut the shit. 

"Say what you want to say, Morales."

He cuts off halfway through a monologue about how a flying car works, retreating into himself just a bit, glancing both ways down the hall like he"s scared about someone overhearing. But he"s clearly been building up to this speech in his mind, and when the opportunity presents itself, he takes it. 

Miles looks at his wrists. At his hands. Glances, a little hesitantly, at Miguel. 

"So. I"m Spiderman, right? Does that mean I have, y"know, the–?"

He does a little thwip-thwip motion.

“Maybe.”

The non-committal answer doesn"t slow him down. If anything, he increases, perking right up. "So not organic, then, probably could"a guessed that—but then. Do I have, uh, web-shooters? Spinnerets? Machines that do it?" A pause. "Can I have them now?"

Miguel exhales. Bites back the desire to grit his teeth. 

He"s trying to be calmer. To fight against the anger that"s so woven into his core. Deep breaths. Tensing and relaxing. Counting how many things are in the room with him right now. 

He promised Jefferson and Rio Morales that he wasn"t trapping Miles in his dimension. And he isn"t. This isn"t like before. 

If that means that Miguel, for some godforsaken reason, is the one that"s going to reteach him his abilities, then so be it. 

"Fine. This way."

Miles whoops, long and loud, and charges after him. 

-

Miguel would like to go on recording stating that this is a terrible idea. He"s half-tempted to have Lyla call up a fake emergency just so he can nip this in the bud. 

But watching Miles marvel over the webslinger attached to his palm makes something warm flicker to life in his chest, and despite himself, he"s leaning over and guiding the kid"s fingers to the right position. 

"You push and hold with your middle two fingers," Miguel says, nudging Miles a little closer with his knuckles. There"s something worn and tense in the back of his mind, even with his talons fully retracted and hands open and not too close, because the last time he was–

No. Focus on the present. Focus on the now. 

Miles hums, eyes wide, and mimics the pose; his other fingers naturally splay out in that classic Spiderman gesture, and his eyes somehow find even more real estate on his face to widen further. "Woah," he breathes, opening and closing his hands a few more times. "I always thought it was. Like. Marketing, y"know? The hand motion. But this makes way more sense." He tries again with his empty hand, then switches a longing gaze to the palm that has the red-blue webslinger on it. "Can I–"

Miguel should say no. This is his lab, full of vitally important and frustratingly fragile things, monitors his budget barely accounts for how many he breaks by himself, Lyla"s core framework, anomaly containment devices, endless arrays of weapons, prototypes most government agencies would declare too unstable. This is the literal worst place to practice webslinging. He should say no. 

"Go ahead."

Miles whoops, makes a halfhearted effort to aim at an industry bar above, and fires. 

The first strand goes wild but Miles still clambers up after it, not swinging but using it more like a gymnast, skittering up its bobbing surface with all the wild disregard for stability that spiderfolk must come preprogrammed with. At the top, he looks over the room with wide eyes—then he chooses another target, hits it right on, and jumps off into a proper swing. 

Goes shoddily. Of course it does. Kid"s first time trying. 

But then he gets up, grinning madly, and tries again. 

Miguel trots beneath, hands at his sides—for all the kid"s got the athletics an Olympic competitor would kill for, he"s got none of the mental parts, and he"s floundering around like a newborn foal at speeds even Mayday can replicate. Even then, he"s shrieking and hollering like the world"s his oyster, aiming wobbly strands of web at everything that looks even vaguely stable and clambering his way toward it. His balance is a bit off with only one webslinger but he"s adjusting quickly, falling into more classical Spiderman perches, strumming against the web with enormous eyes and open mouth. He"s almost vibrating with glee. 

Just a kid, isn"t he?

"Don"t get stuck to my ceiling," Miguel can"t help but say, because he"s lost a dozen damn tiles to some of the younger spiderfolk and they"re a pain in the ass to replace.

Miles pauses halfway through aiming his webslinger at a bobbing light fixture, dropping down to a crouch and skittering over the steel I-beam to peer down at Miguel. He"s doing the classic new spiderfolk thing, trying to keep his head mostly pointed upright from a lingering connection to gravity despite not needing it in the slightest, and his legs are splayed and fingers spread over the metal to anchor him in place. 

"Get stuck?" Miles repeats, staring at his hands. "Um. I thought I was supposed to stick to things?"

Miguel frowns, just a bit. 

Because yeah. Miles has been climbing all over his lab, webslinger in prime action, and testing his new ability to walk upside down with the breathless excitement that comes from breaking what were previously hardfast rules of physics—but he hasn"t gotten stuck. Barely even noticed it as a problem, actually. 

Miguel doesn"t have that ability, but he"s heard plenty from the other spiders—competitions on the most valuable thing they ruined, how long they were stuck the first time, what embarrassing thing they did to unstick themselves. How it came down to relaxing before they were able to pop free.

Miles is relaxed. 

The thought shouldn"t hit him this hard. It certainly makes sense—he"s been shouting and laughing and swinging around the lab like a madman, hardly a consideration for bodily safety, much less nerves, and everything has been working for him. 

He"s relaxed. Enough so that he"s avoided what every other spider-person suffers through. 

In the depths of Nueva York, under the eye of Miguel O"Hara, he"s relaxed. 

Miguel has apparently been quiet enough that Miles notes it as a problem, scooting on his butt down the industrial beam and jumping off at the bottom, stumbling once but flinging his arms out for balance. His feet and hands stay unstuck. 

"Most spiderfolk tend to stick uncontrollably to things when they"re first bit," Miguel says, because he doesn"t know what else to do. 

Miles blinks at him, head cocked. It makes him look like a bemused dog. "Am I supposed to be having problems? Is that normal?"

Miguel shrugs. "Is anyone supposed to have problems?"

It comes out a little heavier than he wants. He can"t look away from Miles, swinging so freely through the lab, head held high and laughter bright—not sticking to walls, not learning how to swing in a chase for his life, already having perfected technology and a guide on how to use it. 

Is this how spiderfolk should be taught? Having someone at their side to help them skip all the messy, bloody lessons so many have to learn by themselves?

Is this what it means to not be alone?

"Fair enough," Miles says, strolling over with all the swagger of a teen who has just learned he"s a superhero. "Guess I"m awesome, then." He tilts his head to the side. "What about you? Did you stick to things?"

Miguel shakes his head. "I don"t have that ability," he says, and he works on smoothing out his voice, calming down his face, slipping back into that comfortable impartiality. The focus is on Miles, now. Deep breaths. 

Miles, of course, doesn"t see this as the end of the conversation. "What? That isn"t, like, default?"

Unfortunately not. "No. I have–" and now he"s breaking off, because he"s working overtime on keeping them retracted and hidden, hands still by his sides, never reaching too fast or too closely. Masha said that he shouldn"t have any memories of the past two years but the brain isn"t always perfect like that, shown by how Miles still has the muscle memory to flip and grab the web even if he"s not consciously aware of it, and if anything were to break past the haze of his amnesia it would be memories of the chase, of the hunt, of the claws.

Miguel can"t risk that. 

But Miles is staring at him and it would be even more suspicious if he tries to change the conversation, so he just– "I have talons, instead."

Miles" eyes go very, very wide. 

"No," he breathes, and Miguel stiffens, and there are memories, old and rotten and pained, of the last time he used his talons against someone who didn"t deserve–

Then Miles steps closer to him, mouth pulled up in a grin. 

"Holy shit," he says. "No way. No way. You have talons? Show me."

Miguel feels the floor slip beneath him. 

But when Miles prompts him, eyes wide and curious and excited, he lifts his right hand, keeps a careful pocket of distance between them, enough room for Miles to run, enough room to defend himself, and unsheaths them. 

That distance doesn"t matter as Miles scampers closer and grabs his hand.

"Dude," he"s saying, and then he"s yanking Miguel"s hand up so he can peer at his talons, running his fingers over their edge, testing the sharpness—and with his unconscious superstrength, it means Miguel can"t pull back without risking hurting him, so he just sits there. Watching Miles. 

"Okay, they"re probably pretty annoying in everyday life, but that"s so cool," Miles says, looking a little sadly at his own hands. "Can you—wait, bad choice—what about opening bags? Can you use them like a letter opener? Or for chips and things?"

I nearly cut a man"s arm off and watched him fall to his death. "Sometimes?"

Miles hums, nodding like he expected that, and continues examining his hand. Halfway through comparing how long they are to one of his own knuckles, he presses down on the flat of Miguel"s palm, and that familiar nerve ending kicks in to extend his talons a hair further. 

Miles makes an honest-to-god squeal.

"You"re like a cat!"

Miles has star-filled eyes. Or at least this Miles does, wide and open and full of wonder, and the Miles that Miguel has been working with for half a year has none of that. Has none of that left, maybe. 

It’s bittersweet, seeing the boy he used to be. 

"Alright, Morales," Miguel says, gently tugging his hand out of the kid"s grip. 

Miles huffs, a bit of a wince spreading over his face. "Ah man, not Morales— that"s what my dad uses when I"m in trouble. Miles is better."

Miguel hesitates. 

He didn"t know that. 

He didn"t know a lot of things, he"s realizing. 

"Miles," he says instead, and stores that information, remembers it, keeps it. "Get back to practicing. If you"re going to have those for the rest of the week, I want you able to use them properly."

The kid laughs, wide and bright, and rolls his eyes hard enough to nearly knock them out of his skull. "Alright, dad. But watch this!" And then he"s firing off another web and darting after it, skittering up the strand, all gangling limbs and teenage energy, and soon he"s whipping through the lab again. 

Miguel watches him, and this time, can"t deny whatever the warmth in his chest is. 

-

Night comes crawling on, inevitable as the tide, and despite Miles improving his swinging by leaps and bounds, he starts yawning more and more. When even Lyla appears by his side, tapping an invisible watch and managing to raise a pretty impressive eyebrow past her glitching interface, Miguel has to call it quits. 

Miles bitches and moans but does eventually come down, stumbling once on the landing but mostly retracting himself smoothly. Miguel"s lab is littered with hundreds of web strands, but that"s a problem for tomorrow him, and so he doesn"t look at it as he leads Miles out. 

The eastern wing isn"t far, since HQ has to be narrow to fit into Nueva York"s highly competitive real estate and most of the larger spaces are taken up with training rooms, everything else crammed in haphazardly. But without the excitement of actively practicing, Miles" energy has sapped and sagged enough he"s near trudging towards after Miguel, and what should be a five minute trip is extending into something closer to fifteen. 

But eventually they get there, tucked up one side of the building where there"s a pale imitation of privacy. Few spiders use any of the rooms, most content to stay in their own dimension, but Miguel keeps them open just in case. 

Gwen had used one, for a time. 

He walks through the entrance hall and picks the first available room in the corridor—an empty corridor, because he doesn"t want the kid to worry about running into anyone who might know him when he"s just trying to wake up in the morning—and taps through the interface, unlocking the door. It opens with a hiss.

It"s basic, a bed shoved up against the wall and a table beside it, dome light clicking on overhead. A desk, made with a wood-substitute painted white, a rolling chair tucked in. A door in the back with a bathroom. Plenty for a week. 

Miles whistles, circling the room, snorting a bit at the web-print pillows and stylized spider sheets—sue him, Miguel gets those for extremely cheap in this city—and turns back to him. "Do you just have a bunch of units in here, empty? Do you know how much rent you could get?"

"The building is mine," he says, which is politer than explaining in detail how he took it from the shattered grip of Alchemax when he tore them apart from the inside. "And out of respect for my profession and the defense I provide, I don"t have to pay property taxes. Rent isn"t necessary."

"Damn." His tongue perches between his teeth. "Wish we had it that nice in Brooklyn."

He walks in, running his fingers over the desk, pushing the chair to test how it glides over the laminate floor. "This is just a temporary dig, though, right? Not, like, where I live normally?"

Miguel blinks. "You tend to stay in your dimension."

"Oh, right, forgot about that." Miles rubs the back of his neck a little sheepishly, looking away from Miguel. "Because, er, I know I"ve changed in two years, but I don"t think any version of me could stand being in this room for longer than a week, seriously."

Nueva York"s minimum is going to be more technologically advanced than anything Earth-1610 produces, though Miguel will allow that it"s hard to improve much on the basic bed. This room isn"t exactly lacking in quality. "If you need a larger–"

His eyes go wide. "No, no, not like that—it"s just. It"s boring, you know? Not what I would. Um. Do for myself."

Miguel stares at the blank walls. He thinks they look fine. "What would you do?"

"I mean–" Miles hums, hands on his hips, peering around. He taps his fingers over the sweatpants to a tuneless beat. "Throw up some posters? Fairy lights, figurines, drawings—just stuff to show that it"s yours, y"know? You want to make a space yours when you can."

Right. He almost forgot he was working with a teenager. 

"Or, like, a nice paint job, some curtains; coordinate the comforter with the posters, put glow-in-the-dark stars up, little things like that. Helps it be less… soulless."

Miguel feels strangely offended. "My room looks like this."

"Oh." Miles sends him the distant cousin of a wince. "No offense, man, but that"s not a great thing. Where"s your pizzazz? Your, uh, joie de vivre?" He pauses, frown prickling between his brows. "Wait, do you live here?"

Miguel blinks. "I do?" It isn"t supposed to come out as a question. 

"Aren"t there, like, guidelines against that? Separation of work and life? Something about balance?" A pause. "–and I"m critiquing the leader of a superhero group. Alright. Take it all back. Boring white cubes are completely in, my man."

Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose. "Go to bed, Miles."

That"s suggestion enough and Miles kicks off his slides, jumping right under the sheets without changing—fair, Miguel will have to find him more clothing tomorrow—and curling up. His eyes are already fluttering shut. 

It"s been a long day for him. For Miguel. For all involved. 

He flicks the light off, earning a grunt of thanks, and walks to the exit. Miguel pauses, hand on the door. "Good night, kid."

There"s a muffled snort, something almost like g"night, and then the lump on the bed softens out and goes still. 

He shuts the door quietly behind him and stands there. 

That was. Well. 

The most amiable time he"s spent with Miles, perhaps ever, and it took place over an entire day. A few moments of awkwardness, but that was carried by amnesia, rather than anything else, rather than old, twisted memories—Miles is young and gangly and unsure of himself, but he"s also bright, and when he smiles, there are stars in his eyes. 

It"s. Odd.

But nice, in a way. 

Miguel doesn"t know what to think. So instead he turns, has Lyla actively monitor all the security cameras in the wing, and goes back to his lab. His headache has mostly slipped away over the course of the day, but the tiredness has not, and he"s very aware of the two days he"s been awake. For all he"s genetically enhanced, he isn"t made for punishment like this more than a time or two a week, and he has been the king of running himself ragged for three years now. Sleep sounds like paradise. 

He doesn"t have a danger sense, nothing beyond his own heightened abilities, and so he hears whoever is following him later than he would have liked. 

It"s soft, almost imperceptible, but now he"s noticed it, there"s the thump of feet on tile, the whisper of clothing brushing against walls. Whoever it is keeps themself slow, movement steady, but HQ hallways echo, and now he can hear them. 

There"s a curl of iron up his spine—if they were following him, then they know where Miles is sleeping, and in his current state, the kid can"t defend himself if it"s a threat—but then he inhales, the scent trail kicked up just enough to reach him despite the hallway"s lack of directional winds, and there"s a brief flash of spices. 

Familiar spices. Coconut. 

Miguel sighs. "You can come out, Prabhakar."

A touch sheepishly, the Spiderman slips out from around the corner, forgoing the slip-toe silence he"s maintained on his footsteps before this. He"s still in the cashmere sweater, arms bundled close to his sides with the heat differentiation from his home of Mumbatten especially in Nueva York"s winter, but there"s something fierce on his kind face. 

He"s the chosen sacrificial lamb, then. Not a terrible choice. Hobie and Gwen both have too much history with Miguel, and Pavitr has the charisma of the spiderfolk genes down to a science. 

"Miles is fine," Miguel opens with, because he can read the question in the curl of Pavitr"s shoulders. "Sleeping. His room is being guarded by Lyla and the posted patrols. He"ll be okay."

Pavitr wavers. Miguel"s words have taken some of the bite out of his nerves but they"re not all gone, and the energetic optimism he"d been projecting while entertaining Miles has drained away, leaving the face of a fifteen-year-old whose close friend doesn"t remember him. There"s something like anguish in how he looks away. 

He"s done wrong for all these kids, Miguel is realizing. They"re just teenagers, for all the horrors they"ve faced, and they need more than what he"s given them. They all do. 

"Tomorrow, we"ll meet in the same break room," he says, because that"s apparently the plan now. "Training in the evening, so he has some control over his abilities, but he"s free all the rest. You can keep giving him tours."

Still, Pavitr hesitates. Miguel closes his eyes. "Was there something you wanted?"

A pause. "We"d like to get pulled from back-up requests this week," he says, a proper spiderfolk stubbornness bleeding into his words, and he doesn"t have to elaborate on who the we is. He"s bracing his weight between his feet, not like he"s gearing for a fight, but more like he"s preventing himself from fidgeting. Trying to present a strong front.

Miguel raises an eyebrow. "Of course." Though she"s not visible, he knows Lyla is already on it, scouring their names from the available list and wiping clean their schedules with her particular yellow-pink brand of ferocity. "Is that to spend time with Miles?"

"We want to set up a schedule for patrolling on Earth-1610, actually." 

And. Oh. 

Miles is an incredible Spiderman. One of the best, and Miguel has no qualms about saying that—for only being two years on the job, he"s taken to it with an ease and proficiency that far outpaces even the veterans, and Miguel has never once thought about sending extra spiderfolk to his dimension. There was no need. 

But it means that now, he hadn"t even thought about what would happen without a Spiderman in Earth-1610. 

These kids, really. 

"Just one of us a day," Pavitr elaborates, still stiff, but warming to the topic now that Miguel hasn"t shut it down. "Then the rest of us can stay with him. Keep him–" the word dies on his tongue. 

Silence stretches between them. 

Keep him safe. Miguel knows what he was going to say. 

"I"m not going to hurt him," he says, and hates that he says it, and hates how Pavitr doesn"t relax, and hates how he knows he needed to say it at all. 

Deep breaths. 

"Don"t lie to him, either," Pavitr says, uncharacteristically quiet. In the past six months, all four of them have gotten incredibly close, but he and Miles have bonded like they were meant to be at each other"s side—Miguel can guess why, if the months of awkwardness bleeding through Miles and Gwen explain anything. There"s no tension to work past, no chase, no hunt. Just two kids enjoying each other"s presence, bound by a secret no one else in their dimension can understand. "He"s smart. He"ll figure out something"s wrong. If he asks, don"t lie to him."

Miguel wants to. 

"I won"t," he says, and Pavitr nods back. 

The teen slips back into the shadows of Spider HQ, feet padding away and cream sweater swallowed by the surrounding shadows; back to his dimension, presumably, or off to where the other spiders are waiting to hear if he was successful. Because they were worried Miguel wouldn"t allow them. 

He keeps walking, but his steps are slower. 

HQ fades away as he works his way deeper into the center, away from windows and blinding lights, and before long he"s back at his lab, the grey walls and twisted wires. He pauses, in the doorway, staring over it all. Function over form, littered in monitors and pillars and dissolving strands of web. 

"Clear my schedule for tomorrow," he murmurs, slipping inside. His room is a small, sheltered thing in the back, barely more than a bed and narrow closet, and for the first time he feels the walls around him. No lights, no windows, all greys and blacks. Empty shelves. 

Lyla flicks her glasses down the bridge of her nose. "Oh, but wasn"t the check-in with that rudimentary dimensional-breaking rift so important? You"ve been planning on going there for two weeks!"

"Clear my schedule, Lyla."

She cackles. "And those reports you"ll need to gather—I think Lady Spider"s been working on a case for a while now, and I know you won"t want to force Ben to take it–"

"Clear my schedule." A pause as he sends his suit away to be auto-cleaned and recharged, hand resting on the multi-paned door. "Please."

She mimes falling back, hand over her heart, fritzing through elaborate death sequences. "I can"t believe it! Miguel O"Hara, asking his poor, overworked assistant, but with a–"

"Por favor, cállate."

Lyla laughs again, flicks him a thumbs-up, and disappears. 

-

The next morning, when Miguel emerges from his catnap and has Lyla dutifully tell him everything she"s done while he was asleep, he asks her to guide Miles to the same break room as last time. 

Normally he would go grab the kid himself, but this time, he"s not alone. 

He sent out the message yesterday, counting on the man being generally terrible at staying up late, and he anticipated correctly. That meant he had enough time to catch a few hours of rest before Peter B. Parker explodes into the Spider HQ with all the force of a panicked hurricane. 

Miguel starts counting ceiling tiles. 

Peter"s portal snaps closed behind him as he stumbles through, arms thrown out for balance. No Mayday, not even the björn—Peter"s eyes are wide and wild, hair mussed up, suit hidden beneath the frumpy layers of an oversized sweater and clover-studded pajama pants. 

"Miles?" He asks, instead of a hello or how has your day been or are you dealing with this crazy situation. That"s fine. 

"On his way here," Miguel says, shouldering open the break room door. It looks the same as yesterday, though the spider-bots have cleared away the excess trash and added more blankets to the couch, and he makes his way over to the coffee pot because there"s no chance he"s surviving today without caffeine. 

Peter exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. "And he doesn"t remember anything?"

"Nothing from before the spider bite."

The water hisses and froths as it goes through the grounds, filling the pot beneath. Instead of asking, Peter fumbles for his own mug, not quite pushing Miguel out of the way but certainly close. He drowns it in sugar and clutches it to his chest like it"s a fair bit stronger than just coffee, harried and wild. 

Miguel adds a single splash of cream, like a sane person, and stares at him. 

Peter breaks first, of course. "I don"t know what to expect," he admits. "I met Miles less than a week after he was bit, and even in those few days, he"d already changed so much. He"s a kid, you know? Changing is what they do." He pauses, glancing up. "Are we certain he"s completely amnesiac? No lingering recognition?"

"He chose me over the teens to give him a tour."

Peter throws his coffee back like a shot. "Yep. Alright. No memories."

Silence, for a moment. Miguel nurses his cup, drinking slowly to avoid overloading his senses, which is the only reason he softens it with cream instead of drinking it black. There are several annoying downsides to having near majority spider DNA.

"What are we doing about it?" Peter asks, knuckles white around his mug. "If he doesn"t remember anything— what do we say?"

That"s the question, isn"t it? That"s always the question. There"s no guide or manual to this; even with normal amnesia, which is an oxymoron, there"s the understanding that the person will retain what happens to them. That while they might be struggling to recall their past, things that happen in the present will be stored, whether unconsciously or in swiss-cheese short-term memory or perfectly. 

Not that they"ll be erased by the end of the week. 

"I"m not telling him much," Miguel settles on. "Giving him tours and reteaching him some things so he won"t hurt himself. The teens have been doing most of the entertaining. No doubt he"s noticed we"re treading lightly, but I don"t think he suspects anything."

Peter frowns, jaw tightening. "Last time we lied to him was what caused this all," he says. "I won"t do that again. It isn"t fair."

Miguel doesn"t look at him. "Do you want to be the one to tell him about the chase, or his father? To give him all that and make this week hell when he"s just going to forget it anyways?"

Peter winces.

Maybe they"re both cowards. 

But telling Miles everything when there"s no reason is just cruel. It"s killing this smiling, sunny child when he"s already confused and floundering to find his place in a world that knows so much about him when he doesn"t know anything about it. 

This is for Miles" sake. 

Lyla appears before them both, glasses pulled down. "Speaking of teens, they"re on their way," she chirps. "Directed them here without even being asked."

Of course she did. "Gracias."

Peter exhales, straightens his sweater, and pours himself another coffee. Miguel mirrors him. 

The door clatters open, kicked in by Hobie"s steel-toed boot; he shambles in, hands in his pockets, eyebrows raised and wicks pushed back. Pavitr bounces in after him, bags clutching under his eyes—they stayed up late last night, then. 

It"s Monday, so it seems like Pavitr is skipping school, which must be driving a dagger through his perfect attendance, and Miguel still isn"t sure if Hobie has ever so much as glanced in the general direction of a classroom. Gwen is the first on patrol, looks like, and she"ll probably bounce between all their dimensions during peak villain hours before calling it good enough. It"s not like they patrol every hour of every day. 

Peter flashes them a smile, waving his mug in their direction. "Hullo, kiddos. How goes it?"

"Peachy," Hobie says, drumming his fingers over the metal spikes of his jacket. "Heard what happened, then?"

Peter sighs. Curls his cup a little closer to his chest. 

Miguel"s not used to seeing him like this, unsure, and without Mayday to giggle and break the mood, it weighs heavy over them all. He"s one of the oldest spiderfolk, older than Miguel, but he tends to keep a calm, casual demeanor. 

There isn"t that now. 

Pavitr runs a hand through his hair, adjusting his headband. "We were going to give him another tour today," he says, apparently deciding not to bring up the conversation they"d had last night. Miguel appreciates that. "Grab food and then take him down to the training rooms—no actual fighting—and show him a few things we can do!"

Hobie rolls his eyes. "An" you just want to show off that new kalaripayattu move to someone who doesn"t know not to try"n copy you."

Pavitr huffs. "If you tried I"m sure you could do it!"

"Listen mate, I"m plenty flexible, I don"t need to use my feet to scratch the center o" my goddamn back–"

"That sounds like a good plan," Peter interrupts, because those two can and have gone on tangents that spiral into indecipherable insults and vague allegations about potency status. "Lyla, how long do we have?"

She taps her wrist. "Thirty seconds!"

A brief flash of panic, Peter throwing back another mouthful of coffee, and then the door of the break room clicks open. 

Deep breaths. 

Miles has changed from yesterday, finding acid-washed jeans with a cross-stitch pattern that isn"t from Nueva York and a slightly-too-large hoodie, and he"s bouncing on the balls of his feet and chattering with another manifestation of Lyla a million miles a minute. Right, the first time he"s properly met the AI—Lyla, for her part, preens over the praise, adjusting her jacket and flinging up various screens and holograms. 

"–no, like, Skynet urges? Ever thought about replacing Miguel?"

Lyla cackles. "Are you kidding? He wouldn"t last a day without me! I"m the leader already in all but name."

Miles whistles, entering the room—he does a cursory scan, brightening when he sees everyone"s faces, and pauses on Peter. His head tilts to the side. 

There"s no awkwardness. No tension. Just a vague, lingering confusion. 

Peter, for his part, is gripping his coffee mug hard enough the porcelain cracks.

"Heya, kiddo," he says, extending a hand like he wants to lay it on Miles" shoulder but pauses, remembering the fight, the amnesia, the everything. It stays hovering there. 

Perhaps not noticing the pause, or just being polite, Miles forms a fist and taps knuckles with him, making a little pshah sound as he pulls back. "Um. Hello?" He squints at his face. "Guessing you know me, huh?"

That"s an understatement. Pain, for a brief, inescapable moment, flashes over Peter"s eyes. 

But then he"s grinning, inclining his coffee mug in Miles" direction with his pinkie primly extended. "I was your mentor for a bit there," he offers, splaying his fingers out. "Showed you all the ropes!"

"Oh!" Miles looks at him with new eyes, grin tugging on his lips. There"s a note of incredulity as he takes in the pajama pants and slippers. "You taught me?"

Peter squawks, but he"s smiling, eyes curled up. "Where"s all the respect for your elders? I"ll have you know I taught you how to be the best Spiderman."

"Sure," Miles says, in the way people do when they don"t believe what they"re hearing but are willing to placate the other person. "Is that what we"re doing today? You, uh, showing me the ropes again with everyone?" He blinks then, looking around like she"ll pop out of the woodwork. "Where"s Gwand– er, Gwen?"

Hobie yawns, loud and fierce, shaking his wicks out of the way. "Gwendy"s out patrollin". Makin" sure your New York doesn"t implode while you"re gone."

Miles" eyes go very, very wide. "I forgot about that," he says in a faint whisper. "Man. I"m like. A proper superhero, huh? Defending people every day?"

"All of New York!" Pavitr pipes in. "But for the week, we"ll be helping you out—one of us every day is going to your dimension, making sure it all stays together!"

Something soft and warm and grateful crawls over his face. 

"Um." He looks between the two, who watch him back expectantly. "Who"s, um. Tomorrow?"

Pavitr brightens, leaning forward fast enough his hair flops over his face. "That"d be me!"

"Can you check in on my parents? Just make sure they"re okay?" Miles smiles, a little self-deprecating, swinging his arms at his sides like he"s not sure where to put them. "I know I shouldn"t really be talking to them, since there"s all this… overlap, but I want to make sure they"re doing good. Oh! And my Uncle Aaron! He, uh–" he flicks a glance back to Miguel, question written over his eyes. "He knows about me being Spiderman, right? There"s no way I told my parents and not him."

From behind them all, Miguel watches Peter stiffen like he"s just been shot.

The uncle. The presumably very dead uncle. Miguel nods anyway. 

Relief flashes over Miles" face. That is not a good sign. 

"Sure!" Pavitr chirps, though his head is cocked to the side. "Your parents know where he lives, right?"

Miles blinks a bit, like he thinks Pavitr should know already, but nods. "Yeah. They"ll tell you. Maybe ask my mom, though, not my dad?" He chuckles a bit ruefully. "It"s not– they don"t dislike each other, but, brothers, y"know? Hard to always get along."

Peter"s knuckles are white around the coffee mug. 

That"s enough of that. 

"Go entertain yourself for an hour," Miguel says, because he needs answers and there"s only one source he"s going to get them from. "No leaving HQ. Lyla can grab you anything you need."

She pops into existence before them all, hands on her hips. "Metaphorically," she complains, doing a little jazz hand routine before Miles" awestruck expression. "Just a hologram!"

"You"re so cool," Miles breathes, and barely seems to notice Pavitr grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the door. Miguel unfolds, setting his mug in the designated pick-up spot, but stays in the room. 

From the year and a half they"ve worked together, Peter understands to stay with him, even if his pleading expression clearly says he"d rather keep talking with Miles. But Hobie"s picked up on that energy, eyes narrowed, and he"s planted his body between the man with the kind of steadfast determination only he can muster. Pavitr is all but hauling Miles behind him, chattering about the cafeteria and spider-burgers, and Miles is laughing and following them. 

Much like with Gwen, the first few months after the Spot were… frosty. Peter kept trying, but to his credit, he pulled back when he saw Miles was uncomfortable. Gave him space while he healed, gave him time. They"ve been crawling back together, even if they"re not where they were even in the short interaction Miguel saw before it all went down. 

But this Miles doesn"t have any of that awkwardness. Just a lingering confusion about who the man is. 

As for Peter, it looks like he"s on the verge of needing breathing exercises. 

The three disappear down the hallway, hands up and voices higher, and the bounce of their conversation echoes long after they"ve left. Peter slumps back down, hand over his face, mug near slipping off his finger. 

"Yeah," he mumbles into his palm. "That"s not him. He doesn"t remember anything."

At least one person believes him. Miguel keeps his ears pricked until all sound has faded, the three headed towards wherever teens go when they"re about to start a second tour, and pads to the center of the room for more easily accessed pacing. Because as much as Peter is a layabout and takes things far too casually, he"s also the first other adult Miguel has been able to talk to about this situation, and he"d like to bounce ideas off of someone that isn"t worried about upcoming exams and high school crushes. 

"He"s acting like he did before, though?" He asks, because clarity is necessary—no one knows how Miles was before the spider bite, but Peter"s the closest he"s going to get, since it looks like he and Gwen only interacted once or twice before. "Nothing that could suggest something"s wrong?"

"I mean, it"s definitely wrong," Peter says, teeth gritted. "But yeah. Bit less confident, which probably comes from having complete strangers talking like they know you, but that"s Miles Morales at thirteen." His voice softens. "God, he"s thirteen."

Fifteen isn"t old either, in the grand scheme of things. 

Nothing about this situation is easy. 

"Lyla," Miguel says, because they"re here for only one purpose and he"s not about to mince words. "Pull up the security cams of Miles."

She fritzes in front of him, eyebrow raised, smirk firmly in place. "Bit stalkerish, isn"t it? You know, there"s an easier way to do this; it"s called go-talk-to-him. I can walk you through the basic steps–"

"Lyla."

She cackles, pulls up a few orange-yellow holograms, and a camera display unfolds of the cafeteria. It jumps a handful of times, searching for their target, before narrowing in on the three teens, waiting in line for the free food. Hobie"s doing some begrudged, dramatic point towards the menu, Pavitr in front, and they"re all chatting. Laughing. Bright. 

Peter watches the screen. His hands, seemingly unconsciously, wrap around his chest, where Mayday would be. Something past the day-old scruff and unkempt appearance makes him look old, worn. Weary. 

"His Uncle Aaron is dead," he says softly. "But he was the Prowler, in Earth-1610. Tried to kill Miles a few times before they each figured it out. Kingpin shot him after." He purses his lips, looks away from the screen. "They were… very close. Closer than anyone else, I think."

Miguel grits his teeth. That"s beyond unfortunate. He wonders, not for the first time, what would have happened if the spider hadn"t come to that dimension, if Miles had never been bit—where would he be now?

He wants to say the kid would still be a hero, or at least a regular person, unaware of the legacy he could have had. But families make things difficult, at times. 

The Prowler. 

"Lyla, catch Pavitr before he goes to Earth-1610 tomorrow," he says, and she leans in despite having perfectly fine sensory mechanisms. "Give him the general rundown—Uncle Aaron is dead, they were very close, he shouldn"t bring it up to Miles."

"Gotcha," she fires back, already pulling up various drafting passages and timers. 

Peter keeps watching the screen. Miles is ducking under Pavitr"s bangle as they rope together enough tapas to feed a small army, tottering off to the nearest table, apparently continuing their mission to see if Miles" tastes were different before. For his part, he"s just laughing along with it, chattering about certain foods and examining others with curiosity. 

"That"s my Miles," Peter says, and there"s a wane smile on his face. "I haven"t seen him in a long time."

Miguel frowns. 

After a moment, he elaborates. "My Miles died on that train," Peter says, soft, slow, sad. "Or maybe talking to me, or in your lab—but either way, he died, and someone else took his place."

Oh.

There"s a wretchedness, to self-loathing. It curdles instead of burns, twists familiar sensations into rotten parodies, taints all it touches. 

"Are they that different?" Miguel asks. It comes out quieter than he wanted. 

Peter laughs a little, pained, setting down his coffee mug to scrub at his face. "It"s– he"s Miles, you know? Clever kid. Gives himself up and loves too easily. I don"t think that"ll ever change."

He stares at the screen. On it, Miles laughs, long and hard and free, as Pavitr balances two bao on his forehead, Hobie hollering as he tries to get a third on there. 

"But he"s quieter, now. Less open. Less… him."

The bao fall off. Miles is doubled over. 

"I guess I only noticed when I saw how he used to be."

They should make good on their invitation to discuss, to lay out plans for the week, to decide how to treat Miles and how much to tell him. To come up with training plans and find enough clothing and get him a sturdier day pass. Call up Masha Yana and see what her tests have turned up. Send a Society-wide missive with the barebones of the situation for those that might run into him. Just talk about what happened and how to deal with it. 

Instead they sit and watch Miles relearn his position with fumbling steps in a group that welcomes him with open arms. 

-

They don"t come back after an hour. They watch the teens skitter around HQ, showing Miles all of the ropes he knew and learned and forgot, and they"re laughing the whole while—some hours later, Gwen returns from patrol, tired and anxious, but Miles brightens up and waves her over and she slots in with the three of them like she was never gone. 

There"s no awkwardness there. None of that lingering tension that Miguel only notices in its absence. 

Peter goes home, eventually. He shoved Mayday off on MJ and neither of them were too happy about that situation, so he opens a portal and steps through, gold catching on the silver in his hair. Tomorrow, he says. I"ll be back tomorrow.

Miguel nods, sends him off, and heads to his lab. He busies himself with meaningless nothings; adjusting his suit, double-checking the integrity of Rapture, reading through reports. All the things he should be doing on days like this. 

But the second Lyla sends the message that Miles is heading back to his room, the other teens disappearing to their own dimensions, he"s closing his tablet fast enough the screen hisses its frustration and striding off towards the eastern wing. 

He"s got longer legs and a much better understanding of HQ, as well as Lyla running a non-stalking watchful eye over the scenario—he times it out so that he just so happens to be walking by as Miles hesitantly presses his thumb to the doorpad. It pops open, beeping politely, as he rounds the corner. 

Miguel looks at him. His clothes are rumpled, water on the hem from where he"d tried to scrub some food stains out and only mostly succeeded, and his face is worn and tired. 

But happy. 

Miguel scuffs his heels just loud enough and Miles glances over, perking up when he sees him. "Miguel!"

He nearly misses a step. It"s very, very rarely that someone says his name like that. 

"How was your day?" He says instead of any of that, because there are deep breaths and relaxing his arms and counting the ceiling tiles that are much more important. 

"Fantastic!" Miles chirps, all bright and grinning, though his eyes are still outlined with tiredness. Makes sense. The kid"s been running from dawn to dusk for two days now. "They"re so cool, you know? Like. Obviously they"re friends with me, so I"m doing something right, but I would absolutely pass them in school and think they were too cool to talk to me. Have you seen Pavitr? Or Hobie? Apparently he and Gwen are in a band, like, a proper band-band, with a full drum set and guitar and not just a budget keyboard or something with–"

Whatever else he"s going to say is interrupted by a yawn, wide and open, and Miles can barely swallow it down before he chokes on his words. He kicks at the ground with a wince. 

"Sounds like fun." At least the teenage definition of it. "Peter wants to meet with you tomorrow, if you"re willing," Miguel says, because he"s been reduced to messenger boy, apparently. "In the morning."

Miles flaps a dismissive hand in his direction. "Yeah, yeah, I"ll get up." A pause. "They"ll be here tomorrow too, right? Hobie and Pavitr and Gwen?"

"Yes." Because there"s not a world where at least one of them doesn"t stay glued to Miles" side, after… everything. After everything that happened. "Even if that comes at the detriment of the Spider Society."

"Oh, c"mon," Miles says, grinning, tongue between his teeth. "The cafeteria looked much better once we were done with it."

"Brat," Miguel says, and it comes out almost teasing. 

But the night is late and Miles keeps yawning, so he pops the door to his unit open, slipping inside as the lights click on. Miguel steps back, squinting a bit in the light, hands at his sides. Another day. 

Miles hesitates for a second, hand on the door, holding it from closing for just a heartbeat longer. "I know I was busy today," he hedges, unsure, eyes flicking around for somewhere else to look. "But. Um. D"ya think that tomorrow, you could. Train me again?"

Oh.

There"s something warm and soft and traitorously fond in his chest. 

"Sure. I can do that."

-

Peter has decided that this, apparently, is his day. 

He"s commandeered the whole break room, and in what has to be MJ"s doing, has woken up early enough to get there even before Miguel, which should frankly be impossible, considering he lives here. But it means that by the time he arrives, there are piles of food and throw blankets and whole new couches magicked out of nowhere, and Peter is looking over it all, clutching a mug of coffee and looking very pleased with himself. 

"Movie night," he declares. "Movie day. Period-of-time-in-which-we-watch-movies. That way the kiddos can stay together but it"s not awkward to have me here—I"ll run it like a chaperone, grab everyone snacks and things. And!"

He pulls out his piece de resistance—the björn safely strapped to his chest, with Mayday particularly unsafely crawling over his shoulders with a giggle. 

Miguel steps past him towards the coffee machine. He"s going to need it. 

The teens trickle in—Lyla did manage to catch Pavitr before he went out on patrol, so hopefully he won"t try and ask Miles" parents about the deceased Aaron Davis, because that will only go horribly—and Hobie kicks at the blankets with a vague look of interest, Gwen swiping a macaroon and stuffing it whole in her mouth. Peter buzzes around, looking all the world like a dad trying to organize his kid"s first sleepover, and Miguel leans back against the corner and does his best to disappear. 

This isn"t exactly his scene. He"ll stick around long enough to greet Miles, get confirmation on the time of training, and then he"ll fade back to more familiar lands. Movies are hell on his eyes, anyway. 

A little past eight, the door cracks open and Miles peers inside, Lyla disappearing from over his shoulder. 

"Woah!" A bit fair. The room"s been properly transformed since the last time they were in it. "Um. Hey guys, looks like we"re doing—is that a baby?"

Mayday, crawling over the ceiling, giggles. 

Peter perks up like a proud peacock, kicking off the wall to grab her, nudging her spider cap a little further up her head. She gnaws at her day pass, webslinger firing off a strand to pop her right out of Peter"s hands, latching onto the couch and crawling over the cushions. 

"Miles," Peter says, hands on his hips, watching his little monster slobber on Miguel"s nice couch. "I would like you to meet Mayday Parker!"

"May…day?" Miles asks, a little dubious. 

Hobie nods with sage wisdom. "White people."

Gwen splutters. 

"You chose your own name, Gwendolyne, you"ve got no room to speak–"

"Yes, yes, her name is May, but believe me, after she got her webslinger, Mayday is more accurate. Now! Would you like to hold her?"

Miles blinks. He looks thirteen again, bemused, like he"s not quite positive which part of the baby is supposed to point up, but when Peter deposits her in his arms, some sort of instinct takes over and he"s cradling the back of her neck, pressing her to his chest. She gurgles and coos. 

Peter"s taken ten pictures before the moment"s out. Miles smiles, a little hesitantly, towards the flash. 

"Adorable," he declares, and continues snapping away. "But yes. My child! She"s wonderful. Stronger than any of us. Practically the glue that holds the Spider Society together." That"s a bit much. 

"Sure?" 

Peter levels a finger at him, wagging it mock-seriously. "And I know you"re a hooligan youth, but keep the cursing to a minimum, alright? MJ will have me by my ears if Mayday"s first word isn"t dad or mom."

Miles raises an eyebrow. Peter raises two right back. 

Mayday gurgles. Miles mutters something muffled and switches his grip so he"s got her by the armpits, feet kicking at his chest, staring down at her with a vague confusion still in his eyes. He sits on the couch and she crawls off, bapping her face into the cushion as she pulls herself onto the back to toddle along. "So. Uh. What are we doing?"

Hobie slumps over the couch next to him, legs kicking up and hands behind his head. "Beats me, mate."

"Movies!" Peter sets his coffee mug down so he can flap his hands more excitedly. "Two years is plenty of time for some new hits to come out, and since you kiddos already rot your brains with your phones, at least this way we can do it somewhat productively."

"Woah," Miles says, and there"s a grin warming his face. "This– that is an exact quote my dad has used. Uncountable amounts of dad energy. Am I being adopted? Can you be forcibly adopted? I haven"t signed any papers."

Peter lets out a surprised bark of a laugh, eyes curling up at the corners. Even Gwen snorts. 

"Everyone knows he would"ve," she teases, grin bright. "Maybe not dad. Uncle. But like, a lame uncle."

Peter slaps his hands on his hips. "Now, I know my favourite niece didn"t just insult me. How rude. Gwen, you"re no longer—what"s the word —hip."

"No, she"s fantastic," Miles corrects, and everyone is treated to the sight of Gwen flushing a brilliant scarlet. Hobie cackles, leaning back to wrap an arm around her shoulders—she bats him off, tucking her head down so her hair covers her face. She"s smiling. 

Miles is smiling, and Peter too, and Hobie has that curl of his lips that sits all pleased like a cat. Mayday claps her hands together and Peter coos without even realizing it, which makes Gwen chuckle, and then Miles is doubling over, nearly slipping off the couch, and he"s laughing and he"s smiling and he"s happy.

Miguel"s schedule is clear, Lyla running overtime to keep everything smooth, but suddenly he can"t be here; he sees Miles warm and bright and open, stars in his eyes, talking with Gwen and Peter, marveling over his powers, unflinching and unshadowed and unafraid. It"s wrong. It"s all wrong.

He understands, now, what made him realize something was wrong on that first morning—when Miles woke up, when he rose from unconsciousness, he did it slowly, casually. Shuffled in place. Tried to get his eyes out of the light. Yawned and stretched and took time to make himself comfortable before even looking around the room. 

This Miles isn"t afraid. 

The Miles Morales from before was afraid. Was always afraid, Miguel is realizing. He buried it under quips and grins and the endless hurry, hurry that plagues all spiderfolk; but he was afraid. Kept from letting people close, from letting them touch him, blitzed through HQ for just long enough to drop off anomalies before jumping into another dimension. Avoided Miguel. 

Was afraid of him, too. 

He"s only realizing it now, faced with a Miles that laughs and jokes and relaxes in his presence, face open and smile wide and stars in his eyes. 

They"ve been training his webslinging only. His invisibility is a fight-or-flight response, his venom blasts are triggered by fear—neither have shown up. He hardly seems aware they exist. 

Miles isn"t afraid.

He can"t be here. 

Miguel pushes off the counter, stiff and jerky, conversation stuttering to a stop around him. "I"ll be back shortly," he says, hands at his sides. "Need—to check in with Jess. Give me an hour."

Miles blinks at him, pulling himself back onto the couch. "Who"s Jess?"

"She was up the duff." Hobie flaps a general dismissive hand in Miles" face. "Takin" care of the wee tyke now. She"ll be back soon "nough."

"Oh." Miles is still frowning. "Why does she need to be checked on?"

That"s a very fair question. Miguel, currently running through every breathing exercise he knows, doesn"t have an answer. 

But Hobie"s smarter than people give him credit for. There"s something a touch soft in his eyes, almost understanding, and he swings an arm around Miles" shoulders and spins him away, back towards where Gwen is sitting. "Big ol" boss like that, checkin" in on everyone—give the guy time to do all his secret-spider-shit. Only fair, innit?"

Miles still looks confused but he"s smiling again, letting Hobie lead him back into the conversation with only some prompting. The taller teen keeps a hand around his shoulders, something to lean into, even as he looks over his head at the door. 

Miguel does his best to say thank you with his eyes alone, bows his head, and disappears. 

-

His room is cold and quiet. Grey walls, black comforter, all the best to give his hyperactive senses a rest. There"s nothing personal here, nothing visible, but he knows that in the closet, tucked in the back, hidden away, is a yellow-pink teddy bear missing a scuff of fur over its nose. 

It"s an old memory. He doesn"t know why he"s thinking of it now—she wasn"t Miles, and Miles isn"t her. They"re completely separate. 

But here he sits, staring at the ground, thinking of a girl who never was and a boy who isn"t afraid, and all he can think about is the bear. It was going to be for her birthday. She liked presents with imperfections, something to make them unique and irrevocably hers, special, and he"d been so happy to find a bear with that bit of missing fur. He knew she was going to love it. 

Miles isn"t afraid. 

He was before. 

The bear sits, untouched, cold, in the closet. 

"Te extraño, Gabriela," he whispers to the empty room. 

It"s not enough. It never is. 

-

He comes back, eventually. More than an hour has passed, half the day slipping away. No one mentions it. 

Hobie is watching him, eyes narrowed, head tilted. 

There"s some cheesy animated romance movie up on the screen, half the snacks eaten and scattered around the room, and at some point Pavitr returned from patrol so all the teens are wrangled together on the couch. Miles is in the middle, Gwen on his left, and Hobie has sprawled over both their laps with only a few braincells worth of effort used to keep from digging his combat boots into anyone"s side. Pavitr is sitting cross-legged on the ground in front, one of Gwen"s legs swung over his shoulder, and he"s watching the screen with wide eyes—apparently a movie they don"t have in Earth-50101. Peter took the other couch, Mayday curled up and sleeping in his arms. 

Comfortable. 

The tightness in Miguel"s chest doesn"t leave. 

He slips in the back, closing the door as quietly as possible, but everyone still glances over in his direction with their spider sense; Miles perks up and waves him over, but the screen is bright and it"s considered rude to put his mask on, so he nods but heads to the back of the room, leaning against the counter. Grabs another cup of coffee. Stays silent.

Miles looks confused, head cocked, but returns to the movie. 

It wraps up before too long, slipping away beneath a scroll of credits, and Pavitr is booing the screen and giving it a thumbs-down, which has Hobie cackling into the cushions. Gwen kicks him.

Peter stands, yawning a bit—looks like waking up as early as he did has its consequences. "Time for Mayday to go home," he says, and there"s a real note of regret in his voice, gaze flicking to Miles. "But I"ll be back tomorrow!"

"See ya," Miles offers, leaning back. 

Peter walks over. Pauses. Hesitates. 

Ruffles Miles" hair. 

The kid rolls his eyes but accepts it, reaching up to lazily bat at his hand. "Man, I"m still getting used to the length," he says, patting his own head. "Never thought I"d be able to survive my dad"s looks every time I mentioned growing it out. He"s a real short fade kinda guy, y"know?"

Judging by Peter"s expression, he doesn"t, but he just laughs and taps inputs into his watch. The portal blooms on the far wall, Miles yelping and grabbing a match swiss roll before it can float away, and then he"s hopping through. Mayday gurgles a final goodbye. 

Gwen and Miles team up, like the helpful kids they are, to start gathering the discarded snacks into appropriate bins and containers for the spider-bots to clear up—Pavitr folds up the throw blankets, nudging the couches back into their proper place, shutting off the TV. They"re still chattering about whatever the movie was about. 

Hobie doesn"t do that. 

Instead, he walks up to Miguel, and while there"s nothing challenging in his eyes, they certainly don"t have that soft understanding from earlier. He stops a few feet away, quiet enough to lower his voice and keep the others from listening, arms crossing. The light catches on the edge of his piercings, on the tightness of his jaw. 

"You need to tell "im," Hobie says. His voice is sharp. "Not your place to decide what information he gets. He should know."

Miguel grits his teeth and looks away. 

Of course Hobie would want that—anarchist to the soul. Miguel was more than a little surprised when he came back to the Society after quitting, but he understood why after a while—Hobie"s only in it for his three friends. Barely exists elsewise. 

So if anyone were to think that they should tell Miles their sordid history, it would be him. 

But they shouldn"t. Miles is smiling here, laughing, unafraid— if he learns about the isolation, about his father, about the chase, he won"t be. He"ll go back to being skittish and awkward and tense. To being afraid.

He"s going to forget this week, anyway. 

This is for Miles" sake. 

-

The training goes well; Miguel gives Miles his other webslinger now that he"s got a rough handle on things, and that balances him out in ways that come almost too naturally to the kid. 

Up and around the lab he goes, twisting and flipping and bounding, remastering tricks he"s already learned and trying out things Miguel recognizes from Gwen and Pavitr"s style. Some of them he lands, which results in loud whooping and requests for footage, and others not so much, which results in picking himself off the ground with winces and a determination to ignore the failure. 

But eventually, night comes crashing down, Lyla fritzing to life and pointing to a timer she conjures. Miles, halfway through weaving a rather shoddy cat"s cradle, sees it and immediately wilts. 

After a second, though, he does come down, disconnecting the last of his web and rolling his wrists. Miguel nudges open the door to the lab, guiding them both outside to Lyla"s cheered little encouragement, and it only earns half an eye roll from him. 

"I can"t believe I have a curfew," Miles complains, but his eyes are warm and there"s a smile on his face. "Fine, c"mon, let"s go back to my room so I can tuck in like a good little toddler–"

Sound, from around the corner. They both glance over—and jogging down the hallway, eyes bright and arm raised, decidedly here well past when the others have left, is Pavitr. 

"Yo, Miles!" He chirps, coming in like a speeding missile and skidding to a stop only a little in front of them, arms thrown wide and grin splashed over his face. "Can I talk to you real quick?"

He isn"t looking at Miguel. Has his back turned away from him, actually.

Miles blinks. "Uh, sure?" He glances back at Miguel, but then goes back to Pavitr, head tilted to the side. "Here?"

"Nah," Pavitr says, shaking his head like the very thought offends him. "Back to this cute break room I found, you"ll love it–"

Miles laughs a little as Pavitr tugs him along, back down the hallway, and Miguel feels something sink in his gut. 

-

It"s an hour before Miles comes to his room. 

Miguel wasn"t waiting for him the whole time, because he"s not nervous or anxious or worried or anything that fits into that family, but there are a lot of coincidences lining up that means when Miles pads through the door, shoulders slumped, Miguel happens to be there, adjusting a shelf that"s needed a new socket in the drywall for weeks now. He turns to face him, eyebrows raised. 

Miles doesn"t say anything, at first. Just closes the door behind him, shoulders curled in, eyes fixed on the floor. Pulls his phone out of his pocket, sets it on the desk, walks to the bed. Sits down. 

That weight in Miguel"s chest goes cold. 

"He told me," Miles says quietly, and Miguel doesn"t have to ask what.

He"s never been the person for this. Most spiderfolk come equipped with a support squad already intact, friends and families and entire cities raring on their behalf, and even if they didn"t, there are enough other spiderfolk to help them. It shouldn"t be Miguel. He mumbles so he doesn"t flash his fangs, comes equipped with talons instead of comforting hands, stands far and away from the others. 

It shouldn"t be him. 

But there"s no one else here.

He walks over, hesitant, hands stiff at his side—weighs the options for a second, knows he"s in his suit instead of anything more calming, more reassuring, doesn"t know how to open or close or even think about this conversation—but then he"s sitting on the bed next to Miles, close enough their knees nearly touch. 

Miles drags in a shaky breath. "He"s really dead?"

Peter said they were close. Miguel thinks he might have been underplaying it. 

He grimaces, looking over the room. "Yes."

"And." He"s not crying, not yet, but his eyes fill. "That"s– that"s my Uncle Aaron. Not some other dimension"s."

He shifts. The sound echoes in the small room. 

"I"m sorry, Miles."

There"s a soft, quiet inhale, trying to hold back tears. He"s only mostly succeeding. "Pavitr told me what he knew." His hands curl up. "That he was… a villain, that he died to protect me. But just– he"s dead."

He"s been dead for two years. For Miles, the last memory he has is hanging out with his uncle. Chatting about nothing. Watching Brooklyn. Simple lives and living. 

Miles curls over his legs, staring at his hands, eyes soft and lost and dull. "My abuelo died when I was seven," he says, slow. "It"s– that"s my only experience with death, I think. I don"t know how to grieve. How to grieve him. I don"t think I could ever learn."

Miguel understands. God, how he understands; how he closes his eyes and sees the daughter that was never his. 

"I know myself," Miles whispers. "Or, at least I think I do—and I won"t have gotten over this. I"ll– I"ll still think about it every day. It"s Uncle Aaron."

Miguel wonders if he would have recognized that, if he had known. If he had known anything about this kid before he chased him around Nueva York with his talons out. 

Miles exhales, shakily, and it"s not enough; the tears build and build and build until at once, they slip free and come splashing down his cheeks, peppering his sweatpants. He hiccups, wet and strangled, and–

And leans into Miguel"s side, head on his shoulder, arms curled in. 

"I don"t want him to be dead," he whispers. 

Oh.

Miguel reaches out and slips a hand around Miles" shoulders, pulls him a little closer, a comforting weight as best he can. The room is dark and haunted around them, Miles shuddering under the weight of his own grief. He keeps crying.  

"I"m sorry," Miguel says, which isn"t enough, which won"t ever be enough, but Miles leans into his side, tears streaming down his face, and maybe it"s enough for just this moment.

-

Miles falls asleep eventually, worn and weary and exhausted. Miguel shuffles around, gets him in bed, wipes his face with a tissue, and tugs the blanket up to his chin, listens to his breathing even out and the scrunch of his face soften. He looks thirteen in that moment, curled beneath the covers, eyes closed and hair squished by the pillow. 

He looks young. 

Maybe he was always young. 

Miguel shuts the lights off and closes the door quietly behind him. The walk back to his lab is silent.

-

The next day, Miles is quiet. Not… withdrawn, or nervous, but he"s a little slower to laugh, and he keeps his arms tucked close to his sides. 

Everyone notices, of course. He keeps ending up with Mayday in his lap and Pavitr sets up a little line of snacks for him to try, shoving them into his hands any time he starts to pick at his nails. Hobie"s out on patrol and Gwen sprawls over Miles" lap, offering her hair, and she and Pavitr coach him through some elaborate french braids. They look terrible. 

Gwen ties the ends off and wears them anyway. 

Miguel doesn"t stay in the beginning, busying himself with reports and maintenance and meetings, but he keeps coming back. First to drop off more snacks, which Peter complains he could have grabbed, then for another set of clothes he found in case Miles wants something different, then for more coffee, until eventually he runs out of excuses and just lingers in the back, leaning against the cabinet and nursing a cup that"s long gone cold. 

He"s just. Watching them, a silent observer, listening in as Gwen tries to onomatopoeia her way through describing the latest song she"s learning on the drums and Peter attempts to keep Mayday from webbing the TV to attack the animated birds from whatever movie they"ve put on as background noise.

It"s nice, in a way.  

Pavitr"s watching him back, a stubborn set to his jaw, eyes narrowed. He"s not sorry about what he did. 

He shouldn"t be. He took his own advice— don"t lie to him.

Miguel hadn"t been lying, but he hadn"t been telling the truth, either. 

So he inclines his head, tries to push acceptance and pride through the motion—and when he looks back up, Pavitr"s blinking, smile tugging hesitantly on his lips. 

He was right. It isn"t their choice to tell him or not.

They take it slow, the rest of the day. Miles must notice, because they"ve been going breakneck every other day, but he doesn"t say anything, and they don"t either, and together they"re able to keep the mood light and pleasant. By the end, when the teens go home, Miles is smiling again.

-

Training goes much the same way. They don"t talk much, but this time Miguel gets up in the rafters with him, guiding him from the air instead of the ground, and when Miles completes a successful triple flip and catches himself with one hand, whooping, he finds himself smiling too, and he can"t convince himself to change it. 

-

"Conditioning room," Miles announces, clapping his hands together. 

It"s midday, another lazy morning start, but Miles has been jittering in place with a grin pulling wide on his cheeks. Trying to make up for yesterday, it looks like—but he does seem to have bounced back. This energy isn"t faked. 

Hobie"s strumming something soft on his guitar, filling the break room they"ve completely transformed over the course of the week with chords and finger pickings, but he tilts his head to the side to listen. Pavitr pauses halfway through setting down a four of spades. "Huh?"

"You guys were holding back last time," Miles says, drumming his fingers over the couch. "Not today. Let"s, uh, run that one obstacle course in the back, and I want you going all out. The fastest you can do it."

Pavitr brightens to near-sun levels. "Absolutely!"

Hobie snorts, but he"s slinging his guitar around his neck the next motion, uncurling like a cat from his lazy perch. "You asked for it, mate. Less than a week in the saddle and ya really think you can keep up wit" li"l sir tryhard here?"

Pavitr squawks. 

"This is a terrible idea," Peter declares, slipping Mayday into her björn. "And I"m not going to lose."

Miguel sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Watches them leave. 

Stands up and joins them. 

-

When Miguel goes down to the lab for training at their normal time, the door is cracked, neither closed nor open—he pauses, but Lyla would have alerted him if something had gotten in that wasn"t supposed to, and he pushes down the instinctual fear that claws at his awareness. The HQ is safe, now. It"s fine.

So he pushes the door the rest of the way open and finds Miles. Not testing out his webslingers, not going through some of the stretches Pavitr showed him—just sitting there, eyes on the ground. 

Miguel"s heart skips and sinks. 

He had seemed so happy, back in the conditioning room—had it all been fake? A slip to cover up for how he felt?

It doesn"t look like that. 

Miles" eyes are dry, hands in his lap but not picking at his nails, head facing down but contemplative. He"s looking at his phone, at the photo slipped in the back of the case, running his fingers over the polaroid of his own laughing face. 

There"s something raw in his eyes. 

"I was thinking," he starts, slowly, hesitantly. "About today. And the race."

It was a disaster. Miguel"s just thankful Lyla had the good sense to tell all the other spiderfolk that it was in their best interest to try a different course before the five of them—six, once Gwen came back—threw themselves through the obstacles like there was a prize for who did the most damage. Miguel can"t remember the last time he"d done one of the courses for anything other than improving himself. It had been. Nice. 

It had been nice. 

So why is Miles sitting here, in the dark, thinking about it?

Miguel pads forward, sitting on the bench opposite. He stays silent but there, a body to talk to, a voice if needed, but just mostly there. Support in the only way he really knows how. 

"It was fun. Is fun. I"m finally starting to– to fit in again, I guess. You guys will mention things I don"t know but I"m starting to figure you out, learn your tics, find my way. Which is. Nice. But."

Miles looks down. The polaroid stares back. 

"I"m not– I"m not going to remember any of this week, am I?" He asks, quietly. 

Oh. 

Miguel exhales. "We don"t think so."

Miles stares at it, at the smiling faces of his friends he"s relearning, at those that he already knew, that already knew him, but were strangers. Hobie"s wrestling Pavitr to the ground. Gwen"s laughing. Miles fits in, graffiti-light bright on his fingers, suit pulled up to his neck, eyes curled up and tongue between his teeth. 

It isn"t him, but in two days, it will be. 

His voice is soft. "That"s a little like dying, isn"t it?"

Miles Morales, for a week—the sunny, dramatic, unconfident boy that used to exist but no longer, until he was brought back for a week by alter-dimensional glitching only his double DNA could make happen, relearning his life and his place in it. Swinging through Miguel"s lab, running through obstacle courses, chucking popcorn at bad movies. Wandering through Nueva York with impossibly wide eyes, marveling at every change he finds, grasping onto new information like a lifeline. 

And then what? 

When that week passes?

Miguel"s mouth is desert-dry. He hadn"t– 

He hadn"t thought about it, not really. 

In two days, this Miles Morales, this unscared, untense, unafraid boy, will be dead. 

He"s going to die. 

"I know I shouldn"t," Miles says, shoulders curling. "But I want to talk to my mom."

Oh. 

He wants to talk to his mom. He"s probably wanted to since the first day, since waking up in the medbay, but he hasn"t because Miguel told him it was for the best not to. And Miguel told him that because he didn"t want to deal with the chance that his parents might slip a secret, might tell Miles something that he wanted kept hidden. That they might, in their confusion and panic and love for their son, say something that would make things awkward.

And Miles listened. Didn"t try to call his parents, didn"t ask about it, kept quiet and isolated in the HQ, away from anyone he has memories of. 

He"s going to die. He wants to talk to his mom. 

Miguel"s fragile, fragile composure cracks. 

Lyla works faster than him and by the time he"s unsheathed his talons, facing an empty wall of his lab, she"s got the coordinations up and running. Miguel rakes his claws through the air. 

Time and space cleave away, spiraling out, and he braces his grip on each side and tears it open—the portal flexes and whines, golden blinding, but his watch stabilizes the whole thing with a purring thrum. It hisses and spits rays of light, rippling against the pearlescent wall like a caged beast. 

Miles lurches upright, eyes wild, hands flapping like there"s an attack coming—but it"s just a portal, waiting, Lyla holding it steady. "Wha–"

"This way," Miguel says. 

Miles stares at him. It"s a stupid thing, interrupting a heartfelt conversation to rip open a portal, and someone normal would demand answers. Would refuse to follow him. Would be afraid. 

This Miles Morales isn"t afraid.  

So he stands, a little wobbly, peering at the portal with unease but not fear, and when Miguel steps through, he follows. 

Earth-1610 blooms around them in the sinking rays of the setting sun, the hum and bustle of cars far below, air rich with street food and grime and the belch of sewer grates. Miles stumbles once, arms flying wide, but catches himself—then he stares, with wide, wide eyes, over Brooklyn. 

Over his home. 

Lyla chose the coordinates and they ended up on a towering business building, one tall enough that no one will see them on the roof, air conditioning units humming away on every side and a shoddy maintenance door triple-latched. After the quiet of HQ, New York screams its arrival, the city that never sleeps or slumbers or rests, warm and bustling and alive.

Miles, staring over it, has understanding hit him in a visible wave. "I"m–" he says haltingly, reaching out with a hand like he can touch it all. "I"m home?"

New York. Brooklyn. 

Home. 

"Yeah, kid."

Miles marvels, stepping forward, unafraid as the roof bleeds away and he"s standing on the edge, peering down at the buzzing traffic and city lights. He fits here, slotted in, the warmth reflected off his skin and darting through his fade. Graffiti-light stains the tips of his fingers. 

Miguel watches him. For all that he"s adjusted to HQ, seeing him here is like true understanding. This is his dimension. This is his home. 

This is where his people are. 

"You can call your parents, Miles."

He whips around to face him, eyes impossibly wide—but Miguel doesn"t say anything else. Just gestures, gently, toward the pocket of his jeans. 

Miles pulls out his phone with shaky hands, its screen already lighting up as every notification pours in at once. A barrage of text messages from two people with twin heart emojis by their name —Mamí and Dad— take up the majority. Not calls, since Miguel had told them shouldn"t, they couldn"t, but just texts. Updates, quiet affirmations, daily reminders that they love him. That they love him so much. 

Miguel looks away. 

Miles fumbles through attempted passwords before Lyla pulls up a cherry-orange screen, bypassing it, and disappears again. He mumbles something that might be thanks as he opens the call app, pauses, holds his breath, and clicks the first name.

It rings for less than a second before connecting. He presses it to his ear. 

"Hola, mamí," Miles says. There are tears in the corners of his eyes, bright like stars, but he"s smiling. "No, no, estoy bien, no estoy herido—solo, ah, solo quería hablar contigo."

A pause. He huffs a laugh, gentle, and water slips down his cheek. "Estoy bien, mamí, en serio—¿cómo estás? ¿Está todo bien? ¿Está papá ahí?"

New York hums and buzzes around them. Miles clutches his phone like a lifeline and just talks.

Miguel slips off the roof. Digs his claws into the brick"s mortar and climbs down just far enough away that he"s out of range, so that Miles has this moment of gentle privacy on a Brooklyn rooftop, so that as the sun sets over his home he can speak to his parents and imagine, for one brief, escapable moment, that this could be forever. 

-

Thank you, Miles says, as Miguel takes him back to Nueva York and back to his room. His eyes are shining with unshed tears, cheeks covered in the remaining tracks of others, but he"s smiling, and as he curls up in bed, he falls asleep almost immediately. 

-

Miguel doesn"t sleep. There"s a monitor thrown across his lab, hissing and sparking around the claw marks scored through its screen. It doesn"t make a difference.

-

When he comes down in the morning, heading for Miles" room, there"s someone in his way. 

Hobie"s leaning against the wall, rolling his guitar pick between his fingers, unmasked with his jacket bristling around his shoulders. In the early light of Nueva York, his piercings glow a hazy silver. The blue of his laces stretch high up his boots. He"s scowling, fanged and furious, and when he locks eyes with Miguel, there"s no warmth left. 

"You ain"t told him."

There"s no room to defend himself. Miguel grimaces and turns away, cowed by a teenager, and knows he"s wrong. "I haven"t."

"He"s a dead man walkin"," Hobie says. His eyes are flinty, cold. "And I know that sounds real easy, live in this li"l world where you don"t havta face all the shit you did, but that ain"t how it works. Don"t get to near kill a kid then walk away."

"I know."

"Do ya?" Hobie says, pushing off the wall. His pick disappears up his sleeve and he runs fingers over the neck of his guitar, over well-worn strings and ancient stickers. "I came back here "cuz I thought you"d change. Last leader I saw not change didn"t get a second chance. They picked his brains off the stage."

Miguel remembers wondering why his Canon Events, when he still believed in them, were so different from the other spiderfolk. He also remembers that his were not the only ones different.

Hobie meets his gaze without flinching. "Ain"t a threat. Just a reminder. It"s not your life you"re messin" wit" here."

Miguel looks at his hands. At the talons, lingering just beneath the surface.

Miles Morales isn"t afraid. He"s going to die. 

"Tonight," he says, and feels the word weigh heavily on his tongue. "I"ll do it tonight."

Hobie scoffs a little, watching him with narrow eyes, and marches away. His boots click on the tile. 

Miguel watches him go. He"s right, he knows. Every excuse, every reasoning that it was for Miles" sake, was born from how he simply didn"t want to do it. How he didn"t want this week, with a smiling, carefree Miles, to end. 

But it was him that caused Miles to be afraid. It was him that ruined this already. 

He doesn"t get to hide in the fantasy any longer. 

Hobie disappears. The hallway echoes. 

He takes the long route to Miles" room. 

-

Miles flops out of his room, yawning; he scrubs at the tear marks that dried over his cheeks, stretching out the pockets of the hoodie he"s wearing, but he looks awake enough. There"s a brief moment of bleariness before he focuses on who"s in the hallway with him. "Oh. "ello, Miguel."

"Hello."

His voice must not be as calm as he wants because Miles blinks at him, head tilted to the side. "Is everything good?"

Miguel swallows. Looks away. Schools his face. 

Tonight.

"Your friends have something planned today," he says instead. "Are you ready?"

"Something?" Miles repeats, pinching his chin. "That"s not ominous at all. But yeah, I"m ready—what about you? Will you be there?"

"I have something," he says. It"s not even a lie. He needs to talk with Masha Yana, go over all the information, make sure, make positive, that what is going to happen actually happens. That they know everything before the final day. That everything is prepared. "But I"ll be there later."

Miles looks at him curiously, tongue between his teeth, but accepts it. "Alright. I"ll see you then!"

Off he walks to the break room. Miguel watches him go, looks back into the room, littered with unfolded clothes and mussed-up sheets. 

Tonight.

-

Miguel manages to show up right when Gwen returns. 

She slips into the room a second before him, hood thrown back and hair mussed up—ran straight here, if he had to guess. There"s a bag slung over her shoulders, meshing oddly with her suit, and she"s clutching it with protective hands as she skitters inside. 

Miguel sighs and strides in after her. Kids. Always rushing. 

All the teens are in now; Pavitr returned early from patrol, having handled enough villains that it could be relatively assured that no more were going to pour out of the woodwork on this rather nondescript day, and they"ve pushed two of the couches together to sprawl over like an extended bed. Gwen ran out to her dimension to grab something, it looks like, and there"s a bright grin splashed over her face as she leans over the edge of the couch, Miles peering up at her.

"I checked in with your parents yesterday," she says, a little breathless, like she"s worried she"s overstepping a boundary. "And, uh. Might"ve grabbed a few things."

Miles blinks at her. 

She apparently takes that as an open invitation and reaches into her bag, fumbling a bit to get a grip past the ruffled canvas. Out come three booklets, stuffed to bursting with thicker pages than their bindings are supposed to hold, colours bleeding over the edges, corners of stickers worn down and pressed flat by wear, spills of ink trailing down the edges.

Miles perks up. "Sketchbooks!" A pause, staring at them. "Um. Mine?"

"The most recent ones I could find," she says, setting them down—a couple markers tumble out of the bag as she shifts, muttering a curse as she shoves them back in. "Oh, sorry, those were just in case you wanted to draw something—but I thought it would be nice to see how your style"s changed."

"Absolutely," he declares. "Man, I"ve been struggling to find anywhere to tag that my dad doesn"t find literally that afternoon; as Spiderman, there"d be nothing stopping me. I better have gotten fantastic."

Pavitr, who Miguel distinctly remembers having an incident where he brought Miles to his dimension for art but then had to take it down after his Inspector Singh found it, hides a cough behind his hand. 

Miles runs his fingers over the sketchbooks—they"re all different brands, different types, and he doesn"t seem to recognize any of them, so he picks one at random that has a bold 1610 tagged in yellow-orange on the cover and flips it open. 

Miguel, despite how he"s across the room, leans in. 

Page after page of honestly fantastic art rolls by, all bright colours and thick outlines and meshed styles blurring together. One of Gwen, perched on an undefined building, undercut following the pull of gravity; Hobie, guitar braced on his knees, pick between his fingers; sticky notes with costume change ideas; Pavitr, mask off, balancing on a lightning rod; Hobie, hands splayed; Rio Morales, cooking something over the stove; Gwen, grinning; Pavitr; the Brooklyn skyline; Hobie; Gwen; Peter, Mayday clasped before him; Hobie; Pavitr; Aaron Davis, leaning against a chain link fence; Pavitr; Gwen; Hobie; Pavitr; Hobie–

Miles" heartbeat skips another beat as they keep flipping through. 

"There"s an awful lot of us in there," Pavitr says, bright, only a touch cheeky.

He groans and covers his face with his hands. "This is so unfair, why am I the one being bullied when it wasn"t even me who did this–"

"You sayin" you wouldn"t draw us?" Hobie asks, rocking back on his elbows. 

Miles splutters. "Well, wait, I didn"t say that–"

Hobie leans in, long and slow, and splays a hand over a blank section of the sketchbook. "I"d be right chuffed if you were to draw me, luv."

He"s working like a weapon. Miles can barely meet his eyes, tugging at the collar of his sweater, gaze fixed quite firmly on the paper like that"ll erase the heat in his face. He"s continuing his passing hobby of counting tiles in the floor. 

Gwen rolls her eyes, closing the sketchbook she"s looking through and bapping him over the back of the head. "Lay off, man, when"d you get this bad?"

In contrast, Pavitr just keeps grinning. "You"re a monster," he declares, almost proudly. Hobie swipes an imaginary hat off his wicks and bows. 

"M"not grafting," he says, tongue between his teeth. "Just askin" my good friend if he wants"ta draw me, is all."

Miles hides his face. "You guys are the worst."

Pavitr snorts. 

They flip through the second sketchbook, which has an equal amount of the other teens but more tagging styles, great blocky letters Miguel can"t even begin to decode, little doodles of other spiderfolk and costume changes. The third is the oldest, every blank page stuffed full, and Miles pauses on a two-page spread of them all together, fingers resting over his own face. 

There are no drawings of Miguel. He doesn"t know whether he wanted there to be. 

"Wild," Miles eventually decides, checking the back of the last page. "Awesome to know I keep up with it, though. I was worried Visions would be too busy."

"Bein" Spiderman"s only made ya better, actually," Hobie drawls, flicking a finger at a close-up of his face. "Half the time you"re up sketchin" on rooftops, gettin" views no one else can. I"ve got a dozen o" so of yours all over my flat."

For all the encouragement they"ve given him over the past week, that one seems to hit the hardest—likely because Miles remembers being an artist, has something to compare it to, something recognizable that he"s not grasping for beyond a black wall. He perks up, looking back at his sketchbook. "Oh. Oh! That"s– that"s awesome."

"Me too!" Pavitr chimes in, fumbling for his pocket; he pulls out his phone, which has a strange, hexagonal shape and a cream-white case, and taps through a few screens. After a second he"s pulling up pictures, shoving them in Miles" face; he blinks, focuses, and then he"s smiling. A little hesitant, a little unsure, but proud—he recognizes himself in the drawings, more than he does stories of saving people across the multiverse. 

This is tangible. 

Halfway through apparently the entirety of Pavitr"s photo storage he glances up, finally noticing him, and something curious scrawls over his face. "Is it time for training?"

Miguel nods. "If you want." 

He"s already extracting himself from the couch, going to give the sketchbooks back to Gwen—she pushes them into his hands, alongside the bag of scattered markers, smiling. "Just in case."

Miles grins back, slinging the bag over his shoulders, hugging it close in a manner not unreminiscent of Peter and Mayday. He bobs everyone a goodbye, see you tomorrow, thanks for everything! as he walks to the door, pulling his webslingers up to his palms. Miguel huffs a bit of a laugh, stepping back so Miles can walk out. 

Hobie looks at him, as they leave. His eyes narrow. 

Miguel nods back. 

Tonight, then.

Now. 

-

Miguel had set up a few things in his lab, shifted industrial beams around and dragged out some old nets and obstacles, and Miles is swinging around like a bat on fire. He"ll run out of web fluid before the night"s even halfway over, and Miguel will probably have to grab the dissolving spray and spend hours cleaning up, but he just watches the kid whoop and flip through the course. 

His mouth stays dry and his chest stays heavy. 

Tonight. 

It"s the right choice, he knows. Miles is a strong kid; he doesn"t need to be coddled, kept from important elements of his own life, and for all that he"s open and welcome and jumping with both feet into rejoining the group, he"s picked up on something being wrong. Pays extra attention to how everyone reacts to him, notices other spiderfolk shying away, how skittish Peter is about contact. He knows something is wrong. 

And now it"s time to tell him. It"s the right choice. 

That doesn"t make things any easier. 

Miguel sits on the bench, hands on his knees, watching. He helped out earlier, guiding Miles along the course, but his own movements were slow, sloppy, and eventually he let the kid just run through it. Went down to watch. 

Always watching, he"s realizing. There"s a comfort in it, in staying on the sidelines or the shadows and letting the world move by unaware; it"s what he"s always done before. Just watching instead of interacting. 

Instead of reaching out. 

In the grey-black of his lab, in the sound-absorbing walls, in the dim lights, Miles is a bolt of lightning spidering around the place, wild and free, flicking out webs to catch his weight as he throws himself, fearless, over ever-increasing pillars and narrow spaces. It"s always been him that breathed such life into being Spiderman, even without his two years of training. He"s made for the role. 

Made for the role of hero, because he notices Miguel"s silence, brows drawing up in concern, and then he"s slipping his way back over to the bench. Even awkward and gangling with his webslingers like a newborn foal, he still manages to twist, curl, flip, and land with a dull thud next to him, grin firmly in place. "Quarter for your thoughts?"

Miguel tilts his head to the side. "Isn"t it penny?"

"Your thoughts seem expensive."

He laughs a little. "I"m just thinking. You"re welcome to go back to training."

"You"re dodging, man," Miles says, rolling his eyes. "M"not an idiot, y’know? There"s something you want to tell me."

Miguel doesn"t want to tell him. 

He"s been trying. And he succeeded, for six days, to keep it wrapped up; to bury it in the closet with all the other skeletons, with the yellow-pink teddy bear missing a scuff of fur over its nose for the daughter that was never his, with the memories of a world collapsing and the insatiable urge to do it right next time. 

But it hadn"t been right, it had been worse than before, and it had taken one kid bold enough to stand up to him to show that, and he had rewarded that revelation by trying to beat him into the ground. 

He needs to say it now. If he doesn"t, it will never come out, and he knows that because it"s been six long months of skirting the topic and avoiding the conversation and running when he can. The only times he has talked to Miles is through reports and meetings, cold, clinical discussions where their only shared history is that they"re both spiderfolk in the Spider Society. Where there"s no history, no meaning, no blood between them. Where everything is fine.

It isn"t fine. It hasn"t been. Maybe it never was.

This Miles isn"t afraid. The other Miles is.

He"s staring at Miguel, all doe-wide eyes and curiosity, because he doesn"t know. 

Something in his face must give him away because Miles frowns, brows drawing low, pulling back from where he was about to knock shoulders. "Um. Sorry for pushing, man. You don"t have to tell me if you don"t want to."

Miguel doesn"t want to. God, how he doesn"t want to—it"s easy, saying to Hobie, I"ll do it tonight when tonight is so far away, intangible, a distant promise on a more distant horizon. It"s not the same in the lab, in the dark, with the kid sitting next to him, not scared, not tense, just confused. He doesn"t want to tell him. 

If he doesn"t tell him now, he never will. The worst part is that Miles would never know—he dies tomorrow, slips away back to his old memories and his old self and his old life, while this week drifts away like dandelion seeds. If Miguel doesn"t tell him now, then he will never know. 

That would be easier. But it isn"t right.

Miguel needs to tell him. 

"I tried to kill your father."

Miles goes still.

That doesn"t lay out the situation, doesn"t tell it truthfully—Miguel drags a hand through his hair, not looking over, staring at the ground, bile in his throat. "I tried to let your father die. And when you stopped me, I– didn"t take it well."

The silence in the lab is choking. He"s choking. 

"What?" Miles says, soft, nervous. In his eyes, Miguel can see that he wants him to take it back, to laugh it off—he doesn"t want to believe it. 

He"s hoping it"s a lie. 

God. Miguel wishes it was, too. 

"I"m sorry, Miles." It pours out of him like a waterfall. "I"m so sorry. I fucked up a universe and instead of dealing with it, I convinced myself that was the only way, that it was normal. It wasn"t. It isn"t. It took you showing me that I was wrong, and instead of accepting that, I chased you across the multiverse to try and contain you because if you were right, that meant it was my fault that universe died, and I couldn"t accept that. Couldn"t accept it enough I–" He swallows past the old memory of blood. "I hunted you through Nueva York. That I tried to–"

He grits his teeth. 

There was no part of him thinking clearly that day. It"s a blur even now, HQ, highway, train, but he remembers the feeling of grabbing Miles around the neck. Crushing him against the steel hull. Slamming him back again and again and again.

He wasn"t thinking. That"s the problem. If he wasn"t thinking, what could he have done?

"I don"t think I would"ve. I want to say I didn"t. But I might have tried to kill you."

Miles is frozen, hand halfway off his thigh, eyes wide and flat and confused. He looks like the words are filtering slowly through his understanding, piece by piece, and with each one he stiffens more, stuck against the bench. There"s something horribly flighty in his gaze. 

Silence reigns heavy over them both. Miguel can"t look. He can"t look away. 

Miles eventually moves, just a shift of his arms, shoulders curled up. "How– how long ago was this?"

He"s trying to build a timeline, get a sense for how long things had to go wrong, trying, trying, trying to find some piece of evidence that will suggest it was all a misunderstanding. 

"Six months ago."

Miles closes his eyes. 

"Did we. Know each other before?"

Miguel grimaces. "No." And god, he can"t stop now. Miles needs to know. "You became Spiderman two years ago, and right after, a handful of other spiderfolk landed in your universe—including Gwen and Peter. You helped send them back. And then you spent a year and a half not seeing any of them, because I forbade it, because I called you an anomaly."

Miles looks at his knees. "Oh."

There"s a world of understanding in that sound. 

"Then you came back. I tried to tell you that your father needed to die, because all spiderfolk have their police captain die, and you said no. I didn"t accept that. And you broke through dozens of dimensions and kept him alive anyway."

It feels different, the words hanging out in the air instead of trapped in his throat; and god, it sounds so stupid. Such a stupid fucking thing to try and kill a kid over. 

But it"s why he"s here, why he"s doing this. Six months ago, he could have simply not told Miles about Canon Events, distracted him with all the brilliance of HQ until those two days had passed and Jefferson Morales had died. And if he had done that, he would still be the same, telling other spiderfolk that it was simply in their place to let their uncles and captains and loves die. That it was normal.

So he tells Miles. He always needs to tell Miles. 

He"s looking at the ground, fiddling with the webslingers over his palms, not making eye contact. Light from distant monitors reflects off his face. There"s something haunting in how his suit, red-black, blends into the dark. 

Miguel doesn"t know what to do. Maybe he never has. 

"I knew something was wrong," Miles says, haltingly. "Something in how you treated me. Like you– you were surprised. That I was around you. And you didn"t know anything about me, even stuff I know I would talk about. I thought it was just. I don"t know." He stares at his hands. "I don"t know."

Miguel doesn"t, either. 

"I"m sorry," he says, because there"s nothing else he can say. "I wish it hadn"t happened. I wish I had never done it. But I did. And all I can do now is make sure that nothing like that ever happens again."

It feels hollow. It"s not enough, it won"t be, because you can"t just apologize for things like this—for taking a year and a half from a child who just wanted to see his friends, and then turning those friends against him, and then hunting him down with talons out. An apology"s a pitiful thing in face of that. 

But it"s all he has, now. 

"I–" Miles wavers, looking at his hands. "Have you told me?"

Miguel kind of wants to laugh. "Have I told you I tried to kill you?"

"No. Not that." He sucks in a breath. "That you were wrong?"

They haven"t talked. They"ve never, never talked after the event. It"s been six months of frigid silence, of avoided eye contact in hallways, of clinical reports given. They haven"t talked. 

"I"m changing the Society," he says. "Reversing what I did before. Telling you–" not you "–everything instead of keeping secrets."

Miles still isn"t looking at him, but his brows furrow, and he bites at his lip. "That"s good. You should. But you"re–" he pauses, mouthing something. "You"re intimidating, I guess. And if I knew everything, and then I saw you being silent and not talking to me and not apologizing, I would." He exhales. "I would think you were still mad at me."

Oh.

"I"m not mad at you." 

His lips quirk, just a little. "I know. But I don"t know if other-me knows that."

Miles Morales is afraid. Was always afraid.

"I didn"t think about that."

He huffs a bit, swiping at his eyes. "Yeah. I don"t know if I would. But– apologizing. Make sure that everyone knows how you feel, instead of trying to guess. Actions speak louder than words, but. Sometimes words are pretty nice, too."

There"s something in the words that tightens around his chest. 

It"s not that simple. But maybe it"s a first step. So Miguel turns to him, even though he isn"t looking back, and softens his voice and remembers talons and thinks of star-filled eyes. "I"m sorry, Miles."

There"s a pause. 

Miles looks at him. There"s something old in his eyes, not worn, not weary, but mature; and it"s not the maturity of Spiderman, who knows to fight the villains and stop the muggers and protect the city, but the maturity of a person. Just a person.

"I forgive you," he says, simply. 

Miguel inhales sharply. "You can"t do that."

"Why not?" Miles keeps looking at him. "I know I"m not me, but the Miguel I met this week wouldn"t do that. At least not again. And you"ve told me you"re sorry, and how you know you were wrong, and you"re trying to do better. That"s worthy of forgiveness, isn"t it?"

It isn"t. It shouldn"t be. 

But Miguel can"t decide for Miles. 

"Oh," he says instead.

Miles reaches out and lays a hesitant hand on his shoulder—still a little tense, legs stiff, but there"s a hand on his shoulder. 

The kid"s trying to comfort him. Comfort him.

"Let"s start over," Miles says, and he looks over at Miguel, and there"s a smile, small but determined, tucked on his face. He extends his other hand. "Hi, I"m Miles Morales."

His heart aches. 

"Miguel O"Hara," he says, and shakes his hand, talons hidden beneath, grasp gentle. "I"m Spiderman."

Miles laughs, surprised, and his eyes curl up. "Me too."

And he is. 

Maybe he always was.

-

They talk until the early morning. Or not talk, because most of it is silence, but it"s quiet and it"s apologetic and Miles stays, doesn"t run, doesn"t hide. Miguel is pathetically grateful. 

But eventually the kid slips, leaning over on the bench and eyes fluttering closed, and Miguel gathers him up in his arms. Picks him up. Walks him back to his room, gentle, like he"s the most fragile thing in the world. In the worlds. 

He isn"t. He"s strong. He"s so strong it hurts. 

But Miguel carries him back, nudges open the door, lays him in his bed. Pulls the comforter up, shuts the lights off, pauses, stares over him. At how he curls beneath his sheets, eyes still closed, breathing slow and even. 

"I"m sorry," he whispers. 

Miles doesn"t respond. He"s already asleep, after all. 

-

Miles takes his time in the morning. He folds up all the borrowed clothes, remakes the bed, slips all his markers back into the bag Gwen brought and tucks the sketchbooks inside. His personality drips and drains from the room until it"s plain again, white-grey walls, spider-stylized sheets, dome light. Identical to dozens of others in the wing. 

He pauses in the doorway, looking back. Takes it in one final time. Then he turns the light off and shuts the door. 

Miguel stands there, hovering in the hallway. He can hardly remember what brought him here, everything a haze after he walked back to his lab, but now he"s waiting outside Miles" room, Lyla calling in spider-bots to clean up, morning light snaking through the sprawling windows. It"s the final day. 

Miles looks at him, bags clutching under his eyes, but there"s a smile on his face. "To the break room?"

Miguel nods. His mouth still feels like cotton.

They walk together, past other spiderfolk waking up and gearing up for their missions, for regular life, early morning striking through the lot in mugs of coffee and muffled yawns. Miles shakes himself awake as they move, bounce returning to his step, bag slung over his shoulders, dressed in a hoodie with a Mumbatten skyline and a pair of jeans so shredded they can"t be from anyone but Hobie, a watercolour-streaked bracelet around his wrist. They fit around him like they were made to be. His suit peeks out from the sleeves. 

The familiar path blends together until they"re at the break room. Sometime over the past week, one of the teens put up a sign, handwritten in terrible chicken scratch that rules out both Pavitr and Miles —private! And as Miguel nudges the door open, he can"t help but agree. They"ve transformed this little room, doubled the couches, stacked tea and coffee bags up on the counter, set up a TV with streaming, sprawled throw blankets everywhere, hung up a few of Miles" pictures. 

He"s going to keep it. 

The thought comes oddly, for a second—for all that this is his building, it"s the Spider HQ first, and these break rooms are supposed to be for everyone to enjoy. Get caffeine, rest up, chat with other spiderfolk; but open for all. 

Not this room. This is for them. 

If nothing else, he will preserve this week in this room, and he will give it to them as one of the few comforts they can have. 

Miles pads inside, glancing around—but despite how late they stayed up, they"re among the first there. Peter is already leaning against the back counter, sans Mayday, and instead of his normal bathrobe he"s just in his suit, mask tucked haphazardly under one arm. He flicks a wave in Miles" direction, grin over his face. "Hey, kiddo. How"re you feeling?"

"Good!" Miles says, and he knows now, knows how his mentor didn"t visit him for a year and a half, how he chased him across Nueva York—but still he"s smiling, still he"s facing him, and still he walks over to bump fists. "Where"s Mayday?"

"It"s poor, poor MJ"s turn to watch over her today," Peter says, which Miguel bites back a frown at—the Peter he knows hardly lets Mayday out of his sight, let alone makes MJ, with a full 9-5, watch over her for a day. "Here, they fell asleep together, look at the picture–"

Miles rolls his eyes goodnaturedly but does lean in. 

Time trickles by as Peter scrolls through his phone, Miguel clutching for coffee like Rapture, Miles ambling around the room; he runs his fingers over the couch, stares at his pictures up on the wall, snags one of the snacks they left out. The room looks alive. 

He gets it now, he thinks. Why Miles believes in making places his.

The teens pile through as one, all three of them; Gwen"s tapping something into her watch, mumbling a series of numbers Pavitr is reading off his hexagonal phone, and Hobie"s in the front, wicks brushed back, guitar slung over his shoulders. 

Miles brightens, walking over—they greet him in their customary hugs and knuckle-bumps and shoulder claps, eyes all bright and excited. "Hey guys!" He chirps, and yeah, there"s a touch of fake energy in the peppiness of his voice, but most of it is real, and that will just have to be enough. 

Hobie steps forward. He"s drumming his fingers over his guitar, and neither Gwen nor Pavitr can look at him, eyes downcast.

"Wanted"ta catch ya before I headed out," Hobie drawls, all gangling and lanky and grinning with his accent purring between his teeth. "Goodbye to the big bad spider, innit?"

Oh. Patrol. His final day with this Miles, and he"s giving up half of it just so Brooklyn stays safe. Miles" eyes widen, reaching out with a hand like he can hold Hobie here, keep him for a day longer, but the teen steps back. He"s made his peace with the situation, still grinning, quiet but accepting. He"s always been the first to sacrifice himself for the others.  

But then Peter steps forward. He left Mayday with MJ. He"s only in his suit. 

"I"ll go on patrol, Hobie," Peter says, smiling. His eyes are sad. "You kiddos deserve the last day together, alright? I"ve had my time."

Oh. 

Peter flaps a hand in their direction, tugging his watch higher up his forearm and grabbing his mask before it falls. "Promise me you"ll be proper terrors while I"m out—I want Miguel climbing up these walls."

Hobie flicks him a sarcastic salute, two-fingered and lifted lazily to his brow, but there"s genuine thanks in his eyes. "You"re a right gem, sometimes."

He snorts. "Had to slip that sometimes in there, didn"t you?" But then he walks over, stopping before Miles, who looks up at him. Who still looks at him, knowing their past, their history, eyes full of stars. 

"It was nice to meet you again, kiddo," Peter says, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Keep your head up, alright? The world"s yours for the taking."

"I will," Miles says. "And, um. Tell me– tell other-me that you"re good, okay? That we"re cool. Or we should be."

Peter blinks, smile fading into one a bit more real. His eyes reflect with something unshed. "I"ll do my best."

Miles grins at him, Peter nods, and then he steps through a kaleidoscoping portal and disappears. 

The room stills, things floating back into place, and Miles lifts his hand and touches where Peter"s was, face soft and contemplative. The last time he"s going to speak to him. There"s a bare brimming of grief in the corners of his mouth. 

Which is when Hobie steps forward, and despite his still-grinning face, there"s a desperate relief that he"s here for the full day throughout the rest of his body, that he doesn"t have to leave right when Miles needs them the most. He slings an arm over Miles" shoulders, weight near tugging the kid to the ground. "We"ve got a whole plan," he announces, splaying a hand forward like the world"s hidden behind it. "Now you"ve got your feet "neath ya with swingin", it"s time for some real tests, innit? Not baby courses."

Miles perks up despite himself, running his fingers over his webslingers. "What?"

"We"re going to our dimensions," Gwen says, stubborn, not looking over, like she"s daring Miguel to disagree. "A tour around our cities."

There"s a pause where Miguel doesn"t say anything despite all of them clearly waiting for him to do so, and then Pavitr"s bouncing on the balls of his feet, hair flopping over his face. "And mine first! I call first rights!"

"Fuckin" unfair, mate, I claimed first–"

"And I already put my coordinates in, what about that–"

Gwen rolls her eyes, plucking Miles out from under Hobie"s arm with well-trained ease. "While those two are bickering," she says, flicking her watch up. "What about we go to mine first?"

Miles grins. "Guess you win, then."

Pavitr and Hobie pause just long enough to level mock-glares at her. 

But then they"re all piling out the door, at least conscientious enough not to open a four-person portal in the rather tiny room, Gwen tapping away on her watch and Lyla on standby to help guide them to a correct placement. Miles trails after them, bright, clutching his sketchbook bag to his side and flicking his webslingers up to his palms. He"s smiling. 

"Miles," Miguel says. 

The boy turns to him, and he can"t help but stiffen, heart in his throat, wondering what he"ll see—but there"s just openness, calm, bright eyes like stars. To outsiders, it looks like nothing has changed. 

Everything has. And still Miles looks at him. 

"The medbay by nine," he says, and there"s a bit of a shake in his voice he"s never had before. Something wavering. 

Everyone stops. They understand what that means. 

Miles just smiles though, a little soft, a little sad. He"s so goddamn brave, facing down his own death, knowing that today will be his final day—and then he"ll disappear, slip back away to the retreats of his own mind, letting the Miles that already had more time, that still has a future, take back over. It isn"t fair. None of this is fair. 

But still Miles smiles, nodding his head. "I"ll be there."

He turns back to the door, going to follow his friends, and hesitates for a second, hand on the frame. Looks back. "You"ll be there too, right?"

Miguel nods. "I will."

He will.

-

There"s an IV in the room. 

Miguel stares at it, hands resting on his thighs, sitting in one of the plush chairs the medbay has littered around. The clock on the wall is crawling towards nine, steady and inevitable. He"s been in here for hours, he thinks. It"s hard to tell. 

There"s an IV in the room, and in it, mixed with the saline, is a sedative. 

It was for the best, they had decided, that Miles not be awake when the week finishes—there"s no saying what adverse effect could happen when his spider DNA reconnects. Better to be unconscious. 

It"s better. He knows that. 

He keeps staring at the IV. 

Sound, outside, the laughter and bustle of four teenagers; Miguel straightens up just as the door opens, the white-plain-bright interrupted by everyone pilling in at once, loud, chattering, arms around and pressed to each other"s hips. Miles is in the center of the pack, everyone surrounding him, picking a bit of excess web off his clothing.

"I just– I kinda thought you just looked like that," Miles breathes, eyes wide. "Not that it was, like. Your whole dimension."

Hobie snorts, flicking one of his wicks back from where it"d fallen over his face. "Damn shame all the rest of your dimensions are so plain. Would be nice to get more papersketch elsewhere."

"Ouch, man," Gwen says, rolling her eyes. "Mine"s plenty pretty enough."

Pavitr blinks when they all turn to him. "I like everyone"s?"

Hobie slings an arm over his shoulder in a move that looks more like a tackle. "Ya damn fencesitter, you"re supposed"ta pick–"

Miles shakes his head, laughing. "All of yours are great, there"s no need to pick, seriously! I like them all!"

"Well o" course you do, it"s this li"l shit I"m worried about–"

They thunder around the room, Gwen and Miles trying—unsuccessfully—to rescue Pavitr from the horror of Hobie sticking a hand in his hair and messing it up, and Miguel is smiling, and he can"t shake the expression. Doesn"t want to, really. It"s nice. 

The clock chimes a bit, just a soft tick, as the arm slides over to nine. 

Miles trails off, looking up. 

They all stare at it. 

Hobie lets Pavitr go and steps back, hand on the neck of his guitar. Gwen exhales. 

Miles keeps his eyes on the clock. "It"s time, I guess."

The end of a week. Seven days is so achingly, painfully short. 

Pavitr and Gwen both look plenty prepared to stay until the proper end, peering around for extra chairs, but Hobie"s looking at Miguel with something in his eyes. Not warmth, since he"s never had any of that for him, but understanding. 

"C"mon, luvs," he says, swinging arms around both their shoulders. "We"ve had our day."

Miles looks both heartbroken and thankful, and he inhales, scrubbing at eyes that are already brimming over. "Yeah. Uh. I want to, but–" he gestures, a little helplessly, at Miguel.

Gwen"s jaw tightens. Pavitr runs his fingers over his bangle. 

But they understand. They probably talked about it—it"s why they spent the entire day out exploring, why Peter volunteered for patrol, why Miguel sat here instead of staying with them. They had the day, and that trade is fair enough, for all that anything can be fair when they"re bargaining for someone"s last hours. Miguel isn"t begrudging them for taking the majority—god knows they deserve it more than him—but he needs just a moment to talk to the kid. 

Once more, before the last. 

"Okay," Gwen says, sounding like the word is being torn from her. She steps forward and Miles hands her his sketchbook bag, slipping it over her shoulders, bouncing against her hip. "Okay." 

They"re staring at each other, and for a moment, it looks like they truly have known each other for two years. There"s a history longer than a week there, longer than a lifetime.

"Thank you," Miles says, eyes and voice wet. "Thank you, seriously. This was– this was one of the best weeks of my life."

Gwen near melts. "Of course, Miles." She reaches out, hand on his shoulder, and her own tears splash down her cheek. "We"ll tell you everything, okay? Lyla"s got the security footage, and Pav"s been keeping a journal. This week won"t disappear. We won"t let it."

Miles smiles, watery.

There"s a second and then Pavitr lunges forward, burying his face in Miles" chest, arms wrapping around—Miles squeaks, nearly stumbling back, but then Gwen hugs him from the side and Hobie gets his lanky arms around them all, and they lump together in a great pile in the center of the medbay. There"s something reverent and frantic in the hug—none of them are any older than eighteen but they understand what this means, how this will change them all moving forward. They hug like it"s the end of the world. 

For one of them, it is.

"I love you guys," Miles whispers.

They hug him tighter. 

There"s no words worthy, really. Nothing more they can say, no apologies to make, nothing to explain why they will move on to tomorrow and remember it all while Miles won"t. Why he will slip, piece by piece, until this boy is dead. 

So they just nod, Hobie squeezing his shoulder, Pavitr"s eyes brimming, Gwen clasping his hand, and slip out of the room. 

It echoes in their wake. 

Miles hiccups, trying to calm down his breathing with slow, steady inhales that keep being interrupted by near-sobs, stumbling back to sit on the bed. Miguel stands, legs cracking uncomfortably in the way that tells him he"s been here for longer than he was aware of, and sits next to him; offers a shoulder like he has before.

Without hesitation, Miles leans into it. 

"Are you okay?" Miguel asks, quiet.

It"s a stupid question, and Miles laughs a little, scrubbing at his face. "Yeah," he says, which is a lie, but neither of them call him out. "Yeah. I"m okay. I"m ready."

He isn"t. But who could be?

They sit there together, the medbay humming quietly around them, the clock clicking ever on. Eventually Miles" breathing slows, steadying out, and he"s able to lift his head back up and blink the tears out of his eyes. Stares over the room, the blank white, the steady hum of distant lights and movement within HQ. 

The last thing he"ll see. 

"I"m ready," he says again, voice quiet, and Miguel"s heart is in his throat as Lyla appears before them. She"s quiet, glasses pushed tight over her eyes, and she sends the report off without a comment. Bobs her head to Miles and disappears again. 

They"re both quiet as Masha Yana comes in, her cape-coat high around her neck, smile small. They"ve both been briefed, multiple times, and she doesn"t say anything as she slips around the bed and reaches for Miles" arm, palm up. 

He stares, for a second. Wavers. Places his arm in it. 

The IV needle goes in smoothly and she tapes it off. Adjusts a few dials on the bag, flicks it once to test how it bubbles. Makes sure it"s properly in his vein. 

Squeezes his shoulder once, sad, and leaves the room. 

Miles and Miguel stare at the needle. 

Such a small thing, at the end of the day. Barely more than a nuisance. In his suit, it wouldn"t even pierce the lycra, and with his advanced healing, not a single drop of blood would spill before it had closed up. Such a small, little thing. 

The medication drains, drop by drop, through the tube. 

He lifts his hand, careful not to tug on the wire, and rests it on his side—leans back, laying down, tucking himself under the sheets. For Spiderman, they already have to wildly increase their medication dosages to get past their advanced metabolism, and it"s unlikely that Miles will be awake for even five minutes with this much running through him. 

His hands shake, just a little. 

"It"ll be like falling asleep," Miguel says, because it"s dying, but it isn"t, but it is.

Miles laughs. "It is falling asleep." He leans back, head resting on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. There are tears in the corner of his eyes. "But that"s not– that"s not so bad, y"know? I think I prefer it this way over anything else. At least this way I get to say goodbye."

Miguel shifts, sitting on the bed next to him, and reaches out. Places his hand over the back of Miles", avoiding the IV. The kid"s warm, bright. 

The lights in the room reflect off the tears in his eyes like stars. 

"I"m sorry," he says again, always again, like if he just keeps saying it then one day it"ll be enough to matter. "I"m so sorry, kid."

"S"alright, man," Miles says, grinning, a little slurred, the medication in his IV bag already filtering through his bloodstream. "Happy to have met you, y"know? You"re a good guy."

Iron lances through Miguel"s chest. He isn"t. 

But maybe he can become one. 

"Check the uh. The bedside table, alright? Once I"m– asleep. Once I"m asleep."

Asleep. He"s just falling asleep. 

"I"ll fix this," Miguel says, and his voice skips and hops in his throat. "I"m going to apologize, and I"ll mean it, and I"m going to make things right between us."

Miles nods, eyes half-lidded. "They already are," he manages. "I forgave you. You just have to help the other-me understand that." 

Miguel squeezes his hand. "I will."

He squeezes back, eyes slipping closed. 

"Thank you," Miles whispers, face slacking out, arm resting against the sheets. The IV is almost empty. The lights flicker, once, as the boy on the bed falls further and further back.

Miguel closes his eyes. "Good night, Miles." 

He manages a final sleepy sound, eyelashes fluttering, and then his breathing evens out. 

The clock keeps clicking on. 

Miguel sits there. Eventually he lets go of Miles" hand, splaying it flat by his side so the needle doesn"t move. Shifts the pillow so it cradles his head more, pulls the sheets up to the strings of his hoodie. Gets up, walks over, dims the lights. Shuts the door against outside sounds. Goes back to the bed. Stares at the boy there. 

He stares for a long, long time. 

But he has to keep moving, so he looks away, brushes off his suit, replays the conversation—remembers Miles" last request, the phrase he hadn"t had time to think about at the moment. Something about the bedside table. 

Moving slowly, like he"s worried about waking Miles up if he"s too loud, he crosses the room and opens the little table, white wood-substitute, simple hook handle. He pulls it out. 

There"s a paper, in the drawer. Miguel picks it up. 

It"s in Miles" style, bright yellows and pinks and oranges, wide blocky letters and double-traced outlines. The paper looks like it was cut out of a sketchbook, thick and quality, edges splattered with bleedover from other pages. There was time and love poured into the art, bubbly and well-made. 

Spiderman!

There"s a picture of Miguel. His face, lit up in warm highlights, arms outstretched, midswing, silk forking out in ruby-red strands. It fills the page, sprawling, racing off to somewhere out of sight. There"s a smile on his face, small, and his eyes are drawn curled up; talons extended, watercolour smears on their edges, hair blown back in an unfelt wind. There"s an empty square on the top, the perfect size for a pin to attach to the wall. 

It"s him. 

There"s something in his eyes. Miguel pauses. Sets the paper down, carefully, on the table so it doesn"t get damaged. Retracts his talons and brushes at his face. 

They come away wet. 

It has been a long, long time since he"s cried. 

Tomorrow, when the medication wears off, Miles Morales will wake up—and it will be a Miles Morales who is fifteen years old, who knows of his powers and how he got them, who has watched his family fall and break and crumble. A Miles Morales who sat abandoned in his world for a year and a half, who found companionship and was betrayed by it, who ran from dimension to dimension in a desperate bid to save what he couldn"t afford to lose. A Miles Morales who stiffens around shadows and laughs awkwardly and doesn"t look Miguel in the eyes. A Miles Morales who had been this bright, star-eyed child, but isn"t anymore. A Miles Morales who is afraid.

Tomorrow, Miguel will learn from this, and he will do better. He will try, and he will reach out, and he will rebuild the bridge he shattered. 

But for today, Miguel simply weeps over the boy that couldn"t be.

-

Ten hours later, only the distant click of the clock to fill the silence, Miles wakes up.

There"s nothing slow or peaceful about it this time; he twitches once, consciousness returning, and then his eyes are flying open, body tense like a live wire, and in what has to be a combination of stubbornness and spider sense, he"s locking eyes with Miguel in under a second. 

Miguel looks back.

There"s a picture he"s going to hang on his wall. A break room he"s going to preserve. An apology he"s going to make. 

But for now, Miguel merely straightens up, keeping eye contact. "Hello, Miles," he says, quietly, openly, voice light. "How are you feeling?"

Miles blinks at him, brows furrowed. "Good," he croaks, voice rasping. A pause. "Are you hurt? Why are you here?"

Be honest. Tell the truth. No more lies. Deep breaths. 

"I wanted to see if you were okay."

Miles startles, head cocking to the side. Something like disbelief flashes over his face—and then he takes in how Miguel is sitting, on a chair instead of a medical bed of his own, hands clasped before him, suit peeled back from his face. 

"I"m good," he says slowly, but there"s something curious in his voice, something softer, and when he manages to drag himself up into a sitting position, he lets himself look around the room instead of staying trained on Miguel. "What happened? Did the collider explode?"

Miguel inhales. There"s a story to tell, long and wretched and pained, but he will tell it; and he won"t hold anything back, and he"ll answer all questions, and at the end, he will apologize, and he will mean it more than anything he"s ever done in his life.

It isn"t enough. 

But maybe, just maybe, it"s a start.