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03.21.2098.
5:08 AM.
MANHATTAN, NUEVA YORK.
Spider-man has to deliver a lot of people to the hospital. It’s in the job description, at the very bottom in microscopic print: all spider-people are morally obligated to swing any harmed civilians by the emergency room.
Sometimes a person didn’t make it out of their car before Rhino barreled into it. Sometimes Green Goblin was an asshole and forgot asthma is a real condition that a lot of people have. Sometimes Spider-man and Daredevil forgot that they take turns dealing with Kingpin, so neither of them thought to watch the big guy on a random Tuesday afternoon, and Evil Lackey #7 didn’t read the room and thought it was a good time to mention paid vacation time.
Peter prefers all of that over dealing with college students, who will scream until he puts them back on the ground regardless of their injuries, because they don’t have health insurance.
And yet, Peter would rather face the bleak reality of American healthcare than ever deal with the hassle of interdimensional emergency aid ever again.
“I’m fine, I didn’t need backup,” Miguel had said with crimson lining the fissures of his teeth. “Go back to HQ, I’ll be there later.”
“I know you’re the baddest dude in the biker gang, Miguel, but you’re bleeding so much that it looks like a xenomorph burst out of your stomach,” Peter strained to find a comfortable way to carry Miguel’s hulking form. “Wait, fuck. Does that reference make sense to you? Don’t tell me Alien becomes lost media in 2099. I don’t think I could handle that. Actually, hold on, I just remembered Sigourney supports Polanski. Does that mean—”
Miguel’s body weight abruptly increased tenfold.
“Falling unconscious when someone is talking to you is a real dick move, Miguel.”
In the midst of figuring out the most efficient way to hold Miguel on his back, he accidentally sent the two of them to Earth-2149— zombies, Peter will never enjoy a zombie movie ever again— and Miguel nearly lost a foot to Sue Storm before he could get the bracelet set to the correct settings.
“I schlepped him across the multiverse,” Peter declared, leaning over the control panel in the medical wing of Spider Society headquarters. “Saw some real fucked up shit on 2149. Glad I didn’t bring May.”
“2149 has been blacklisted for months, it shouldn’t be an available destination in your bracelet. Unless you’ve been tampering with it,” Margo flips a switch here, turns a knob there. Types in a series of code that feels unnecessarily elaborate on one of the computers. More medical bots drop from the ceiling of the operating room. “Lyla. Status update.”
“46 minutes until completion. Surgery was successful. Dissolvable stitches will be used. 48 hours of bed rest are recommended. Anesthesia will wear off in two hours maximum,” The monotone voice regains it’s signature attitude. “You get all that?”
Margo heaves a sigh.
“Peter, do you mind wrapping this up? I need to go home,” Her voice becomes tired and the pixelation around her eyes darkens. She needs rest. Desperately. “Big day tomorrow.”
Peter, hiding his braceleted wrist behind his back, agrees without thinking of the wife and daughter waiting for him at home. He was eager to pull Margo’s attention away from the bracelet— his newest fidget toy when he didn’t want to grade his papers— and jumped at the chance to help her. Peter could only hope that the concept of a quid quo pro existed across time and space.
“Thanks, Peter!”
She disappears in an explosion of neon blue squares, leaving Peter alone with only the company of machinery. He contemplates making a trip to the cafeteria, but ultimately decides against it. Despite the robots having proven themselves to be more competent than most members of the Spider Society, it feels wrong to leave Miguel alone with only the machinery weaving him back together. Lyla seems lovely, but the power of human empathy was not to be overlooked.
Nearly an hour later, Peter jerks awake when the airtight seal of the operating room unlocks with a hiss. He stretches as he stands. A burst of disinfectant comes from overhead, coating him in a mist that wets all of him, and he starts to complain before realizing the remaining bots are shoving a themed hospital gown on Miguel.
“Poor guy looks like Doc Connors tried to give him a c-section,” Peter jokes, taking in the red and blue garb. He wonders if they’re standard issue or if Lyla ordered them to bother Miguel. “So I just drop him off in one of the rooms?”
Peter is not so lucky.
Lyla gives him an address, directions that she seems to deliver too fast twice just to fuck with him, and kicks him out of the facility with Miguel perched precariously on his aching back.
Peter was both overjoyed and disheartened to find that New York truly never changed. Turnstiles were still a thing, because capitalist bastards never seemed to die out, and Peter had to enlist the help of others to lift Miguel over the bar in a small-scale version of crowd surfing. Nothing united his people like serial farebeating.
Two shuttle rides later, he finds himself punching in the code of Miguel’s apartment building in the Bronx. He presses the enter button so hard it hurts his thumb.
A beeping noise comes from the buzzer system, followed by a voice.
“Retinal identification failed. You may try two more times before the authorities are called.”
Peter didn’t even see a scanner on the machine.
“Scanning again in five seconds. Please do not blink.”
“No! No scan! I’m here to drop off Miguel O’Hara,” Peter frantically jostles the man around on his back. “He… had his appendix removed?”
“Sounds like bullshit,” Lyla’s voice says over the intercom.
Peter sighs so hard Miguel nearly slips out of his grip. A couple pointedly crosses the street when they see him standing in front of the building, whispering conspiratorially to each other. Miguel would never let it go if he got the both of them taken into custody in front of his apartment building.
“I thought he was being an asshole like usual, but I get why he doesn’t like you now,” Peter whisper-screams at the buzzer. “Buzz me in.”
“Magic word?”
“Please.”
“That’s not the magic word, but I don’t think you know many languages, so I’ll take it,” Her voice becomes clearer as the door unlocks. “The word was chnganh, by the way. Khmer for delicious. You should broaden your horizons.”
The door slides open with a blast of cold air.
03.21.2098.
10:55 AM.
THE BRONX, NUEVA YORK.
He deposits Miguel unceremoniously in the living room on a faux leather couch that squeaks from the new sensation of actually being sat on. The apartment itself is sparsely decorated and sterile with a chill that seems permanently nestled into the corners— Miguel has never seemed conventional, but this feels extreme.
Peter finds himself staring at the unmade half of the bed, no semblance of warmth to be found and no sign of a recent inhabitant, with a clenched jaw. He knew Miguel didn’t often make his way to his own apartment to sleep, but he did not expect to find him living a self-assigned half-life. Even the closet is neatly left empty on one side.
He backs into the hallway, where he can see Miguel’s unconscious form sprawled out on the sofa. He wonders when the last time he got a night’s sleep was.
Peter Parker is struck by a feeling of loneliness so profound that it makes his heart pitfall into his stomach. It is one thing to know someone is alone and another to see the evidence firsthand.
He makes the decision in the moment.
He will not be leaving Miguel here to wallow in his own depression, his only company being a charismatic but unfeeling hologram of artificial intelligence, when he has a home with more than enough love to offer him. Until his hours of bedrest are behind him, at least.
03.24.2019.
3:37 PM.
QUEENS, NEW YORK CITY.
Miguel wishes his sleep was dreamless.
His dreams carry the fragments of her back to him with flashes of their perfect universe.
Two scoops of ice cream, one strawberry and one rocky road, after a successful game. Bribing her with quarters so she’d allow him to teach her bits and pieces of Spanish. Searching up online tutorials and trying his best to tame her hair into whatever style she begged him for.
The worst dreams aren’t the ones where it all falls apart, but the ones where they fall asleep at the end of the day. Those are the ones that hurt the most, because they feel less like a goodbye and more like a see you later.
He wakes slowly, with a smile on his lips and a warm feeling in his chest, before he remembers. Years of his life are gone. She is gone. Nothing will ever be the same. Nothing deserves to be the same. He is a fundamentally broken man who can no longer tell the difference between something solid and something deteriorating. He rubs the heels of his palms into his teary eyes and takes a deep breath to rid himself of the remnants of sleep.
He pauses.
Miguel pulls his hands away from his face, nose twitching at the vaguely familiar mixed scents of laundry detergent, teakwood soap and coffee. Beneath it all was the extremely familiar scent of fresh web fluid. Imbibed ester, smelling of fruits, an absolute amateur’s concoction. The traceability of it could— and had, in some universes— prove fatal.
This is not his simple apartment, cozy in its emptiness.
The golden light of afternoon shines through the window to the right of him, undeterred by the untrimmed branches brushing against the glass with every breath of air. Judging from the foliage, it is spring. He slowly stands, aiming to process his surroundings but going tense from soreness. Stitches stare back up at him from his stomach.
A vacuum cleaner turns on in the next room and his eyes bleed red. Whoever brought him here is mocking him, putting on an idle front and expecting to catch him off guard. Miguel, holding an arm protectively over his stomach, extends his claws and brandishes his fangs. He approaches the noise. He won’t go down easily.
He opens the door and creeps into a tiny hallway that opens into an equally tiny living room.
“François c’est pas, Flash ain’t no dude. And you don’t stop! Sure shot. Go out to the parking lot,” A redheaded woman dances with the vacuum, hips moving with a beat only she can hear. “And you get in your car and drive real far and you drive all night and then you see a light—”
The smell of imbibed ester grows stronger.
Miguel doesn’t see Mayday fall from the ceiling so much as feel it, easily catching her as she tumbles, and his fangs and claws instantly retract. The tiny web-shooter on her wrist is the source of the smell. He heaves a weighted sigh of relief at the sight of her.
Only a handful of Spider-people have procreated, with a large percentage of that being variations of Peter, and he’s aware of exactly one Mayday with red hair who hasn’t mastered potty training. If Mayday is here, that means Peter Parker is here, which means he can make a pretty good guess as to who the woman in front of him is.
“Mary Jane Watson?”
The woman jumps and pulls the vacuum so hard that the plug-in is yanked from the socket. A home filled with noise is suddenly silent.
“Oh, it’s just you,” She visibly relaxes. “Holy shit, what do they feed you guys in the future? You’re massive! Your shoulders are in different timezones! You were big before but wow.”
“Why am I here?”
“And the name’s Mary Jane Watson-Parker,” She ignores his question entirely with a wink, twisting the chord around the handle of the vacuum and dragging it towards him. “Call me MJ, though.”
“Why am I here?”
She hip checks him in the doorway and continues onward. She’s headed towards an open closet further down the hallway he didn’t notice. With May in his arms, he completely forgot to do a perimeter check. She shoves the vacuum into the closet and closes the door.
“Mary Jane Watson—”
“Mary Jane Watson-Parker.”
Miguel wants to slam his skull into the foyer. “Why am I here? How long have I been here? Where is Peter Parker?”
“I’ll tell you after you shower, you’ve been passed out for three whole days and neither of us wanted to cross uncomfortable boundaries by cleaning anything other than your wounds,” MJ points back in the direction he came, into the bedroom. “Bathroom is the door on the left. Peter broke the shower knob a few months ago and we haven’t gotten around to fixing it, don’t manhandle it or it’ll fall off into your hand. And don’t panic if the pipes make a rattling noise in the wall, we don’t know why it does that but nothing bad has happened yet so we haven’t bothered calling anyone.”
She takes Mayday from his hands.
“But—“
“Towels are under the sink and I’ll set out some of Peter’s clothing for you,” MJ grins, all teeth and dimples. Her hair curls up in a way that frames her face perfectly, causing her to seem more welcoming than she actually is. “It definitely won’t fit, but it’s the thought that counts.”
03.24.2019.
3:51 PM.
QUEENS, NEW YORK CITY.
“I am not wearing this,” Miguel holds up the black crop top. Across the back, in bold white letters, it reads ANIMAL. He has a towel wrapped around his torso, like his pectorals themselves are something scandalous, as he waves the fabric at MJ. “Give me something else.”
She flips a brown pancake before answering. “Thought it’d make checking on your stitches easier.”
“I don’t need you to check on my stitches.”
“Unfortunate,” MJ shrugs. “Peter told me not to give your bracelet back until you let me check on your stitches. Guess we have a new roommate, May.”
“This is ridiculous. Give me my bracelet.”
“You going to fight me for it?”
“I am not going to fight you.”
“How misogynistic of you. That shirt is also the only thing I could find that I think stands a chance of fitting you without squeezing you to death, so it’s that or go shirtless,” She waves her spatula at him as she speaks. “And because you’re being such a pain in the ass, Peter has been the one taking care of the crime in your universe for the past three days. Don’t make that face. You’re going to pop a blood vessel.”
“He’s been doing what?”
“All the crime in your timeline has been going right into Peter’s workload. He’s also been handling the Spider Society,” MJ shakes the pancake loose from the frying pan and scoops it onto a waiting plate of hotcakes in the most condescending way possible. “Too bad the very capable, organized Spider-man of the future is on medical leave and won’t listen to his nurse.”
Miguel opens his mouth to argue, a clawed finger pointing at her menacingly, before closing it again. He will not sink to childish, petty arguing. He is an adult.
He will put on this shirt, he will let this woman look at his stitches, he will get his bracelet back.
And he will excommunicate Peter from the Spider Society when he gets back to headquarters— because this was handled poorly and went against protocol, not because Miguel is personally upset about Peter’s wife bullying him.
She does not tell him until after he’s put on the crop top and allowed her to check his stitches that Peter took the bracelet with him and Miguel is stranded until he comes home.
03.24.2019.
6:00 PM.
QUEENS, NEW YORK CITY.
Peter comes home after a long day of interdimensional travel to MJ contentedly humming to the tune of Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go over a bowl of pancake mix, Miguel leaning against the counter in the crop top MJ refuses to let him throw away, and Mayday showing off for Miguel by clapping her hands and laughing.
MJ has a smear of batter on her left cheek and her hair is up in the messiest bun she could manage, but the thing that catches Peter’s eyes is not the effortless beauty of the love of his life.
It’s the world’s smallest smile on Miguel’s lips, brown eyes warm and unguarded as he looks down at May. He’s relaxed in a way Peter has never seen, even before the incident. This is the kind of unbelievable tenderness that is reserved, private in nature and only for those close to the heart.
Peter watches from the doorway with his own heart knotted in a cherry stem.
Miguel believes himself to be lacking emotion, but Peter has found that it’s quite the opposite. Miguel feels too much. Carrying out a conversation with him is like defusing the world’s most sensitive bomb, strapped directly to Miguel’s innermost core, braving the risk of being caught in the nuclear fallout.
He is a man carved out of fury itself, anger settled deep into his bones and rage sitting in the back of his throat.
Beneath that, Peter knows what awaits him is a man scarred by his decisions and haunted by the lives he could’ve saved. Maybe that’s why he’s so determined to help Miguel. He gets it. He knows what it’s like to feel like a walking bruise, turning everything around him shades of rotting fruit.
Peter has spent the majority of his life being a self-fulfilling prophecy. He sabotaged himself everytime something good happened in his life, because he never really got over Uncle Ben, he never really got over Gwen, and he’s never going to get over Aunt May. Until Miles came into his life in a burst of glitchy technicolor, he believed his one chance to live a good life was to give it up for something better— something more deserving.
But that wasn’t the case.
He picked himself up and dusted off the years of mourning, an overpriced bouquet of flowers in hand, and started over with the one person who always seemed to come back to him. Under all that bitterness was a salvageable man, a passable husband and a moderately acceptable father who was willing to better himself once he knew it was possible.
Peter wanted that for Miguel.
Peter wanted himself, MJ and Mayday for Miguel.
A part of Peter felt selfish for having it so good, despite MJ’s best efforts to convince him otherwise, and he figured that if they had the love to spare that it could find a home in the catacombs of Miguel O’Hara.
Peter exhales and Miguel’s eyes snap up, rust-colored as they pin him in place. The man’s upper lip twitches, a pearly white fang visible. Mayday’s small head tilts, unaware of the mechanics of her own spider sense— she is not fearful of Miguel, after all, but she is keenly aware that something has changed and her friend is no longer happy. Clawed hands reach out, one around May and the other creeping towards MJ.
He remembers Miguel is in an unfamiliar environment, recovering from an intense surgery, and he is acting on instinct alone. He does not realize Peter is not a threat. He intends to protect MJ and May with his life.
Peter can hear his own heartbeat as the tempo increases.
He should not find this hot.
“Oh! Peter!”
The spell breaks as MJ sees Peter in her peripheral and turns in his direction. He grins, uncomfortable staredown momentarily forgotten, and moves to pull her into his arms. She kisses him full on the lips and then presses another kiss to his jaw, laughing into his neck. Peter is far too aware that they’re being watched.
He wipes the batter on her cheek away with his thumb, pretending to scrub as she laughs and tries to pull back. “Mary Jane, light of my life, are those my Aunt May’s famous wheatcakes?”
“Maybe,” MJ teases, snatching Mayday up. “Or it could be a new and improved recipe made by little May herself, with enough added chocolate chips that Miguel had to take the bag away before she poured the whole thing into the batter.”
Peter looks over at the man in question, but Miguel looks out of place. The pieces of him have started to drift, out of their welcoming home and back to his own lonesome apartment, and it is an effort to keep him tethered to the conversation.
“Lizard whooped your ass and you had to get some stitches,” Peter grunts when MJ roughly grabs his elbow. “You say vile shit in front of May all the time!”
“That’s different,” MJ replies, easily. She’s busied herself with getting May situated in her high chair. “When I do it, I’m teaching her to be a strong, independent young woman.”
Peter silently mouths bullshit to Miguel with a grin.
Miguel’s lips press into an even thinner line.
“HQ is still in one piece, if that’s what you’re worried about. Crime was also relatively easy to handle for the past three days,” Peter begins clearing off the table. They won’t wash anything yet, but they need space to eat. They’re not as eager to eat off of paper plates on the floor at their age. “And you should’ve told me your brother is Venom in your timeline. It was awkward.”
“He killed my wife, so I don’t think about him too much.”
Peter drops the ceramic bowl in his hands.
He exchanges a look with MJ.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” MJ says, quickly as she nudges Peter. “Aren’t we, honey?”
“So sorry for your loss,” Peter agrees, crouching to pick up the large shards of purple glass. “I had no idea.”
“It’s fine, I’ve moved on from that,” There’s a pinch in Miguel’s brow that he wants to press his thumb to and smooth out, soften him into a version of himself that hadn’t been through so much. “Where is my bracelet? I should head back now.”
“You’re not going to stay for dinner?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Miguel has started to get irritated, Peter can tell. “Bracelet?”
Miguel does not eat with them, but he does wait until they’re done to take his leave. When he’s good and ready to leave, MJ sweeps him into a hug that smells of teakwood, squishing May between them, and blindly reaches out behind her to grab Peter’s arm and pull him in.
The man from the future leaves their home as he found it, placed precariously on the graveyard shelf of Queens.
Peter and MJ stare at the empty place he leaves behind.
Peter speaks first.
“Verdict?”
“He’s got a stick shoved perpetually up his ass,” MJ laughs, bouncing Mayday on her hip as the toddler begins to nod off. She lowers her voice, as if Miguel could somehow hear her from across the multiverse. “But it’s a great ass. Invite him back over. I think it’s worth a shot, Tiger.”
Peter mocks a salute.