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He wakes up to the phantom sensation of hands wrapped around his throat. Figures flash before his eyes; first, Kingpin, looming over him, Miguel, spitting his disdain for him, then his Uncle Aaron, tall and angry, before his face morphs into that of his dad’s, disgust written in the lines of his face.
Miles sits up and shakes his head, trying to clear the images away, eyes darting around his room in panic as he struggles to take a breath in. His hands clutch his own throat, as if trying to pry someone else’s away, but no one is there. No one is here, he tells himself. It was just a dream.
As reality sinks back in, Miles feels himself sag against the wall, taking in the cool, grounding sensation of it. His heart is starting to slow its gallop in his chest. He’s not sure how long he sits there, breathing and breathing and breathing. He remembers how it used to be easy.
He hears a quiet knock at his door and startles, breath hitching.
“Miles?” His mom peeks her head around his cracked-open door, and Miles feels bad for how relieved he his that it’s not his dad. The line between dreams and reality has been far too blurry for him lately, especially in the dark of night. “¿Que pasa, niño?”
Miles looks up at her, and suddenly, he feels like a little kid creeping out of bed after a bad dream, into their parents’ bed and seeking comfort. He realizes that’s what he wants more than anything right now. His resolve to sit here and fight off sleep alone crumbles.
“Mami,” he says brokenly, and he hates the way it comes out as nearly a whimper, how childlike he sounds. But he feels so small.
In an instant, Rio has crossed the room and is kneeling on the bed in front of him, hands on either side of his face. He leans into the gentle touch, a sharp contrast to angry fists and sharp claws.
“Está bien cariño, I’m right here,” Rio croons, and Miles closes his eyes. This. This feeling is home , he thinks.
Rio settles next to him, and Miles lets himself loosen from his protective ball, tipping over into her lap. She takes it in stride, bringing her hand to stroke his face comfortingly. Miles knows he’s acting like a child, knows her face is as tight with concern as it is soft with comfort, knows he will have to answer questions in the morning, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.
He closes his eyes to the feeling of his mom brushing a hand through his hair, and this time, he doesn’t dream at all.
Some days, Miles can’t feel anything at all. It is neither good nor bad, but a neutral occurrence. It often takes him a while to notice, and it always seems to happen after a rough night or a mission gone wrong.
He stands in a debrief with Miguel, Gwen, Pavitr, and Hobie. Pavitr is crying softly, devastated at the loss of a father they couldn’t save. Gwen and Hobie stand close to him protectively, answering a majority of the questions while Miguel, in his own gruff version of gentleness, delicately asks for details of the mission.
Miles, for his part, stands slightly apart from the rest, not saying anything at all. Which is probably for the best, because if Miguel directed the questions towards him, he wouldn’t be able to answer. He genuinely doesn’t remember the last several hours.
He zones out for a bit, gaze fixed just to the side of Miguel’s face, and doesn’t see Miguel’s frown towards him or the scrutinizing look Hobie shoots his way.
“Morales.” Miguel suddenly turns to him. “You injured?”
“Nah, man. All good in the ‘hood over here,” Miles responds, but his voice is flat.
“Right,” Miguel says skeptically. “You’re all dismissed. Go get some rest, you four. And for what it’s worth, you all did an outstanding job today.”
Miles hears, vaguely, the sounds of Gwen murmuring to Pavitr. He thinks she says something to Hobie about taking Pavitr back to his home dimension and staying with him for a bit, and Miles thinks that’s probably for the best. He can’t really remember why, though.
That’s probably not good, he thinks, before promptly deciding it doesn’t matter.
“Miles,” Hobie calls. “You good, mate?”
Miles looks around, realizing with a start that it’s just the two of them, standing in the hallway outside Miguel’s office. He didn’t even realize he’d left, doesn’t remember turning and walking out, and certainly doesn’t remember the firm hand at his back guiding him out.
“‘Course I am,” Mile says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Hobie shrugs. “Was a bummer of a mission. It’d be understandable if you weren't.”
“Yeah,” Miles agrees. “It sucked. I’ll probably go home and sleep it off, you know?” He knows something bad happened, he knows he should be feeling something other than blank, but the world feels a bit flimsy, like maybe he’s sitting in the back of his own head watching it all on a screen.
Hobie studies him for a moment, before seeming to make an executive decision.
“Come back to my place for a bit,” he says. “Sit out on my balcony and laugh at the old hag that yells at kids. We can order in fish ‘n chips.”
Miles smiles slightly. “How very British of you,” he comments.
“Guilty,” Hobie agrees dramatically. “You comin’, then?”
Miles shrugs, figuring he might as well. “Sure, man. Got nothing better to do.”
“Flattering,” Hobie says, looping an arm around Miles’ shoulders and opening up a portal. He drags them through and they land straight on the balcony.
Here, the sun is just starting to set, and the view of the city almost always takes his breath away. Except this time, when he looks out at it, Miles feels nothing. There’s no awe, no drive to savor the sunset. The sun is there and setting and beautiful. And Miles just looks, not thinking about anything at all.
For a long while, Hobie and Miles sit quietly together, watching the sun go down. The lady across the street does, indeed, yell at the loud kids who get close to her small flower bed, and Hobie huffs his amusement beside him.
He knocks his shoulder into Miles. “Gotta be honest with you, my guy. I don’t think you’re good.”
“Good at what?” Miles asks.
“I don’t think you’re feeling good,” Hobie clarifies patiently.
Miles hums. “I don’t feel bad,” he tells him. “Should I?”
“You had a rough time of it today,” Hobie says, eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Think instead of dealin’ with it, you’re checkin’ out.”
Miles thinks about that. It’s true that he doesn’t quite feel all there. He feels distant and strange, like there’s nothing solid around him.
“Oh.” He wonders if he should try to think about what happened. Thinks it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not really sure why or who he’s apologizing to, but it feels necessary.
“What for?” Hobie challenges, and Miles shrugs his shoulders yet again.
“Dunno,” he says. “Just am.” His words are short, clipped, quiet. They are heavy to carry. He uses the last of his strength to carry a couple more. “I’m so tired,” he whispers, and Hobie looks at him with tender eyes.
He wraps an arm around Miles and pulls him into his side firmly, letting him feel the solid lines of his body, sturdy and sure.
“That’s fine, love,” Hobie soothes. “You don’t have to think about it right now. Just rest.”
Miles presses his head into Hobie’s shoulder, and turns his head to look out at the sunset. He doesn’t try to savor it or enjoy it. He just stares at it, the sun and the sky, which will be here tomorrow for him to love, and floats.
Thank god for adrenaline, is all Miles can think as he swings wildly through the city. He’d felt, briefly, a piercing pain in his side before it receded, and he doesn’t even bother trying to attend to it, as crunched on time as he is. Adrenaline is pumping fiercely through his veins, and his heart beats wildly in his chest.
“Why’s it always gotta be lizards?” Miles complains.
“It’s a canon event,” Gwen mocks, and Miles sniggers as he hears Miguel sigh over the communication system.
“It’s not—nevermind,” Miguel says, sounding exasperated.
“You know what else is a canon event?” Miles starts. “Us kicking this thing’s ass.”
“That’s the spirit, kiddo!” Peter B. exclaims, swinging into view.
“Peter? When the hell did you get here?” Gwen asks.
“Just now, actually. Took awhile to get Mayday down for her afternoon nap. You know how it is.”
“I actually don’t,” Gwen says dryly.
“Catching the lizard freak is somehow easier,” Peter explains.
“Have you ever considered that maybe you shouldn’t have given a one year old some web shooters?” Miles tries asking.
“I hadn’t, really, no,” Peter says seriously.
“Jesus Christ,” Gwen mutters.
From there, things move very fast. A chunk gets taken out of a building, they all go scrambling for cover from the flying debris, Miles feels briefly like he might pass out, and they all corner this week’s lizard villain and web him in a cocoon.
“Great work, team!” Peter tells everyone, whooping through the intercom.
“Thanks, Mom,” Gwen says sarcastically.
“Isn’t Mother’s Day coming up?” Miles asks.
“What is Mother’s Day?” Gwen asks.
“What the fuck,” Miles says.
“Language!” Peter scolds.
“Yes, Mom!” Miles and Gwen chorus.
“Lyla, mute them, please,” Miguel’s voice comes through, and Miles laughs.
“Weak,” he teases.
“Race you back to Headquarters,” Peter says mischievously.
“How is that a race?” Mile asks. “It’s literally just a portal.”
Even as he says it, one is already opening up in front of Peter. “And? I’m already winning,” Peter laughs before hopping through. Miles goes through after him, while Gwen shakes her head.
“Children,” she mutters, before following them.
Now that there’s back in the safety of HQ, Miles feels jittery and lightheaded with leftover adrenaline, and he sort of really wants to lay down. Or pass out.
“I need some water,” he says. The words are barely out of his mouth before there’s a bottle in front of him, Peter having dug an unopened bottle out of this robe.
“God, you really have turned into a mom haven’t you?” Miles teases, taking the water and chugging it gratefully. “I might pass out,” he adds casually.
Peter frowns, scanning him for injury. “Let’s get you into the infirmary.” His eyes narrow and do a double take. “What’s wrong with your side?”
“Jeez, man, will you guys lay off the red? It’s cool , you guys are just haters,” Miles says defensively.
“Miles, you’re literally bleeding,” Peter says, sounding uncharacteristically serious, and Miles rolls his eyes.
“You don’t have to look at it if you don’t like it. Just, like, focus on the mask or something,” he tells Peter. And, god but Miles is starting to become aware of how shit he feels. Lightheaded and feverish and maybe just a little bit nauseous.
“Miles. You’re bleeding. Were you fucking stabbed?” Peter asks incredulously.
“I think I’d know if I’d been stabbed,” Miles tells him. “Also, I thought ‘fuck’ was on the no-no list.” Before Peter can say anything else, Miles continues. “On second thought, I’m definitely going to pass out.”
His eyes promptly roll to the back of his head, and Miles’ legs crumple from beneath him. Peter swears loudly and swiftly catches him before he can hit the floor. Peter scoops Miles into his arms with ease and runs through the halls, Moses to the Red Sea of spider-people. He races Miles to the infirmary, heart pounding in his chest, because this fucking kid, his fucking kid is passed out and bleeding in his arms and how did it take so long for anyone to notice?
Adrenaline is one hell of a drug, Peter figures as he deposits Miles into a stretcher and the medics roll him away.
He sits outside the hospital room, waiting for a medic to give him an update. Gwen joins him, and so does Miguel, pacing like an agitated animal. They all wait in tense silence, before Gwen’s voice finally cuts through the tension.
“You think Miles is this ridiculous in every universe?” she pipes.
Peter laughs. “Probably. It’s a canon event.”
Even Miguel tries and fails to hold back a small smile. He sits down, looking less agitated than before as they all start to share stories of the unique predicaments Miles gets into, even by spider-people’s standards.
And when the medic comes out and tells them Miles will be just fine, they all breathe a sigh of relief.
Miles has only been gone for a week, but by the time they find him, he’s nearly feral.
He’s tucked into a corner of the cell, looking dazed, even as his eyes dart around nervously. His clothes are tattered and worn, singed in places where they’d clearly been burned off of him. He’s bruises peppering his body, and the sight of him makes Miguel literally want to kill someone.
“Miles,” Miguel says softly, as if talking to a spooked animal. And that’s really want Miles looks like, whites of his eyes showing as he presses himself into the wall.
Threat threat threat threat! Miles brain is chanting through the haze, and he tries to make himself as small as possible. He doesn’t recognize the man before him, only knows that people entering his cell means more pain.
And he hasn’t been allowed to sleep.
“Please don’t,” Miles whimpers. He knows he shouldn’t bother pleading for mercy. They always seem to like it when he does that.
“Miles,” the voice says softly, and he pauses. Now that he thinks about it, they never called him by his name. They always just called him “Spider-Man” in sneers and scathing tones.
“Uncle Aaron?” he asks, voice scratchy from disuse.
Miguel pauses, heart racing with alarm. He needs to get the kid safe now.
“It’s just me, Miles,” he says in a low, soothing voice. “It’s Miguel.” To his increasing alarm, Miles shies back again, as if trying to get as far from him as possible. “Estás bien, mijo,” he croons, thinking of the words he’d say to his daughter when she woke up from nightmares. He hopes the words and native tongue bring similar comfort to Miles, somewhere in his addled brain.
“I’m—I’m—please,” Miles stutters, eyes darting to the door, like he just wants to flee.
Miles is scared of him, Miguel realizes with a pained grimace. His presence is hurting more than helping. He knows Gwen and Hobie are outside, knows that all threats have been thoroughly taken out of the picture. He makes an executive decision.
Slowly, telegraphing every move, Miguel backs away and opens the door. Then, he tucks himself into a far corner, giving Miles a clear shot out. Miles’ eyes dart between him and the door several times, and Miguel’s heart breaks at the fear and indecision on his face. He watches as Miles' spine seems to straighten and he steels himself, jaw clenched with sudden determination.
Despite the circumstances, Miguel can’t help the rush of pride he feels. That even at his most petrified, this kid manages to maintain his strength and perseverance. It is a wonder to behold.
In the blink of an eye, Miles is out of the door, running as fast as he can. As much as he wants to rush after him, Miguel doesn’t want him to feel chased, so he follows at a slower pace, confident that Gwen and Hobie will get him.
Sure enough, when he walks into the bright sun, Miguel finds Miles practically clinging to his friends, shaking and shaking and shaking. He looks horrific, and eyes tired and dazed, and as he sobs brokenly into Gwen’s shoulder, Miguel knows it will be a long road to recovery. He also knows, though, that like a phoenix turned to ash, Miles will rise beautifully.
And Miguel can’t wait to see it.
Sometimes, Miles presses his thumb into his grief like it’s a bruise, just so he can feel it, so he can know it’s still there. There are better ways of remembering Uncle Aaron, he knows, but the only way he knows how to keep loving him is to keep missing him, and he doesn’t know how to miss him without it hurting. So he lets it hurt. He makes it hurt.
Aaron, as confused as his feelings about the man are, was one of the three center-pieces to his universes. He was a core part of his family, and without him, Miles feels lost. He’s angry, he’s confused, and he hates himself for the days that go by easily.
Shouldn’t it be hard?
Except it’s not. Sometimes, the days are simple. He wakes up, he fights crime, goes on treetop picnics with his friends, kisses his mami goodnight, and life is not so bad. Except Aaron isn’t there anymore to see it.
One year later, and Miles still can’t figure out the right way to grieve his absence. He’s not sure there is a right way, but he thinks there might be a better way.
(He still remembers the feeling of Uncle Aaron’s hands wrapped around his neck. He still doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about it.)
A presence behind him makes themselves known, and Miles turns to find his father looking up at the mural, a sad look on his face. He looks devastated in a way that Miles rarely sees. He thinks maybe he’s not the only one who comes here to stare at Aaron’s face, thumb-to-bruise.
“I’m sorry,” his dad says gruffly. “I know you loved him. Love,” he corrects himself.
“Yeah,” Miles says softly. “I do.”
They don’t say anything more between them after that, but Miles thinks he maybe has tears running down his face and the mural is starting to look quite blurry and his breath is sort of hitching because it hurts, god it hurts and he just wants his uncle back, he wants his life Before back, and he knows it’s not helpful to think, but he wants it anyway.
His dad wraps him up into his arms in a rare display of open affection, and Miles can’t help the way he clings and clings and clings.
They stand there together, maybe for minutes or possibly hours, and they hurt.
They’re throwing a surprise birthday for Miguel. Which is sort of hard to do when he’s got a rather omniscient AI, but also not that hard when one considers that he’s a total recluse.
They’ve assigned Peter B. and Mayday to distract Miguel, which isn’t really hard to do because both Peter and his daughter are like unruly puppies. The hardest part will be getting Miguel anywhere near the recreation room without raising his suspicions that something is going on.
Currently, Miles is surrounded by about fifty spider-people in their most spacious recreation room, streamers and Spider-Man balloons flying everywhere. There is a table piled high with gifts that Miles is so curious about because what does someone even buy a guy like that?
No, Miles stuck with a good old-fashioned birthday card. Gwen snatches it from his hands before he can stuff it in the envelope, and reads it.
Feliz cumpleaños, tío! I know how much you love surprises. So. Surprise! I know emotions, like, aren’t your thing at all, and I totally respect it. But I still want to thank you for this community you’ve built and the home away from home you’ve given all of us. Thrilled to announce that you’re stuck with us forever now. That’s your real gift, really.
Peace out,
Miles
“Do people still say ‘peace out’ anymore?” Gwen asks.
“In my universe, they do,” Miles tells her. She gives him a skeptical look. “Okay, fine. Just me. But it’s so good. Also, what else was I supposed to end it with?”
“I dunno, how about a cute little ‘sincerely’?” Gwen suggests.
Miles scrunches his nose. “That’s so formal. And boring. Anyway, give me that back,” he says, snatching the letter and putting it in an envelope before anyone else can read it.
“He’s going to love it, Miles,” Gwen says, genuine now. “Well, love might be a strong word for Miguel, but he’s totally going to do that half-smile thing and try to cover it up with his mug of coffee.”
Miles smiles gratefully. He looks around the room, examining the minor chaos that’s happening. Mayday is swinging from a piñata while several spider-people supervise, Hobie and Pavitr are sucking in helium and singing loudly, and several spider-people have set up a classic game of Don’t Let The Balloon Touch The Floor.
Warmth spreads through Miles’ chest, and thinks about how, a year ago, he’d felt so isolated and alone. Now, despite everything that’s happened, Miles feels so immersed in the community that it’s like a phantom limb he can’t live without. Except they’re not phantoms. They’re real.
He’s interrupted by a chorus of chimes sounding through the room as everyone receives the same message.
MISSION SUCCESS. HIDE.
It’s comical how the room stills as they read, before bursting into hurried chatter as everyone scrambles to find a hiding place. Someone turns off the lights, and at least ten people start shushing everyone else, creating even more noise. Miles laughs, pressing close Gwen under a table.
The room finally quiets, air thick with anticipation. They hear Peter’s voice down the hall.
“—Miles is really sick and you know, I’m so helpless and not assertive at all, just a really permissive parent at best, so I was thinking maybe you could use your big scary voice to bully him into seeing a doc—”
“What the fuck?” Miles whispers, and Gwen is shaking with laughter.
The door opens, and the lights flick on, everyone jumping out and yelling, “SURPRISE!” Miguel, startled, extends his claws and falls into an offensive crouch, assessing the room for a threat, and Miles moves to the front.
“There’s no threat, you doofus. Happy birthday, man!”
Miguel takes a deep breath. “Peter…”
“What?” Peter says innocently. He takes a birthday hat out of the pocket of his robe and bravely places it on Miguel’s head. Miguel growls softly, but otherwise makes no room to remove it.
Now that it’s clear Miguel won’t maul anyone, people start to make their way forward, greeting Miguel with well-wishes and happy birthdays, and Miles lets himself sink back into the crowd, content to just watch.
Hobie comes over and slings an arm around him, and he’s soon joined by Pavitr and Gwen. They all watch their friends and peers swarm about, chasing Mayday and cutting cake and watching Miguel awkwardly pick at his presents. Miles sees him pick up the card from him, and he nervously watches Miguel read it.
When he’s done, Miguel looks up and scans the room, eyes locking on Miles. The corner of his lips quirk up, and for a second, it looks like they might get a rare, full-blown smile. But then he grabs his mug of coffee and brings it to his lips, stifling his smile, and Miles laughs.
Gwen nudges him playfully. “See? Told you.”
Miles nods and presses in close to his friends, taking in their warmth and letting it sit softly in his chest.
He digs his nails into the moment, and clings.