#📖; library ! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shurisbraids · 10 months ago

Text

𝓖𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓲 (𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝟏)

gif credit to user perccyjackson (prev. milesgmorales)

↝rating: g

↝pairings: vinylfang, punkflower

↝genre: angst, family, hurt/comfort

↝wc: 8.1k

↝song insp: "a body, a coffin" - amaarae

↝content: non-explicit, au (canon-adjacent), multiple povs, longfic, rare ship, minor spanish, head injuries, alt versions of characters, alt!miguel o'hara is trans and has anxiety issues, medicine use, minor suggestive content (strictly b/t adult characters), nursing, mention of violence, mention of child death, miles finally gets a fucking break

↝a/n: took me f o r e v e r to churn this fic out, but it's finally here!! my baby miles went thru so much in atsv and that ish wasn't fair. so, here's my personal remedy for that. loosely based on an au made by me and @arachnicas months ago. this is part 1 of a series i'm making (mainly centered around vinylfang). hopefully, the next part doesn't take me as long to finish.

↝summary:

“Who are you?” Miguel—this new Miguel—asked, his tired eyes studying Miles with a flicker of curiosity, caution. The boy sat up straighter, feeling his throat tighten. He couldn’t ignore the crack that hung at the edge of the older man’s voice as he asked his next question, “Why do you look like my nephew?” (Or: What if, during Miles’s escape from Spider HQ, the Go-Home Machine malfunctioned, sending him to another dimension with its own variant of Miguel O'Hara, and Miles, upon meeting him, had to figure out whether he could be trusted or not?)

Something was wrong.

A controlled dimensional jump shouldn’t have been this bumpy—but it was.

And Miles was terrified.

An angry, roiling expanse of space crackled and heaved all around him, spitting out shimmering clouds of stardust and supernovas, as he shot through the wormhole at unprecedented speeds. Everything swept past him in a hellish swirl of sound and color, energy and matter. Waves of particles crashed against his sides, leaving panic to scream across his nerves and flood his brain. He found it difficult to breathe, air fleeing from his flattening lungs.

His first thought, of course, was that he was going to die—that the barrier would shatter, and he would tumble into the gaping maw of the abyss beneath him, drown in that primordial sea of heat and ink and light, and disintegrate into the ether. Forever lost, while the Spider Society continued their fruitless search for him, while the Spot wiped his home dimension off the multiversal map in a blaze of death and rage—

(No, no—he couldn’t think like that, he had to save his dad, stop the Spot, prove Miguel wrong, prove them all wrong, he would be fine, he was heading home—)

Hopefully in one piece. At this rate, though, it would probably be in multiple pieces.

His second thought was why was this happening, why now? The Go-Home Machine had apparently malfunctioned—whether it was due to Miguel’s assault or a natural glitch Miles didn’t know—and decided to transport him through rougher terrain of the time-space continuum. Could it have messed up his destination too? In that moment—fighting down nausea and fear and ignoring the painful throb in his shoulder—Miles hoped not. He really, really hoped not.

Soon, he could see it: the portal at the end of the tunnel, glimmering an inviting pearl-white. Coming closer, closer. Promising freedom and salvation. Another jolt of the vector made his stomach lurch, its quivering hexagonal frame pulsing orange, then gray, then orange, then gray again. Taking a deep breath, Miles prepared himself, swallowing the scream in his throat. At this speed, in this position, he was definitely going to crash into whatever lay beyond that shifting eye.

(Not too hard, please, please.)

Arms up and crossed together, eyes screwed tight, he passed through. Just as the vector crumbled and the portal flickered out of sight. Ankle flew over head. Sky became land, and land became sky. His body slammed against the ground—head meeting concrete, the impact drawing all air from his lungs.

A bullet of pain shot through his skull, drawing a curtain of darkness across his vision as he went unconscious. His face fell to the side, limp. Cushioned—oddly enough—by a bed of withered flowers. The last thing he saw was a blur of a mural, sporting a face that was far too familiar.

Earth-88.

Another Nueva York: a sprawling corporate metropolis—the crown jewel of its nation—hiding more than a few secrets in its forsaken underbelly. Embraced by chrome-kissed skies and winking neon lights. Guarded by its own friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, Miguel O’Hara—always the same, but different—who was more concerned with putting up new room décor in his best friend’s apartment than committing to any superhero theatrics. He always reserved that for later.

“Are you sure you want this picture over the shelf?” Miguel asked, throwing a glance at Jess as he flipped the art frame in his hands.

She gave him a humorous look. “Yeah, I’m positive.”

They were working in her guest room, increasingly satisfied with its subtle metamorphosis. It was mid-afternoon, sunlight soaking through the curtains and casting the room in a mauve glow. The room already sported a nice layout—all gold and blue with regal hues—but Jess had recently grown tired of a few empty spaces, especially those on the walls. She bought a collection of new household items—pictures, baskets, candles, even special lights—she felt would add to its warm atmosphere.

“I think it’d look better with the collection on the opposite end,” Miguel muttered as he lifted the circular painting upward. “Same gold hues and all.”

“Yeah, but it complements the color of the shelf, too.”

As he hinged the portrait on the wall, he retorted, “Maybe if you squint. Or look at it sideways.”

Jess couldn’t help but laugh. “Hey, don’t challenge my color-coding skills: I’d easily do you in.”

Soon after, she had him dressing the corners of the rooms in lights as she moved tiny statues around, adjusted chairs into new positions.

“You and Aaron still coming to the baby shower on Saturday?”

“Of course, we are, cuata. We wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Miguel quirked his brow as he added, “Though Aaron may reconsider, he told me, if any of the games involve him having to wear a diaper.”

That earned a chuckle from Jess. “Maybe. I’m sure that would be a turn-on for you, huh?”

Miguel wrinkled his nose, but he couldn’t suppress the smile that crept onto his face. “You wish.” (In all honesty, his husband could be wearing just a leaf over his crotch and Miguel would still goggle at him.) He stepped down the short ladder. “Are you sure you don’t want tell me the gender beforehand?”

He knew she was keeping it a surprise—hence, the gender-neutral party theme, but maybe she would make an exception for him.

Jess narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think just because you’re my best friend you get a free pass.”

“Promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“Mhm. Not trusting you on that, O’Hara.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Jess.”

“I’ll let it break. Not like you’re using it or anything.” She turned towards the door. “Be right back. I got us drinks from Katy’s.”

Miguel perked up. “Is it boba?”

“Yup,” she said with a smirk. “I wouldn’t disappoint you.”

Katy’s was everyone’s favorite spot near St. Theresa’s, a cozy little café with specialized drinks and desserts to die for. Jess and Miguel loved visiting there right after work. His obsession with boba tea could never be understated—and since she knew he was coming over today she ordered two beforehand. Almond milk tea for her and coconut butterfly tea for him.

“Okay,” Jess breathed, slotting the appropriate tea into Miguel’s hands. “Breaktime.”

They tumble into small talk, workplace gossip, new developments on their respective side of town. Updates over their favorite TV shows, family marriages and divorces, oh, did you hear Dr. Phillips was caught making out with Rachel from ER in the closet? Words punctuated with light gasps and disbelieving chuckles.

Eventually, Jess paused a moment, brows pinched with confusion, as she placed a hand to her belly, feeling for something.

“Everything okay?” Miguel asked, eyes growing wider. “Did the baby just—?”

“They sure did!” she crowed, eyes bright as lanterns. “Here, you wanna feel?”

He nodded, allowing Jess to guide his hand to her stomach. His features twisted into a wonderous expression as he felt movement, the ghostly imprint of a foot fluttering beneath her skin. Even when he had done this multiple times with different patients, the beginning stage of life never ceased to amaze him, make his heart hurt.

Of course, he was genuinely happy for Jess and couldn’t wait to see her child. Holding them, spending time with them. (‘A boy,’ Miguel would think. ‘It’s gonna be a boy.’) Maybe they would have her dimples and wide, gap-toothed smile. Maybe one day they would even call him “Tio.”

Just like Miles had.

Maybe they would look like Miles.

At once, he felt his eyes dull, a black oily feeling seating itself at the base of his ribcage. Something close to grief; something close to envy. Jess—unfortunately—took notice. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, sympathy laced across her brow.

“Hey. Are you okay?” The words trickled out in a murmur, a gentle stream, drawing him out of this fleeting spell.

A part of him already knew. A part of him didn’t want to answer. But he does anyway—because he’s not shocking rude—his form bracing itself as if facing an incoming storm.

“Yeah?” His voice came breathless, weak. He was suddenly overcome with the urge to kick himself. Why did it come out like a question—like he was asking for permission? He tore his hand away from her stomach, deciding he had left it there for too long.

He turned his gaze elsewhere, as if embarrassed. “Sorry, I just—”

“Is it… about Miles?”

A blanket of ice coated his veins. His heart clenched. He couldn’t hide it: his expression said it all. Her pregnancy never reminded him until now. Reminded him of Miles. His nephew, who died months ago. Maybe it was because the baby’s arrival was so soon. Jess would have her child while his would still be six feet under. It wasn’t that he was envious. No, not really. It was just right now, that bump only served as another reminder of what he lacked.

Miguel looked at her then, his expression sullen and vague.

“No,” he whispered. A lie, of course—and she could tell.

The woman shook her head, curly hair bouncing, and placed a hand on his wrist reassuringly. Her eyes swam with sympathy. She kept her voice gentle as she said, “I know it’s been tough. If you’re still not over it, I get it. Recovery is different for everybody. Like I told you before, if you need any more support—”

Miguel’s eyes darkened. “I don’t.” Maybe his tone was a bit too cold, but it slipped before he could catch it. Talking about it right now wouldn’t help him. Talking about it was rarely something he wanted to do anymore. It wouldn’t lift the boy from the dead—and it wouldn’t make his absence hurt less.

Jess dropped the topic without another word. “Fine, sorry.”

His eyes softened as he rubbed the back of his neck. “No, it’s nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m the one who should be saying sorry.”

Maybe it was the turn of conversation that suddenly made the environment colder, the colors duller, and his fingers looser. Maybe it was the thing that suddenly made him want to leave. By now they were pretty much done with their little activity.

“If we’re finished here, I might as well get going, cuata.” He rose from his seat. “Still have some errands to run.”

“That’s fine.” He tried to ignore the note of sadness that rode her tone. “See you around, Migs. Thanks for helping. Tell Aaron I said hi.”

“Will do.”

So—Miguel returned home. He turned the lights on in the kitchen and swept his gaze around the interior. Slowly, mechanically, out of routine. Same dishes that needed to be put up; same board on the wall choked with half-written sticky notes, words of affirmation from him to Aaron or from Aaron to him.

Same life to live, same responsibilities to tend to. And yet none of it truly felt the same. The world spun on—even with Miles gone—and to Miguel that felt like a crime. How could the world continue with that soft, sweet boy gone, with his future left unfulfilled? It had been five months since he died, since Miguel was reminded again of his inherent helplessness in life’s orchestrations. Since the Sinister Six attacked Miles’s school and left it—and the rest of the block—a devastated mess in their onslaught.

("A seedbed for the upper world's twisted ideals," they sneered. "What good to keep it standing?")

Miles should’ve been here in the living room, notebooks and pencils scattered across the floor as he fussed over his homework, music leaking from his holographic audio player.

LYLA flickered to life in front of Miguel, sporting casual lounge clothes. “Hey, sunshine,” she purred. “How’d it go?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Want me to go over the rest of your schedule for today?”

“You know it.”

Typical errands: do laundry, go on a daily walk, water your plants. Padding into the living room, he turned on the television to get the latest news. A series of bank robberies in the 42nd District, all presumably by the same person; a kidnapping at the train station; a car accident on Highway I-45. No mention of any member of the Sinister Six—not yet, at least.

They normally caused trouble Downtown, their territory, but they certainly weren’t above making their mark on the upper crust of Nueva York. News organizations from Uptown rarely ever mentioned activity in Downtown. Not that it mattered: he and Aaron had connections down below who kept them updated. If any of them knew the current whereabouts of the gang members—especially the Green Goblin—they would tell him.

She was the one he was on the hunt for.

She was the reason Miles was gone.

Drawing the life from him with the calculated toss of a bomb. Miguel had been too late to catch it—had been too preoccupied with handling Doc Ock to notice in time. A bristling flash of white was all that was left to see, and Miguel hadn’t been able to capture the scream that tore free from his mouth right after.

There was nothing much left to remember afterward; just the cacophonous sounds of police and ambulance sirens, flashing lights painting smoldering walls blue-white-red. Why hadn’t he seen the signs ahead of time? Why had he thought it was a good idea to prioritize Doc Ock? Why hadn’t he moved fast enough? Why hadn’t he?

He swallowed the memory down, took a deep breath, tried to count to ten. Something close to rage punched a boiling fist through his ribcage. He swore one day he’d finally catch those monsters and make them pay.

But none of that now.

Just focus on what’s in front of you; don’t think beyond that.

And so he did. He vacuumed and he gathered laundry; he read another chapter of a book; he finished the rest of his boba tea; he absentmindedly listened to the new playlist Aaron had made for him as he wiped down windows. Eventually, as he chipped away at his chores, that urge unmistakably rose in him—the urge to see Miles. Not the boy himself, of course, but the mural made in remembrance of him. He hadn’t originally planned to go today, but he decided it was about time to pay another visit.

In all honesty, he preferred visiting the mural over the grave. He rarely ever visited the latter even when Aaron would try to coax him to go. At least at the mural he could see Miles as he had been, vibrant and alive, with a dimpled smile that could melt even the coldest heart. Aaron had painted it a week after the funeral. He had done an amazing job capturing the boy’s spirit in the colors, the lines.

Now it was time for a walk, wasn’t it? Just a small circuit that stretched a couple of blocks. Away from the streets most populated by pedestrians. After shrugging on his exercise clothes, he made his way out the door, down the stairs. He breathed in the crisp afternoon air, passing under clouds raked across the blue expanse of sky.

Trotting down the street, catching snapshots of neighbors and strangers amid their own business, as usual. Past endless rows of pristine apartment complexes. Past the elevated highways brimming with vehicles. Past the community gardens too neatly arranged.

Miles’s mural wasn’t too far ahead, tucked away near his favorite place to hang out with friends. Maybe someone had left more flowers, copies of his favorite toys, manga volumes. He could stand there like he always did, let a gentler pool of memories pour across his mind’s eye and drown him for those few sweet moments. Tell Miles he was sorry, so sorry. Pretend that he hadn’t failed him in the worst way.

Miguel wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. He briefly watched a plane streak across the sky before he took a sharp left between two buildings—a shortcut—sucking in a deep, silent breath. It didn’t take long for the mural to come into sight, visible even from the narrow passageway. Unmolested—or so he thought, as he reached his destination with silent, measured steps.

Nothing would’ve prepared him for what greeted him there.

He froze in place as his gaze fell upon a figure collapsed amidst the entourage of memorabilia. Unmoving. Unconscious. Alarm shattering his stupor like a hammer, Miguel moved closer to get a better look, wondering what had happened. Had the person been attacked? Had they passed out? Even from where he stood, there was something oddly familiar about the stranger’s profile. Once he stooped down, obtained a clearer portrait of their—his—identity, Miguel felt the world around him tilt sideways.

It was Miles.

Arms spread out like wings; body crumpled like an angel fallen. Skin bruised and battered; hair coated in debris. Clad in a tattered costume, a brilliant red spider floating in a sea of black upon his chest. Viciously familiar. Panic made the man’s heart crash against his ribcage.

No. No. This wasn’t possible.

Miguel wanted to believe this was a dream, a hallucination. Shakily he pressed an ear against the boy’s chest. A heartbeat. He was alive. But not in the best condition. He must’ve fallen—from where?—and landed on the concrete. A small pool of blood formed a morbid halo around the boy’s head, painting the flowers beneath it red. He paused, glanced around as if he expected an ambush before turning his disbelieving gaze back on Miles.

It’s a trick, a voice hissed in the back of his mind. It could’ve been, the man noted. But that didn’t stop him from gingerly picking the boy up, from observing his injuries, from leaving the place with him in his arms bridal style.

Miguel didn’t know what was going on, but he certainly welcomed it. A mixture of confusion, desperation, and fear pulsing in his bones. And something else: excitement.

“LYLA, run diagnostics.”

The AI flared to life in front of him, adjusting her triangle-shaped glasses. “Hm? What, you fell and scraped your knee—?”

She paused when she saw the injured boy lying on the kitchen table, which was cleared of space to make room for him. Miguel had already cleaned up the back of his head.

“Miguel… Is that who I think it is?” She teleported closer for a better look, eyes wide with shock.

Miguel was standing at the corner of the table, arms folded, expression giving nothing away. “Yeah,” he breathed, “or maybe not.” He wasn’t sure yet.

It didn’t make sense. There was no way this Miles was his Miles. He looked too different, wore different clothing, didn’t even have his hair in his eyes. Out of all the technological advancements Nueva York boasted, resurrection wasn’t one of them. Cloning was one of the only conclusions he could reach.

But who would clone Miles, and for what reason?

Did someone figure out Miguel’s secret identity and was leading him on? That couldn’t be possible either, was it? In any case, regardless of how this panned out, he wasn’t going to treat the boy cruelly—only cautiously. He was injured, and, of course, Miguel felt his nursing instincts kick in. He could’ve seen a supervillain bleeding out on the street and still rush to save them, whether it was by his hand or another’s.

Rubbing the side of his face, he groaned, “Again, diagnostics.”

LYLA perked up, “O-Oh, right!” She fumbled with her glasses a bit before scanning Miles, a wave of blue light washing over him. “Lacerations on face; mild contusion with bruising and bleeding at the base of the skull. Swollen left cheek. Ooh, nasty—ice can help with that! Acetaminophen should help with pain relief…”

Miguel pulled up a holographic screen, making notes of LYLA’s report with a speed honed only by focus and achieved through years of experience. None of the injuries were anything he couldn’t handle. He and Aaron dealt with worse in their line of superhero duty.

And now came his favorite part: tending to his patient’s wounds. He applied antiseptic and ointment; he wrapped bandages around the boy’s head with incredible care, all the while taking note of his vitals (as if he would flatline at any moment); he pressed an ice pack against his cheek, got the medication for later ready.

Eventually, the man paused, glancing between the living room couch and Miles’s room down the hallway. Where to put him? It probably was a better idea to place him in the living room, but his heart demanded he put the boy in his counterpart’s room. That was his rightful place, in a way.

Maybe he would be more comfortable there, even if the room wasn’t truly his. After peeling off his suit, wiping him clean, dressing him in his Miles’s pajamas, Miguel put him in bed and added as many blankets and pillows he could for maximum comfort. He stepped back, breathed in and out, felt warmth burn at the back of his eyelids.

Stay calm, stay calm. And don’t you dare cry.

Tea. Maybe this one liked tea.

Eventually, Miguel found himself in the kitchen, watching water come to a simmer in a small saucepan in front of him. He had all the necessary ingredients he needed to make a cup of tea. Next to add were the milk and spices, which he poured in slowly, one at a time. He would serve it to Miles as part of his lunch, alongside a plate of sincronizada, a little snack his Miles always enjoyed.

There were leftovers from this morning, so he decided to heat those up and include them. They were light on the stomach, which was always good for someone who sustained head injuries. And they were easy enough to make. He just wanted to prepare something quick just in case Miles woke up earlier than expected.

As he toiled away in the kitchen, he watched the boy sleep via holographic screen. Every few seconds his gaze would slide over to the boy’s sleeping form. Occasionally, Miles would shift, twitch, turn in bed, but that was all. No signal, no portent coated in insidious intent. He was struggling to keep his anxiety at bay, but the situation almost called for it to spill over, tangle into his thoughts, shake at his limbs. As if on cue, LYLA popped up again, forehead lightly creased with worry.

“Hey, your heartbeat is spiking,” she said. “Remember: relax yourself. Breathe in, breathe out—like we practiced.” She gestured in front of her chest.

“Yeah, I know,” Miguel whispered, briefly shielding his eyes with a hand. “Can you just… play my ambiance playlist for me?”

“On it! First song’s my jam.”

Soon music drifted gently through the air, a melodious balm, dressing the room in blue, soporific hues. He breathed in, breathed out, finished the tea, strained it into a cup. Slowly but surely, he felt that cloud of anxiety dissipate, coil and sink back under his nerves. Not gone, but still easier to manage, to somewhat ignore.

It couldn’t have been just a coincidence that he found Miles the way he had. Speculation grasped his mind with electric fingers. His little guest could’ve been anything: an escaped experiment; a biological Trojan horse; a corporate raider; a copycat. Regardless, his presence soothed the ever-present throb of guilt in the man’s stomach, made him feel like nothing had changed over the last five months.

No, this wasn’t his Miles, but for this morsel of a moment, he could pretend it was. And that made his mood lighten so much more. Eventually, a kernel of thought bloomed at a corner of his mind—one he didn’t want to entirely welcome: what if this Miles was from an alternate dimension?

Multiverse theory: a school of thought Aaron loved to entertain with him over the years. That there was a kaleidoscope of realities scattered across space and time like seeds. Miguel never agreed with it and spent a handful of nights arguing with Aaron over it.

But now, what if it was true? What would it mean? Miguel couldn’t bring himself to think about it too extensively. In the end, it was only one hypothesis. He would get his answer once the boy woke up.

LYLA stayed right next to him, floating cross-legged in mid-air. “So,” she sighed, “what are we gonna do with him?”

“What we always do in situations like this,” Miguel drawled. “Interrogation.”

“But this time with room service,” she said cheekily.

He smirked. “With room service, yes.”

A crackling red prism swallowing him whole. His heart practically bursting from his chest as he raced through Downtown. Gwen’s face, whipped by wind, laced with worry and guilt. Miguel’s claws battering at the shell the Go-Home Machine wove around him, countenance a portrait of mania—

Miles woke up with a jolt, wincing as he felt the back of his skull scream. His mouth felt stuffed with cotton and his vision was blurry. A ghost of nausea coiled around his stomach. His mind was sluggish as it swam through the murky waters of fatigue, grasped at lucidity with slippery hands. He tried to get a feel of where he was.

It felt… oddly comfortable, wherever he was. Softness embraced him in every direction. Soon he realized he was in bed, wrapped snug in the fluffiest blanket imaginable. It smelled like sunflowers. He blinked once, twice, groaning softly, looking about the room when his vision cleared. There was something about his surroundings that felt familiar.

Am I home? he thought. Did I make it?

Suddenly he froze, noticing the sunlight piercing through the curtains. It was purple. And the sun in his universe wasn’t purple. Dread plucked at his nerves, sending a chord of alarm through his head.

Oh, no.

He wasn’t home. The machine had sent him elsewhere.

And now he could tell something was off about his room. None of the trophies, books, or photos rang familiar to him. Not exactly. He finally looked down at himself, noticing he wasn’t wearing his costume either. Where was he? Who did this? He wanted to get out of bed, leave the room, check the window—anything—but it felt like his legs were made of lead. Heavy and dead.

Suddenly, the door opened.

Miles felt his heart leap into his throat as he glimpsed his visitor. Too familiar, too familiar. It was Miguel—again. Dressed in a pleasant expression, holding a tray of food in his hands.

“You’re awake,” he said warmly as he stepped inside.

Panic sent a lightning bolt down Miles’s limbs. His back hit the headboard with a heavy thunk! as he threw himself backwards, drawing his knees to his chest. Just like in that wormhole, he found it immediately difficult to breathe. He was hyperventilating—eyes wide and glistening with fear—which caused Miguel to abruptly stop. Worry streaked across his face.

(No, no, no—it was too late, too damn late, they caught him, who knows how long it’s been, his dad could be dead, and he failed, he failed—)

Miguel put the tray on the desk and drew his hands up in a calming position. “Hey,” he whispered, “it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not gonna hurt you—”

“Please don’t let my dad die,” the boy whispered, a helpless, broken plea.

He hated how weak he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. He was injured, with nowhere else to run, no one else to turn to, and he was completely at this man’s mercy. Lord knew where the Society had taken him, what this dimension even was.

It was Miguel’s reaction, however, that caused a needle of confusion to pierce through his tapestry of panic. He looked stung, as if what Miles told him had brought up a bad memory, brought up pain. His mouth opened, then closed again—as if he didn’t know what to say.

His face grew pinched as he looked to the side, then back at Miles again. “Why would I do that?” he asked, his voice lower, more confused, more… vulnerable.

Panic loosened its grip on the boy’s senses, and that’s when he realized something: this Miguel was different. Different clothes, different physique, different hairstyle—different everything. Freckles spattered across his features like specks of paint. Hair reddish-brown with slivers of gray. Faint ashen rings hanging beneath his eyes. There was a certain tenderness in his stare, and it stirred a warm emotion in Miles that he didn’t want to examine.

This wasn’t “his” Miguel O’Hara; this was a variant.

One he’d never met before. Come to think of it, Miles didn’t remember seeing any other Miguels at HQ. Though it was hard to tell considering most of the Spider-People there kept their masks on. He could mull over that mystery later. Right now, he had to figure out whether he could trust this one or not. Whether he was with the Society—and simply playing dumb—or a person disconnected from them. If he was confused, asking why, maybe he knew nothing at all. But still—but still—

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You’re not one of them, are you?”

“Who?”

“…Nothing.”

“What are you talking about?” Miguel prompted, brows joined together in confusion.

Miles shook his head, rubbing his eyes with a trembling forearm. “No, j-just forget it—I mean—it’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.” His voice stayed gentle, quietly imploring. Cautiously, slowly, he took a few steps closer—only to stop in his tracks and twist his features.

Miles felt his Spidey Sense flare to life, not out of danger but familiarity, reaching forward and probing the boundary of another. The one belonging to the man right in front of him. Like you, it whispered, silvery and soft. Like you. With that revelation came a brief rush of emotions: confusion, relief, wonder. The Miguel he met before never had a Spidey Sense, but this one did. Meaning that he was a Spider-Man, too—unequivocally. And he looked overwhelmed with disbelief.

“You’re like me?” Miguel whispered. “How?”

Miles responded, words coming slow, almost hesitant, “I was bitten by a radioactive spider.”

“From where?”

“Not anywhere here.” Relaxing his legs, Miles glanced down at his hands, expression softening. “I—I’m not… from around here…” He wanted to kick himself for being so vague, but he wasn’t sure if he should reveal his origins just yet. Would this Miguel even believe him?

He looked up again to see Miguel giving him a thoughtful look, brow set in a pensive bend. The boy’s last response thankfully didn’t elicit any negative reaction from him. He could tell Miles wasn’t exactly comfortable revealing his origins yet. All he gave was a subtle nod of understanding, seeming to put the dots together immediately.

“That’s why you had that costume, isn’t it?”

“Right,” Miles said. “I’m Spider-Man. Well, a Spider-Man, anyway.”

“And here I thought I was the only one,” Miguel murmured, snorting out a light chuckle. “Looks like I got competition now, huh?” An attempt at lightening the mood, soothe the boy’s uncertainty.

Miles made a vague attempt to mirror the man’s smile. “Wouldn’t put it like that. I’m just someone passing by.”

“Well, how are you feeling?” he asked. “You weren’t in the best shape when I found you. I hope you were able to have a good rest.”

Miles swallowed. “Y-Yeah, I did,” he rasped. “I’m okay. Mostly.”

“Is your head still hurting?”

“Yeah, but it’s not as bad as before.”

“Anything else?” Miguel asked, adopting the familiar tone of an examiner. “Dizziness? Nausea?”

“A little bit of both, but it’s no big deal.”

“Mm, noted.” He gestured to the tray on the desk. “I brought you food. Are you ready to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” Miles muttered, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. The loud gurgle that erupted from his stomach begged to differ. The boy startled slightly, embarrassment crossing his face. “Uh—”

An amused smirk pinched the corner of Miguel’s mouth. He probably knew what Miles was thinking. “The food isn’t poisoned, I promise.”

To demonstrate, he removed the tray, took a sincronizada off the plate and took a bite out of it. “See?” he said around his chewing. “Mmm, delicious.” He lifted it in the boy’s direction. “Now you wanna try it?”

With a sigh, Miles leaned back into the pillows in defeat. “Okay,” he grumbled. The food did smell pretty tasty, at least. His Spidey Sense hadn’t gone off yet either, he noted. A good sign. No one dangerous around yet.

Something close to triumph winked in the older man’s eyes. It didn’t take him long to settle the food tray in Miles’s lap, watching the teenager briefly study the food before picking up a piece. It looked like stuffed quesadillas. Cheese and onion and bits of ham peeking from beneath the crust. He had never eaten this before, but it looked familiar enough. And he could never resist the smell of his favorite tea.

“Not sure if you like any of this,” Miguel said under his breath, almost timidly. “If not, I can make you something else.”

“No,” Miles replied. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

The food was pretty good—and the chai tea was perfectly brewed. Miles was starving, but he took slow, cautious bites, remembering what his mother told him about eating too fast. (“You’ll get sick that way, mijo,” she chided him one day.) As he took sips from his drink, he tried to ignore the way Miguel was looking at him. His gentle expression never wavered. Eventually, when Miles finished his food, Miguel drew a chair closer to the bed, sat down in it.

The air shifted. Miles compelled himself to pause, gaze sliding back toward the man.

“Alright,” Miguel sighed, “are you ready to answer more of my questions?” His voice still soft, but the semblance of an edge lurking beneath the words.

Suspicion slinked through Miles’s chest. Bracing himself, he replied, “Sure, go ahead.”

“Who are you?” Miguel—this new Miguel—asked, his tired eyes studying the boy with a flicker of curiosity, caution. Miles sat up straighter, feeling his throat tighten. He couldn’t ignore the crack that hung at the edge of the older man’s voice as he asked his next question, “Why do you look like my nephew?”

Miles stilled, face going slack, ice punching a sharp fist through his ribcage. Your nephew? Realization arrived on its own ragged chariot. So, it wasn’t a coincidence after all. This was his room—or, rather, the room of his own variant. Who, apparently, was related to Miguel O’Hara in this universe?

After everything the young hero had been through over the past twenty-four hours, a part of him didn’t want to believe it. The more logical side of him, however, chalked it up to statistical inevitability. In a broiling sea of nigh infinite universes, why wouldn’t that happen eventually?

Taking a deep breath, Miles replied, “I’m Miles. Miles Morales.”

Miguel’s eyes closed, and a painful, resigned expression tore across his features. “That was his name too,” he whispered.

“I look like him because I am him,” Miles said. “From another dimension.”

His answer appeared to send a firecracker off in Miguel, who sat up straighter, astonished. “Impossible,” he said. But even then, Miles could see the unerring shield of his disbelief dent, bend inwards, as reality battered against it. “I-It’s not feasible, it can’t—”

Miles perked up. “It is possible. You gotta believe me! I’m from Earth-1610… B, I think?” He squinted in thought for a moment. “Yeah, B. And I’m here because—”

A scream tore from his throat as his body abruptly glitched, sending the food tray tumbling to the floor and Miguel reeling backwards, rendered speechless, eyes wide with shock.

Oh. That’s right. His day pass. He didn’t have it on.

When the glitching subsided, Miles tensed, panted, waiting for the crackles of pain to subside. He saw Miguel hover over him, the very portrait of an anxious parent, arms stretched forward. “Is there anything I can do?”

Miles instinctively pulled away. “My day pass,” the boy wheezed, eyes scrunched shut. “The wristband.” He prayed he hadn’t lost it during his escape here. Or that it was thrown away.

Thankfully, Miguel seemed to know what he was talking about and rushed out the room, coming back with the wristband clutched in his fingers. “You mean this thing?” he said. “Didn’t think it was that important.” He had taken it off Miles when he was dressing him earlier. He slid it back onto Miles’s wrist. The boy mumbled a thank you.

“What was that?” Miguel asked, exasperated.

“That’s what happens when you’re in another dimension,” Miles said. “You glitch, a-and your body starts breaking down because you don’t belong there.” He raised his wrist. “Not unless you have this—something that can anchor you.”

Fascination dominated the older male’s expression then. He leaned forward, taking a closer look at the wristband. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. How does it work?”

“Beats me,” Miles said with a shrug. “All I know is that it works.” A brief, nervous laugh rattled past his teeth. The other you made it.

“And you’re sure you’re not some weapon? That this isn’t some trick?”

“Yes, I’m sure, man,” Miles sighed. “I’m here for a totally different reason. But… I know it might take you a while to really trust me.”

“I’m sure the feeling is mutual,” Miguel replied. “Which… is understandable.” He shook his head, as if breaking out of a trance. “Sorry, I haven’t given you my name yet. I’m—”

Miles cut him off, “I know who you are.” He looked more tired than normal then. “You’re Miguel O’Hara.”

Miguel looked startled. “How did you know?”

“Because I’ve met you before. Another you.” He thumbed his wristband. “He’s the one who gave me this. H-He’s in charge of this thing called ‘the Spider Society.’ It’s this group of Spider-People from different dimensions—”

“Wait, did you say ‘Spider-People’?” Miguel interjected. He dipped his chin, brows raised. “You mean, there’s more like us?”

“Yeah. Thousands of ‘em!” Miles gestured above his head widely. “There was an… accident that happened back in my home dimension. These bad guys used a machine, a collider, to access different dimensions and my Spider-Man tried to stop them, but the collider ended up tearing holes in the multiverse. And a lot of people ended up thrown into the wrong dimension. So, the other Miguel made the Society to clean up the mess and put those people back where they belong.”

There was more, of course—so much more—but he couldn’t just dump all that information onto this Miguel when he was allegedly new to all of this. He was currently looking at Miles like the boy just grew another head. His expression eventually grew distant as he processed everything Miles told him.

“Is that the reason you’re here?” Miguel finally asked. “You fell through a hole by accident?”

“No, I came through a machine—and it wasn’t an accident! Well, using the machine wasn’t an accident. I was trying to escape—you know, get back home—but something went wrong, and I got sent here instead.”

“And this Spider Society… Are they the ones after you?”

Miles nodded, staying silent.

“Why?”

His throat went dry. He buried his feet into the mattress beneath him as he turned his gaze elsewhere: at the window, through the blinds, which both bled purple light. He could see the city beyond, draped in a glimmering veil of neon colors—so similar and yet so different. A study in purples and pinks and blues caged within hardened binary lines. Nothing like the angular, crystalline white of his Miguel’s homeworld.

“Miles,” Miguel said, drawing the boy’s attention back to him, “it’s okay. Just tell me.”

“Because I’m trying to save my dad,” Miles admitted in a whisper, feeling his defenses falter again. “That’s why I brought him up earlier. They told me that he has to die o-or else my whole dimension’s gonna collapse.”

“What?” Disbelief colored the older Spider’s tone, smeared itself across his expression.

Miles continued, “It’s a part of every Spider-Man’s story… or, at least, that’s what they say. I have to lose people close to me in order to become a stronger hero. And if I don’t let it happen, if I don’t carry out this next chapter, my whole world will rip apart at the seams.” He rubbed his hands together, determination pooling into his tone. “But there’s gotta be another way. I told them I could save my dad and the world. Maybe it’ll be different for me.”

Because he was never supposed to be Spider-Man. But that was a story for another time.

“That's... insane,” Miguel whispered, uneasiness seeping into his voice. "How do they know all this?"

“Because it's happened before,” Miles replied. “The other you, he took the place of a variant in another world and eventually that world collapsed because he wasn’t supposed to do that. I can’t tell you for sure if it’s completely true, though…”

“Well, whether it’s true or not, I hope you’re able to save your dad,” the older Spider whispered. “He’s not alive here.”

Miles froze, mortified. “Really?”

A shard of pain pierced Miguel’s stare. “He died ten years ago. Your mother too. There was an accident.” He moved to pick up the tray and cup off the floor—a feeble attempt to distract himself, it seemed. “And that’s how your uncle and I got custody of you.”

“W-Wait… You mean Uncle Aaron?”

“Yes.” His smile grew warm. “We’re together.”

Okay. That was what made Miles feel like he was about to slide right through the floor. His uncle Aaron and Miguel… in a relationship? He wondered what greater cosmic machination brought that to happen. The multiverse really did whatever it wanted, didn’t it? And finally he noticed it, the wedding ring glinting faintly on Miguel’s finger. Fostering within Miles not just curiosity but excitement.

Uncle Aaron was alive. Not bleeding out in an alleyway or rotting in a grave. He was alive, at least here, and that’s all that mattered to Miles, whose mind was now set adrift in a current of all the things left unspoken between them—all the things he had thought endlessly about for the last year and a half. Suddenly he yanked his attention back to reality as he remembered the situation at hand.

“We raised you, loved you. And then… you died.” Miguel’s tone flattened, empty as a graveyard. His words came clipped, laconic.

Miles felt cold fear burrow into his spine. “I—I’m dead?” he choked out. Then he remembered where he landed: behind the back of a building, a mural—one in the likeness of a boy Miles hadn’t fully recognized—hanging above him like a guillotine. But now, in a clearer state of mind, realization quickly took root: that boy had been him.

“Yes.” Miguel looked around slowly—as if the movement was laborious. “This was your room.” He peered down into the teacup almost thoughtfully. “Haven’t really moved anything out yet. Can’t bring myself to—not yet.”

“How long has it been?”

“Five months.”

“If you don’t mind me asking… what happened to him?” Miles asked.

At first, Miguel didn’t respond; he just gave a sad dip of his head. “Something I hope to make amends for.”

Even in another world Miles had to see the same guilt—the same sense of helplessness—in this Miguel, leering, always leering. Another link in the chain; an onerous form of mitosis. But it felt different somehow (because it would always be different). Miles was possibly wading into some dark waters, so he decided to drop his questioning there, even with another one seated on his tongue. He winced as he felt his head throb again and he grasped the back of his head. Miguel took note of it, rising to his feet.

“Hm. I’ll get you some medicine,” he murmured.

Miles cleared his throat, “Thanks for the help and all, b-but I can’t stay here. I gotta go.” He knew it wasn’t the best idea in his current state, but the Society could knock at this dimension’s door any minute. He really didn’t know if Gwen or Peter would be in tow once they did—his stomach soured over the idea—but he didn’t want to stick around and find out.

“Go where?” Miguel paused at the door, turning to look at him. An odd note entered his tone. “You’re injured and light years away from home. If you don’t want to stay here, then that’s fine. But now might not be the best time, alright? At least wait until most of your injuries are healed. Then I'll help you find a hostel or something.”

Silence. Miles didn’t move.

Miguel continued, “Try to get some more rest. I’ll bring you medicine for that headache. Then I have some errands to finish. We’ll go from there. If you want, I’ll have LYLA provide surveillance around the area and alert me to any funny stuff. Okay?”

Miles huffed, but ultimately had a resigned look on his face. “Fine. I’ll stick around.”

A sad smile found its way onto Miguel’s face, “Thank you.” Food tray in tow, he then asked, “Is there anything else you need, Miles?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll be on my way.”

After choking down a few painkillers, Miles sunk back into bed, sporting a rather dull expression as he stared at the ceiling. He let the distant whirs and beeps of cars outside wash over him as he tried to still his racing thoughts. His fingers flexed in and out, in and out. He wanted to relax, believe that he was somewhat safe here, but it was hard.

He didn’t have the luxury of that no matter what this Miguel wanted to believe. He was gone for now, but he still felt that sense of being watched, almost like he was back at Spider HQ. Anyone could spot the brilliant blue stripes racing along every corner of the bedroom. Blinking, blinking. LYLA was watching him from there, he knew.

Groaning in frustration, he turned over on his side, squeezing one of the pillows. Its smell soothed him a bit, reminded him of home. Once his headache faded, reality really began to sink in.

He hadn’t made it home. He was lost and alone (though perhaps not too alone) on a completely different world and his friends had betrayed him. He was under the care of another Miguel, who was technically his uncle, who was married to his other uncle, Aaron. And only time would tell where his loyalties truly lied. His mother and father were dead. He was dead. His family ripped apart, left frayed as a rope. And it served as another frantic reminder of what could happen if he didn’t get home.

Two days. That’s what they told him. But time was a fluid, funky thing in the multiverse. Who knew how long that would equate from here to home?

And in the meantime, he would have to finish things with Miguel. Figure out if he was truly worth trusting. If he stuck around, he might even get to see Uncle Aaron again. Catch up with him. He wondered how the one here was like. Would he look the same, walk the same, have the same style? Would he still be the Prowler—and did his husband even know?

Miles would find out soon enough. All he could do now was lie here and wait. Distract himself. Wonder what would happen next. Craft a script in his head with all the potential questions, scenarios, and answers that could come later. What he was willing to immediately answer and what he needed more time to process. His nervousness finally cooled and hardened into a determination ringed by iron. A setback; that’s all this was. If he played his cards just right, it’d be a minor one.

You want the full story, Miguel? Fine. Come back, and I’ll give it to you.

24 notes · View notes