Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you’re faced with forces that threaten to shred the balance of space and time on a daily basis, adopting resolve becomes a necessity—an inclination to yield can be exploited, and giving up entirely risks complete world collapse. Dealing with a matter as fickle as the multiverse is a task that demands the highest degree of competence.

Spider-Society knows the expectations that come with the job well; Miguel O’Hara, who stands at the forefronts of the strikeforce, knows them the best.

He’s faced the Sinister Six more times than he can count, stitched holes in the multiverse closed by himself, commanded some of the most elite superheroes in the universe, and managed a sentient AI capable of virtually anything. There’s a peak he’s worked for the past five years to exceed and he has no intention of stopping.

Hurdle after hurdle, challenge after challenge, Miguel has never given into the urge of abandon.

Even now he isn’t a man that betrays his morals, but he sure does feel like sedating himself after Miles gets another verb conjugation wrong.

“Mierda— Imperfect tense is used for past events that are repeated and are relevant to the speaker; perfect tense is used for events that have just happened and are relevant to the speaker,” Miguel breathes steadily, the clench of his jaw stifling sharpness from bleeding too deep into his tone. The paper in his hand crumples slightly in tandem with the pinch of his forehead. “Now, for the seventh time, try conjugating the verb.”

The two are sitting at a table set up in Miguel’s office space, an array of packets and sheets spread out across the surface. In Miles’ grasp is the homework he was supposed to turn in a week ago, and in Miguel’s, a table of instructions for imperfect and perfect tense.

Ellos siempre (ir) al parque cuando había un juego de fútbol, the next question reads.

Miles makes a face, eyes narrowed in concentration. “They always… went to the park when there was a soccer game,” he murmurs, a hand cupping his chin as he thinks. “Since it’s repeated, it’s… ‘Ellos siempre iban al parque?’”

Wordlessly, Miguel nods, the flood of relief that overcomes him too stimulating to do much else. All he can do following the fall of his shoulders and the untensing of his arms is gesture for his new student to continue with the worksheet. As Miles obliges, seeming happy with the improvement, Miguel makes a mental note to never pursue teaching, and to never listen to Peter B. Parker ever again.

“C’mon man, it’ll be easy! Kid’s a quick learner,” Peter had told him days before the tutoring arrangement. Despite Miguel’s effort to ignore him, it proved hard to brush off a one hundred-seventy pound man in a pink robe with an arm slung around his neck. “With a good teacher, he’s sure to pick it up quickly. Besides, he speaks Spanish at home so it can’t be that hard.”

The statement was immediately disproved within the first two minutes after Miles pronounced “piñata” like it rhymed with “empanada.” 

Though the session in its entirety didn’t ride on the same quality as that one slip-up, Miguel still maintains the throbbing headache he’d been nursing since Miles called chicken “polo.”

But luckily for the former—or rather, his sanity—Miles manages to get through the worksheet with minor mistakes, only the occasional translation error or vague sentence getting the best of him.

“Well the sentence says ‘Las olas (ser) muy altas,’ but that’s not an event, it’s just describing the waves,” Miles points out to address the last question he left blank. “And plus, can’t you use ‘son’ instead of ‘iban?’ Aren’t both correct?” 

Miguel hums, his brows furrowing. “Actions that aren’t physical usually use the imperfect tense,” he says with a reluctant bow of his head. “The waves were high is a description, but there’s still a verb that needs to be conjugated.”

Miles nods and scratches down a response as instructed, still seeming a little confused, but simple satisfaction is quick to tug the edges of his lips upward in a smile when he realizes the worksheet is completed. He looks like he could kiss it with how happy he seems to finally be done, pride etched in the crease of his under-eye and pooling in his golden-brown irises.

It’s rather an amusing sight, Miguel thinks as he observes him, to be so complacent over a victory so small. Miguel recalls some Spider-people being less enthusiastic about stopping super-colliders. The basis of comparison seems about right—though the kid is still young, he’s someone who has been reprising his world’s role of Spider-Man for the past year and a half. Missions adjacent in nature to the aforementioned reality-ending ones weren’t exactly strangers to his HQ assignment board, either.

The notion draws a soft huff from Miguel. Some of the vexation that possessed him before fades, a lighter, gentler feeling sliding into place.

In such a big world filled with things much larger than whatever consequence a wrong Spanish verb conjugation brings, the feeling of such undemanding fulfillment is easy to forget. It comes with the job, the high bar of expectation, the responsibility to never settle. Gratification in the field is always fleeting—outspeeding webs and outmaneuvering instinct.

Miguel is always reminded of the fact when he dreams of ghostly laughter, the specter touch of the smallest, warmest hand smearing frosting on his nose and pressing kisses to his cheek.

But with Miles it’s somehow different. Perhaps it’s the fault of still having a whole family—a point of envy many Parkers constantly bring up. Others believe it’s because of how sharp the kid is, always ready on the balls of his feet and dangerously quick-witted. Maybe it’s just because he’s young.

Miles wears a grin like he swears by the accessory, the kind that brightens his complexion and reaches his eyes. The kind that tricks you into thinking you’re the reason he’s so happy when he looks at you, the kind that can stir the soul with a touch of sympathy.

Then there’s always a story spilling from him—depending on the day it’s a catch-up on the latest at Visions, details on the newest anomaly, a conversation he had with one of the villains in the storage chamber. Miguel has no idea how he keeps coming up with the last one even after the implementation of anti-contact security, laser fields and blasters and all, but the kid manages in the face of it.

Miles Morales is relentless.

Even now, as he stuffs his week-late, ten-point assignment into a scuffed, graffitied folder, he does it with a stupidly infectious smile.

“Hasta luego [See you later]!” he bids with a wave goodbye. “Gracias por tu ayuda [Thanks for your help]!”

As he leaves, a steely gaze follows him out. Once the door closes behind him, Miguel O’Hara is left alone with only his own thoughts for company.

He begins to wonder when the last time he felt content was.

Chapter Text

It’s not until after a mission next week does Miles come to Miguel for Spanish help again. 

The operation was supposed to be a long one—a particularly harrowing task in an unstable dimension with multiple anomalies in the field. Lyla estimated it would take at least a couple of days to shut everything down properly even with the best of the Spider task force at the helm. At the notice of the clear risk, Miguel had instructed the team beforehand to operate with due diligence, lest they wanted to patch another hole in the multiverse, and to be cautious and report anything suspicious back to HQ for analysis.

The message seemed to be received well by most of those present, the likes of Ben Reilly and Charlotte Webber giving a physical signal to stipulate their understanding, while Hobie Brown and some others simply look attentive enough. However, when Miguel’s gaze follows the line down to Miles, he senses that there’s something not quite right with the boy.

He looks nervous, and it would make sense if not for the fact that he seems spaced out, this sheen to his eye that tells any observer he hadn’t heard a single lick of what O’Hara said. Even when Miguel snaps at him, calling his attention and drawing a few smiles from amongst the Spider crowd, the glaze remains, albeit a little dissipated.

Normally Miguel would’ve forgotten about the detail, prioritizing the outcome of the mission over something as simple as possible fatigue or a bad day in a member of the society. But it’s peculiar, because what keeps the feature in his mind is the outcome.

Just hours after the squadron is dispatched, he receives a notification from Ben Reilly indicating the operation went successfully and the team is headed back to HQ. The former pulls the message up on his dashboard and scans it.

Everything went well. Miles was super-focused today! a small note at the bottom of the confirmation reads. Barely had time to lament on my past, he took out everyone super-quick. Seemed panicked, though. Kept talking to himself about finding you.  

Miguel barely gets the time to process the last phrase when the door to his office bursts open with a loud bang.

“Chingado!” he shouts as he wheels around, canines bared and claws extended. Caution lights his nerves on fire and tenses every muscle, a serrated breath tearing painfully through his lungs just before his glare comes to rest on the intruder. 

Miles stands awkwardly at the door with wide eyes, clutching a binder with a hefty stack of papers peeking out from behind the edges. VOCABULARIO, the case cover spells.

The kid smiles sheepishly. “Uh, qué tal, tío?”

It takes every ounce of Miguel’s resolve to not explode into a million little pieces right then and there. 

“No puedo más, no puedo más, no puedo más,” he repeats, cupping his hands hollow around the bottom half of his face and inhaling deeply.

Miles (smartly) keeps his mouth shut until Miguel recovers. The moment of quiet allows for the latter to regain his bearings, a somewhat-calm settling back into his frame—claws retracting, fangs hiding. He straightens out, rolling his shoulders back and slotting his hands firm on his hips.

“Care to explain?” It comes as more of a demand than a question, hissed from the tongue and teeth.

“About the mission or…” Miguel shoots him an impatient glare and Miles laughs nervously. “Right, uh, I kinda need your help with a… vocabulary test. It’s the final unit one.”

“Have you prepared at all?”

Miles shifts uncomfortably. “About that—”

“Great. Great, uh huh. Yeah, that’s fantastic.” Miguel smiles tightly, sarcasm dripping from the affirmations. “When is the test?”

Silence falls on the pair when Miles doesn’t offer a response this time, only shifting his gaze to the size and pressing his lips tight together. The tenseness in the air strings the atmosphere stiff to the point of tangibility. In the new stitching, guilt radiates from Miles so thickly Miguel can practically smell it.

“Miles.” The latter takes one step forward and even the ground quivers. “When is the test?”

“In… in uh,” Miles stammers, a flinch pinching his features together while watching the larger figure advance. “Inthirtyminutes.”

Though the confession is mumbled quickly, words melting together, Miguel seems to understand all too well. And as if on cue, his head starts throbbing again.

“Verga … that’s why you rushed the mission, isn’t it?” he groans, rubbing at his temples. And to think he had so many good things to say about the kid just last week. “What’s the unit about?”

“Food, drinks, and desserts. Just the definitions.”

It’s easy enough. With no time to waste, Miguel pulls a table and two chairs up despite his migraine, taking the binder from Miles and flipping through its contents. Forty-five words line gridded sheets, definitions to the right of the Spanish terms with pictures to match. Luckily, the words are all elementary at best—Miguel silently thanks the American education system for making his life easier.

“You’re half-Puerto Rican, right?” he asks, peering at Miles, who nods. “Eat a lot of the food at home?”

“Yeah, my mom cooks most of the time. Beans and rice, mofongo, pork in adobo, rice pudding, pasteles, and other stuff.”

“Mm, alright.” Miguel sets the folder down after a brief nod, pushing it towards Miles. “Half of what you said off the top of your head is in the packet. Mira [Look].”

The two lean closer at the command, following the path Miguel’s finger traces on the paper. Arroz, masa, maíz, cebolla, papas, chuleta, camarones, carne de res, lechón, pollo, yuca, ajo, pimiento, guisantes, cilantro, the list goes on, basic and familiar ingredients in black and white. Miles takes on a look of recognition at the new perspective, a glint of insight pushing forward an intentness in his demeanor.

Miguel flips a page to the non-traditional terms after a couple minutes of rapidly studying the basics. “A lot of Spanish words are easy to recognize for English-speakers because they come from the same root,” he explains, pointing at a couple images. “Like helado, you think of gelato or ice cream, cafe, you think of coffee, gelantina, you think of gelatin or jello. Some terms are literal translations, like el chocolate caliente, hot chocolate, and el jugo de naranja, orange juice. For the rest, you just have to force yourself to remember, but breaking most of the terms down makes it easier.”

“Okay, thanks,” Miles replies quickly, not even sparing a second glance before he descends back into focus. The action could be perceived as a dismissal, but Miguel isn’t a prude, nor is he dense—he knows that there is a stark difference between the wordless readiness Miles exhibits now as compared to before the mission, where his instruction went in one ear and out the other. 

Fifteen minutes pass and Miles claims that he’s ready, sounding so sure of himself, and Miguel swears that this boy better be. Fortunately, a brief double-runthrough in two minutes has repose washing over the both of them when Miles gets every Spanish and English translation right.

“My mom would’ve killed me if I bombed this one,” he groans, hurriedly pulling on a windbreaker in the three minutes he has left to actually get to class. “Don’t wanna roll up here tomorrow with a chancla up my ass.”

Miguel almost laughs, but hides it behind a half-hearted roll of his eyes. “Yeah, just get outta here,” he sighs, waving him off. “And don’t ever think of rushing the goddamn mission again.”

“Yessir!” Miles salutes, clicks his watch, and falls backward into the portal—then in a blip, he’s gone.

Chancla up his ass… this kid.

Miguel takes another bite from his beef empanada as he thinks back to Miles’ quip. Another lunch spent alone in the space of his office gives him ample company to mull over his thoughts in peace. The projected orange screen in front of him lays forgotten in the absence of his attention to multiverse matters.

It’s odd—usually he’d eat quicker, lasered-in on mission footage and leads to other strains in the countless realities there are—but all Miguel can seem to focus on now is how the kid is, time growing longer with every slow chew. Carne de res, guisantes y papas—beef, peas, and potatoes—in flaky dough is the one comfort he has and he’ll be damned if Miles forgets the translation on his exam.

As he finishes off the beef pastry and moves to a chicken one, he remembers how anxiety had painted the latter’s features, darkened edges of his brows sharpening with every nervous twitch of his face. That boy sweated like a sinner in church, how shiny his forehead was. The red streaks painted on the sides of his suit could’ve even emulated the path his perspiration took all the way down from his pits.

A hint of concern (and rather cruel amusement) touches Miguel then. Was a Spanish test truly enough to warrant such a visceral reaction? Ben Reilly reported a rather carefree time bashing in the skulls of deathly anomalies in an A-Class mission—this seemed miniscule in comparison.

Now that Miguel considers it, the response was probably a courtesy of dreading what was to come after failure—the “chancla up his ass,” to quote Miles himself. Perhaps fearing a Latin mother the same way one fears God is part of some canon for every second-generation child. Rio Morales, from what he can tell, is a force of nature in her own right—Miles would do well with not bringing home a “B” in the class of her mother tongue.

The notion keeps O’Hara until he’s halfway through his chicken empanada and finding that his mind is drifting to other memories. Raising a hand to type into one of his monitor’s floating screens, he pulls up a file and enlarges it with a click.

Staring back at him is a picture of a woman he used to know. She’s younger than he remembers in the photo, her dark curls swept in a blowout, a slight grimace furrowing her brow and spiking a nostril, pouty lips stained with bright red paint. “Conchata O’Hara,” a small script at the bottom of the image reads. 

Even after all these years, following Alchemax and all the strife it brought, Miguel still recognizes her as “Mama.” 

She—not the younger, feistier girl he sees in the picture, but the cunning, thick-skinned woman he grew up with—haunts him in the quietest lapses of time. Her ghost whispers things to him that pinch the tendons of his hands, that shakes his soul; her ghost whispers to him and suddenly he’s little Miggy O’Hara, a boy with big dreams and the face of a dead man.

There was a promise Miguel made to himself when he adopted Gabriella—to never let her down the way his mother did with him, to never make her feel like becoming another person entirely was necessary for escape.

He knows what happened in the grand scheme of things. It’s the reason why he sits alone during lunch in his giant office with a wrinkle between his brow at thirty-one from furrowing them too much.

But in what he can remember, in what mattered, there existed the Sunday mornings when both of them woke up too early, drinking orange juice straight from the carton and eating sugary cereal as the sun rose behind them; there laid the afternoons Miguel spent on the sidelines of Gabriella’s soccer tournaments, windbreaker zipped up all the way, cheering as his daughter scored the winning goal of the match; there resided, in the tenderest part of his still-beating, still-aching heart, the nights he took up smoothing her hair down and kissing her tears away as she cried over three-digit division.

He was less rough around the edges, then—a man who hadn’t a glimpse of true devastation, a man who clung onto hope for fuel to persist. Gabriella was worse at math than Miles was at Spanish, and yet Miguel’s voice never rose above a gentle hum when guiding her along the textbook pages. Perhaps that was the man who could’ve been a proper tutor for Miles, gave him the help he needed to succeed as quickly as possible.

Sometimes Miguel mourns the figure who died alongside his daughter because he’s never known peace like the latter did since. Every day is a fight against himself to not find what he misses the most. What he would give for simpler seasons.

Silence lingers in the empty air as he puffs a soft breath of air from his nose. His stance shifts, broad shoulders hunching inward and neck craning outward to allow a moment of brevity. Nobody else is in the room, he reminds himself. You are alone.

When was the last time any universe allowed for him to live normally? When was the last time he felt love that truly, truly, came from the heart? When was the last time he felt normal, sitting around a table, happy to just be doing something not as Spider-Man, but as Miguel O’Hara? It was only with Gabi—the entirety of the feeling, anyhow.

Only crumbs remain in the white carton of empanadas sitting on Miguel’s desk as he closes Conchata’s file and opens his daughter’s, his chest throbbing, his eyes stinging. 

The video of her laughing plays four times before he realizes how similar her smile is to Miles’.

Chapter Text

“Usa este link para grabar tu examen interpersonal,” Miguel reads from the screen of the laptop sat in front of him. Finding the instructions rather barebones, he makes a face and looks up in slight confusion. “What is this again?”

Miles looks like he’s been through hell and back. “Oral exam.”

Miguel feels his eye twitch. “Ay, coño.”

Nearly two months into tutoring and countless lessons (that doubled as tests of patience for Miguel) later, and the moment he’s been dreading for all this time has finally arrived.

Miguel’s talons involuntarily unsheathe from the pads of his fingers as they curl, a habit that he has yet to kick under moments of stress. Ropes of arm muscle move in tandem with the slight flick of his wrist, rippling under his digital suit, strung tight. His shoulders truly have never felt heavier as he stews over the situation he’s trapped in.

Perhaps there had been a bit of avoidance on his part, that he’ll admit, but it’s rather hard to prioritize preparation for a high school Spanish class over saving the multiverse from quite literally tearing apart at the seams. And with the added responsibility of hundreds of Spider-people to manage on his own, focus is not an article so easily bestowed upon trivial matters.

Though as Miguel stares at Miles, the normally chipper Visions student nearly unrecognizable with the frown he wears and the bags that darken his under-eye, he fights back a flood of regret with the forceful clench of his jaw. He tells himself he should’ve known the moment that boy showed up to his office with an accent that nearly raised his dead mother from her grave.

But it’s useless to lament now, with the bright white screen glaring at him from its smug position on the desk. Miguel can only find comfort in massaging his temples and heaving a long, deep sigh before moving on.

“Alright, when do you need to get this in?” he asks, voice already noticeably drained.

“Probably in a couple hours?” Miles replies with an uncertain scrunch of his nose. “Shouldn’t be too hard, right? I mean, it’s just a video.”

Miguel raises a brow. “Remind me how you said ‘airport’ two days ago?”

A beat of tense silence passes. “What matters is that I learned from my mistake,” Miles defends indignantly, crossing his arms.

“What matters is that you get an A on this test,” Miguel shoots back. “And if you keep talking like a gringo, you’re not going to.” When Miles groans, he gives him a pointed look. “Es un milagro que tu maestro aún no te haya echado de clase.”

“There are some kids in there with worse accents than me, you know?”

“I’m sure there are,” Miguel grumbles, a flicker of irritation already starting to throb in his forehead. “Anyways, the assignment. What do you have to have a conversation about?”

“There’s a packet she gave us with a scenario where this guy’s looking for advice on how to stay active.” Miles, apparently already over dragging out his complaint, pulls out a few pieces of papers neatly stapled together. “Kinda funny ‘cuz his name’s also Miguel.”

Real-life Miguel decides to ignore the last part for the sake of his own sanity. “Okay, and what advice would you give him?”

“Go to the gym, run outside, play sports?”

“En Español, por favor.”

“Uh… Miguel podría ir al gimnasio o hacer deporte afuera?” Miles responds in full, albeit hesitantly, and to Miguel’s surprise, it doesn’t sound half bad—potentially understandable, even.

“That’s a… good start.” The bar is set low—lower than Miguel anticipated—but he tries to convince himself that it’s fine nevertheless. It’s certainly a painful endeavor, but he accepted the consequences of the job early on. “But you should roll your ‘Rs’ more and not make the ‘ruh’ sound like you do in English.”

Miles follows the instruction, repeating the sentence with a little more success, then a second time, just shy of nailing the delivery. Miguel’s slight nod of approval signals for him to move on to attempt another phrase.

And the afternoon continues just like this, with Miles coming up with ideas to add to his small column of advice for paper-Miguel, and real-Miguel (who knows a borderline psychotic amount of exercise advice) correcting only the former’s inflections, pronunciations, and occasionally conjugations. He offers information about gym equipment when asked, but makes sure not to overstep despite personal interest and the seeming curiosity of Miles.

An hour is quick to pass them by, filled with discussion and banter and life. Real-Miguel, perhaps somewhat out of pity or a growing feeling of obligation, even comes up with lines for paper-Miguel, a small, amused smile tugging the edges of his lips upward as he rehearses with Miles. But if it isn’t the ridiculousness of the situation that makes him break his no-nonsense character, it’s the fact that Peter B. Parker was right—the kid is a quick learner, sounding lightyears better than he did at the start of all of this, rolled Rs and accented vowels and all.

The session finishes soon after Miles decides the material they’ve come up with is enough, and hits the record button for his video. As he speaks, Miguel watches him from the side, gaze flitting from the small cartoon figure on the packet laid in front of him to his own flesh-and-blood student. He wonders if he was a good teacher throughout all of this, to warrant and witness such progress stemming from so difficult a start.

To admit his gratification in such a pursuit so openly is a nightmare, but the realization that all the time spent sitting and aching actually had a purpose strikes a particular chord in Miguel. He recognizes that all the days consumed in surveying screens and issuing orders weren’t meaningless. His occupation—his place—matters. For the sake of every living being in the multiverse, it does.

But then there is his place now, sitting in a swivel chair, pulled up to a table with only the company of Miles Morales, an amateur Spider-Man with an ambition that is wholly different from his role as a hero, and his beat up, graffitied laptop. The sheer normality of the circumstance lets a little air back into Miguel’s lungs, straightens his back to carry himself upright again, flutters his eyes shut for a few seconds.

With the spoken sound of Spanish added into the scene, it’s almost like he’s back at home.

Miguel’s brows furrow. In his chest, there blooms a warmth he knows he hasn’t felt in a while.

Graded rubrics for the oral exam are handed out in third period Spanish with Señora Garcia five days after submissions.

“Clase, ven a mi escritorio para tu calificación cuando te llame por tu nombre.” It’s rather impressive how much fear a five-foot-two woman in a floral blouse can instill into a group of teenagers, but Sofia-Elena Garcia-Sanchez, or Señora Garcia to her students, manages the feat without much effort.

“Tyler, Sungwon, Owen, Viktoria…” she starts, pulling rubric papers from the loose pile in her hands. Each student approaches her table to receive their respective grades, some rather good at disguising a reaction, stone-faced as their eyes trace red pen drawn into black text, and some not, a twist of their brow or a gleeful smile all that onlookers need to know.

Miles unfortunately falls into the latter category, waiting with bated breath and folded hands under his desk. His leg begins to bounce in anticipation, lips pressed tight together when he feels himself begin to sweat.

“Amy, Grayson, Saatvik, Cindy…” Garcia continues, handing papers out to each student that strides up to her.

Miles watches Cindy Moon, the name just before him and one of the smartest people he knows, unfold her page to peek at her grade, and cringe immediately after. He can hear every curse running through his mind in the voice of Miguel O’Hara as his heart drops to his feet. Both a curse and a blessing, he supposes, since his Spanish vocabulary sure has expanded, but he can also imagine the latter threatening to rip him a new one.

“Miles…” Señora Garcia announces. The names that follow his blur into oblivion as he quickly makes his way to her desk, not paying much attention to anything but the piece of paper she hands him.

He still has it pinched between his fingers even when he returns to his seat. His heart thunders against his ribcage, the swell of it lighting every nerve aflame. Taking a minute to calm down, Miles steadies his breath and swallows thickly.

Just get it over with, he chides himself as he sucks in a breath and unfurls his rubric.

Despite his unspoken expectation, what greets him is not aberrant, violent streaks of red ticked inside a medley of four-out-of-five and three-out-of-five boxes, but a straight line drawn swiftly through the entire column of five-out-five boxes in the table. Miles follows the stroke down to the bottom of the page, eyes widening with every passing moment.

¡Sigue con el gran trabajo, Señor Morales! the recognizable text of Señora Garcia’s handwriting reads. Next to a score of forty-out-of-forty, Miles has to look it over again to make sure he isn’t seeing something wrong. Full marks on this assignment doesn’t just mean he can make a good report home, it means that his average in Spanish now sits at a ninety.

The first thing he does is ask to be excused to the bathroom and make a quick call to his mom. Rio Morales doesn’t even get the chance to speak before Miles tells her the news, hardly able to keep his voice down in his excitement. A short celebration, a small lecture about how he needs to get off his phone during school, and the promise of a reward later, the line dies with a beep, then he is left alone to play the waiting game.

It takes all of his willpower to stand by until school ends to portal to HQ instead of reality-hopping right then and there. But once the bell rings, Miles drops everything in his room and is immediately off to Earth-928.

Tearing through the lobby in record speed, he swings above hundreds in Sector Four, adrenaline coursing through his limbs in his excitement. The poor Peter Parkers of other dimensions don’t even get a greeting back from him, how quickly he breezes by them. One idea—or rather, person—is on his mind and there is no plan of stopping until he reaches it. 

However, there seems to be other plans in place—Miles is only feet away from the entrance to Sector Seven when Lyla appears at the mouth of the door.

“Woah!” he yelps, skidding to a halt, falling just short of web-swinging through the hologram.

Lyla pays no attention to his falter, receiving him with a smile and her hands clasped in front of her. “Hey Miles!” she chirps sweetly. “Where are you headed?”

“Uh… just trying to see Miguel?” Miles raises a brow, lips pursed in confusion. “Why do you ask?”

“Ah, yeah, kinda thought you’d say that…” Lyla offers a sheepish grin, her shoulders coming up in an apologetic shrug. “I wouldn’t really recommend going in now, since he’s a little busy with… stuff.”

“What’s stuff?” Disappointment deflates Miles, posture sinking with his dying enthusiasm, but the query comes sincerely regardless.

At his reaction, Lyla winces, but looks around and leans closer to him. “Miguel’s been watching videos of his daughter for the past hour,” she murmurs softly. “He’s been like this for weeks. It’s… not good, but we all generally just leave him be until he’s done.”

The notion of letting Miguel stay alone unsettles Miles, somehow. “Have you ever tried to talk to him?” he asks, a pinch to his forehead.

“No, but the probability of him responding well is… not very high. Around fourteen percent.”

“But fourteen percent is still fourteen percent,” Miles reasons, having already made up his mind. “I’m going in.”

Lyla just sighs as she sidesteps to clear a path, a gentle look about her features as she watches him walk to the door. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Miles barely fits in his thanks before the sliding gates shut in his wake. With no time to wonder about how Lyla knows about his grade, he continues on a familiar track, through the circuit room, across a field of light-up boards, and around prototype portals, before finally reaching the main office.

Blue shimmer pours down in heavy rays from the skylight, illuminating the space and a singular, muscled figure, elevated above tilted towers and orange monitors.

Wordlessly, Miles shoots a web up to the platform and smoothly pulls himself up in a swift motion. Landing behind Miguel with a soft thump, he slowly paces forward and plants himself beside him, expecting a reaction.

But Miguel provides none, eyes still glued to the screen, and the security footage pulled up in the right corner tells Miles all he needs to know—so he waits and watches.

A video plays on the central window of Miguel’s array of floating tabs. Overlaid with a tangerine hue, two figures appear in frame, one a recognizably younger Miguel O’Hara, grinning the largest Miles had ever seen him grin, and another, a little girl in a soccer uniform running into his arms, to which the former presumes to be his daughter.

Up close, it’s rather staggering to see how much the two look alike—from the color of their hair and eyes to the shape of their eyebrows and nose, one glance is enough to discern the relation. Even their dimples are in the same spot. Miles didn’t even know Miguel had dimples. Perhaps it’s the fault of the latter’s lack of smiling, but that too is a facet that also seems affected by the child now sitting on younger-Miguel’s shoulders.

As she smushes a cupcake against his face, he makes a half-hearted effort to duck, hands only halfway coming up to shield his face as he shakes in laughter. Bits of frosting are dolloped on his cheek and nose to the delight of the little girl, who giggles when she’s lifted off her perch and placed gently on the ground. Miguel bends down with her, leaving the frame empty for a moment, but reemerges soon, swiping two fingers across buttercream with the sweetest expression and the lightest laugh.

The frame then pans down, the angle capturing a view of the little girl as she looks up, daylight sparkling in her big, brown eyes.

“Papi! Viste el gol que marqué?” she asks, arms waving around in glee. “Lo viste? Ganamos!”

“Lo vi, nena. Fuiste increíble por ahí,” Miguel chuckles, smoothing her hair down, smile growing impossibly brighter when she leans into his touch. “Estoy muy orgullosa de ti, Gabita.”

The video doesn’t seem to end there, ‘Gabita’ just beginning to voice a response in between a bite of her cupcake, but it blips away with an audible click, leaving the room silent and suddenly barren. Hundreds of orange screens float around Miles and Miguel in tangible reality as they stand together, basking in the quiet for a little longer.

“Her name was Gabriella.” Miguel’s voice drags across the peace that had just begun to settle, rippling the empty air with sound. It’s the dullest Miles has ever heard it, worn and worse for wear, rumbled out instead of spoken. “Gabriella O’Hara. My Gabita.”

Miles just nods, still staring ahead at the void of insignificant screens. 

“I really hoped things would work out,” Miguel says. The shadows of the office dig into the old lines that etch his face, cheeks gaunt, eyes sunken—a vision of grief and nights spent awake, praying, thinking. “We were happy. It was the best thing I could’ve ever asked for.”

A pause elapses, long and winding. “I don’t know if it’s a bad thing to say that I didn’t regret it.” Miguel finally turns to look at Miles, just as Miles shifts to look at him.

Miles watches the crick in his brow deepen, his jaw clench, his chin wrinkle; Miles watches his eyes crease at the edges, his forehead line itself in rows, his bottom lip catch between teeth; Miles watches Miguel O’Hara, Spider-Man 2099, the head of Spider-Society, unfold and give way to who truly stands in front of him—a man who has lost and still has so much more to lose.

A hand comes up then, slow and steady and gentle, rising to meet the sharp end of his shoulder. Miles rests his palm against Miguel, fingers slightly curled around the joint.

“I’m sorry,” the boy murmurs, voice low but warm. He keeps his hand there when Miguel doesn’t shrug it off after minutes pass, contact seemingly comfort enough to keep turbulence at bay.

In it all—staving off the feelings that linger in the dying deep, witnessing how soundless erosion can be—Miles knows that he could never have an answer for Miguel. For all loss is worth, he hopes that he’ll never be able to. It’s hard to quantify the torch losing a world holds to losing your world—regret is tricky, love even trickier. 

But therein lies the possibility that maybe Miguel wasn’t even looking for an answer in the first place. Miles doesn’t think he needs one—he isn’t the type to care what others think, much less than earnestly ask for an opinion. With how often he frequents the videos, how longingly he stares at Gabriella with such tender care, Miles knows he knows that the desire to love and the right to be loved are not bad things. 

If it’s even possible to convey all that in a single touch to the shoulder, Miles hopes that his palm has the capacity to.

Silence blankets them for a few more moments of comfortable quietude. Contentment lives in simple existence, a sense of peace in just being with no expectations. It’s refreshing, to just plainly be.

Miguel then draws a long, slow breath. “The life I had before brought me a lot of joy,” he states, his features lax. An upward tilt of his head to the light brightens his complexion. “But this is also pretty nice.”

Miles smiles, taking his hand off his shoulder. “It’s okay to miss things.”

“I guess. I… don’t talk about it too much.”

“Well, men of your generation do tend to ignore their mental health a lot.”

The statement draws a thoughtful hum from Miguel. “Maybe I do need to see Ezekiel for a therapy session.” He makes a face, a small smile cracking the tension in his expression. “Had a therapist in-building for a whole year and never even thought about seeing him. Huh.”

Miles affords a chuckle at Miguel’s look, but it doesn’t last long before he feels his phone buzz with a text notification. Scooping up the device from inside his pocket, he scans the message, a curious grin tugging at his lips.

“Hey Miguel,” he starts, getting the former’s attention, “do you like tres leches?”

“Love it,” Miguel replies, but not without a raise of his brow. “Why?”

“My mom wants me to get you a cake.”

“For what?”

“To thank you for helping me get a ninety in Spanish.” Miles grins, big and wide. “And for not giving her a heart attack.”

Miguel takes a moment to let the statement sink in, blinking as his modest disbelief fades away and something lighter takes its place. He blows a huff from between his teeth, the motion pushing his head into a small nod.

“Thanks,” he says gingerly, tone pleasant—kind. “This is what you came here to tell me?”

“Yeah,” Miles responds eagerly. “Thought you might want to know.”

“I did want to know.” Miguel’s smile spreads, reaching his eyes. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Anytime.”

A beat, a breath, breezes past them. Perhaps the conversation could have ended there, Miles thinks, but a signal that tingles in the back of his mind tells him Miguel is waiting for something. So he waits alongside him, patiently biding his time until he’s ready.

Some moments later, Miguel clears his throat. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this,” he says, looking at Miles softly, “but I’m proud of you, Miles.”

A fluttering threads through the boy’s lungs, then, warms his belly and plucks at his soul. He swallows thickly, a shallow inhale lifting the coil wound across his collar to pinch his throat tight. Heat prickles the bridge of his nose, sparking and scrunching the space, the corners of his eyes afflicted by the sensation as they begin to water.

“That uh, that…” Miles bites out, quickly dabbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Thanks. Thanks for that.”

Miguel doesn’t say anything in response, but just moves to set his hand on Miles’ shoulder to give an affirming squeeze.

Miles knows that it’s an answer enough. It’s enough.