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Miguel O’Hara wasn’t a bad person. In fact, he was a hero. His universe’s One-and-Only Spider-Man. He was one of the good guys. He didn’t do bad things, and he didn’t commit murder.
Honestly, does it count as murder if it’s yourself? There was really no harm in it, he rationalized. It’s not like anyone would know. There would be no one to miss, not when he was there to take this universe’s Miguel’s place.
It really was too easy, he thought, to kill the other version of himself. Too easy to hide the body some place only Spider-Man could reach. Too easy to lug around his own corpse.
Maybe it should have been more disturbing, he thought in a detached way, to look into your own lifeless eyes. Or maybe it was disturbing, but he wasn’t going to let himself think that, of course.
If he thought like that then he might abandon his plan altogether, and he can’t do that. He can’t stop now—not after what he’s done.
He just has to keep his mind on the prize.
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He almost couldn’t believe it, when he saw her through the screen. It was a normal day, monitoring the multiverse. And then there she was…
His beautiful daughter…
She had his nose and eyes, and when she got older she might have his cheek bones, too. It was too hard to tell, now, with the chubby roundness of her face that all children had.
He wanted—no, needed, to know if he and her had the same laugh. Wanted to find out by making silly faces at her. Did she giggle, or did she roar with laughter?
He wanted to know her favorite bedtime stories. He wanted to know her favorite animal. Wanted to know what position she played on the soccer field. Wanted to know her favorite movie. Wanted to know what it felt like to hold his child in his arms.
He’d always wanted a child. Always wanted a family. It was so lonely to be Spider-Man. It was so exhausting to fear for the lives of your loved ones.
He couldn’t take the risk, couldn’t find the time. Had resigned himself to solitude. Had let the chance to start a family slip through his fingers.
But here she was. His daughter. His precious, perfect daughter, here she was: the living proof that he could have everything he longed for.
Only…only she wasn’t his, actually. She was someone else’s. His, but only his in another world. His in another life.
It was irrational, he knew, but there was nothing to temper the rage. Rage at how unfair it all was, rage at being so close to what he wants and still being blocked from it.
How come he gets to have a daughter? How come he gets to go to her soccer games and make dinner with her and read her stories and know her favorite foods?
It wasn’t an easy decision to come to, but Miguel had been in the business of making hard decisions for a long time.
So he watched, and he waited, and he planned, and he practiced. Practiced braiding hair using wigs (which Lyla teased him over endlessly), practiced making Gabriella’s favorite foods, practiced singing lullabies, practiced hauling the weight of a body up the side of a building.
He bought Gabriella a gift—a pair of cleats in the exact shade of pink that he learned was her favorite color.
He watched that universe’s Miguel, took note of his schedule, learned when he’d be alone. Learned when he’d be vulnerable.
All the while, he let his rage fester. Constantly reminded himself of the unjustness of it all.
He just had to be a little bit more patient, and then he would fix everything, and make things the way they were always supposed to be.
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The red of his eyes was easy enough to fix. Contacts turned his eyes back into the brown they were before he became Spider-Man.
His fangs were much harder to deal with. In the end, he just had to hold on to the hope that if he opened his mouth a little less wide his fangs wouldn’t be noticeable.
Finally, the only thing left to do was peel himself out of his bloody suit, change into clean clothes, and hold his perfect daughter in his arms.
She squealed when she saw the pair of cleats—“I got you a gift to make up for coming home late tonight, have you had dinner yet, sweetie?”—and gave him a hug with as much force as a nine-year-old can use. He nearly started weeping as he wrapped his arms around her, and was agonized when Gabriella moved out of his grip to try on her shoes.
Her bright smile all but made up for the loss of her warmth, though.
Finally, he thought. All was right with the world, now. His baby was finally with him, where she always was supposed to be. He felt like he did when he saved children from kidnappers—when he finally returned the victims to their parents. Only this time, it was his child. Only this time, he was on both sides—the savior and the parent.
He felt like falling to the ground and weeping in relief, as he had seen so many mothers and fathers do.
He would give her the perfect life; would never make her want for anything. Now that he had her, he would hold onto her for the rest of his life, and he wouldn’t let this life, this family, ever slip from his fingers.