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Jefferson thought those two idiot kids should have guessed he'd be waiting for them, and yet when Miles and Miguel swung on to the roof of their apartment, they seemed surprised to see him. As if he wasn't a cop with access to the police scanner. As if he didn't have a TV and could watch the BREAKING NEWS, SHOTS FIRED AT SCENE OF ATTEMPTED ASSAULT IN CENTRAL PARK, SPIDER-MEN SEEN IN VICINITY. As if he couldn't connect two dots between the radio chatter of somebody saying they "shot the big guy but he just kept going".
"So," Jefferson, crossing him arms over his chest, "You had an interesting night."
"Did ... we?" said Miles.
Miguel just shrugged.
Jefferson's done that move before, back when he and Aaron had been up to some bullshit and were trying desperately to avoid consequences.
"So - nobody shot either you?"
"Okay, what were we - " Miles started. Miguel cut him off.
"Everything is fine, Mr. Morales. Miles isn't hurt, the woman in the park is safe, the two headed rat-man is back in his mother's custody."
"And nobody shot you four times?"
The dark lenses on Miguel's mask narrowed a little.
"My suit can't be penetrated by bullets of this time period."
Jefferson glared. It didn't seem to do much to Miguel - dammit, he should have brought a chair to stand on so he could do the dad-glare, it didn't work on somebody so tall.
"Miles, go downstairs and get changed before your mother catches you," Jefferson said. Miles nodded without saying anything and scrambled over the edge of the building to his bedroom, eager to get away from this confrontation.
"... I have a police scanner. I know you got shot."
Miguel's stiff postured relaxed with Miles gone - Jefferson got that, there was a certain pressure of trying to remain an Adult-Mode-Adult around a kid, "And Miles didn't."
"And you did!"
"I'm not hurt."
"You could have been!"
"Look - even if I'm ... Miles will be fine on his own too. He's good at this."
Jefferson grabbed his head with his hands and groaned, "That isn't what I'm talking about! I don't want you to get shot because I don't want you to get shot, kid! I'm worried about both of you!"
"...Why?" said Miguel.
"Because you - you - you're 27! BARELY 27, I know, because that orange lady mentioned you were born in September and it's November - and you have nothing in your kitchen but old yogurt and coffee! You have cat t-shirts and apparently pass out on your floor often enough that it's described as good-for-convalescing!"
Jefferson started a little when he realized Miguel had taken a step back, his posture oddly guarded and defensive, the dark lenses on the mask wide. ... He should calm down - he'd seen people react like this enough to know the yelling was probably triggering something in the kid's brain that was processing badly.
"Kid - Miguel," Jefferson conceded, "Do you ... uh, do you want me to get you a coffee or something? A granola bar? Rio made some Arroz con Pollo, I could put some in a tupperware -"
"That's ... not necessary, Mr. Morales," said Miguel, the fight-or-flight leaving his posture.
"I feel like you probably don't have any food -"
"I'm fine, Mr. Morales, I can -"
"I would really feel better if you'd please take some goddamn chicken."
"... Okay. Thank you," Miguel said, his voice suggesting he was at like a peak stress level. Jefferson could relate.
"Okay, just - wait here - uh, Layla? Orange lady? Don't let him open a portal while I'm, uh."
"Okay, Jefferson," LYLA said from Miguel's watch. Miguel glared down at it and Jefferson hustled downstairs. He gave silent thanks that Rio was working an overnight shift so he wouldn't need to explain why he was packing food up at 11pm.
"You can bring the container back, uh, next time you're here," Jefferson said, handing the container over.
"Sure. Thank you, Mr. Morales."
Miguel turned stiffly and opened a portal back to his home dimension.
"You can call me Je -" Jefferson called as the portal snapped shut.
Stupid goddamn kid.