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When Miguel was younger, he wanted everything.
Not in the selfish way, to be fair, no matter how much his father tried to convince him he was. He wanted safety, and that was too much to ask for according to George O’Hara. So he compromised. He only wanted his mother and brother’s safety; he could sacrifice his own so they would remain unharmed.
Too selfish, apparently. It was beaten into his skin, carved into the marrow of his bones so he could never forget the word despite not even knowing what wound or dangerous meant.
“You can’t have everything, mijo,” his mother murmured to him late at night, running her fingers through his sweaty curls. His body ached, but he didn’t dare tell his mother she was putting pressure on his bruised ribs at the risk of her letting him go.
“I don’t want him to hurt you or Gabe,” Miguel replied, already far too mature for a six year old. “I have to protect you,” he said, switching to Spanish.
“Ah, bichito. You are only a child. It is not your responsibility to protect us.”
The syllables rolled much smoother off his mother’s tongue. Miguel always wanted to be as good at Spanish as her, but George didn’t like when he spoke it. Miguel had to teach Gabriel in secret because their mother was away so much.
“But you are always away. I have to protect Gabe.”
He didn’t understand why his mother was crying, and didn’t know how to fix it. He curled further into her arms, ignoring how his body ached even more at the movement. It made her smile at least.
“Lo siento, bichito.”
Miguel frowned, face hidden in his mother’s collar. Sometimes he was angry at his mother for being away so often. Work, she’d say. Except he didn’t understand how her work kept her out of the house for multiple days.
And so instead of accepting the apology, he sniffled and said, “Buenas noches, mami.”
“Buenas noches, mi vida.”
━━━━━━━━━
When Miguel was a teenager, he wanted everything.
He wanted his father dead. He wanted his mother to be home, to leave George and take him and Gabriel away to a safer home. He wanted Gabriel to stand up for himself just once. He wanted to run away.
He wanted to be known.
His intelligence got him an enrollment in the Alchemax School for Gifted Youngsters. He wanted to live on campus, he wanted to get out of that damned house, he never wanted to see George O’Hara again.
But you can’t have it all, as Miguel was constantly reminded.
He travelled to Westchester every day, loving the fact that he could get out of the house and hating the fact that he was leaving his brother behind. He had a friend there, and also a bully. Soon, he had no safety again.
“Ye think you own the bloody place now, do ye?” his father scowled.
Miguel had just walked through the door, and the stench of beer was as prominent as always. The living room smelled like sex and weed, and he glanced to the couch to make sure there weren’t any women still around. That was always embarrassing.
Gabriel’s fists were shaking by his side. “Sorry for asking, sir.”
“Look me in the feckin’ eyes, boy!”
When Gabriel did so, he was met with a fist to the cheekbone. Miguel rushed forward without thinking much longer, all too experienced in jumping between the eleven year old and the drunk man.
“How many times do I have to tell you to not fucking touch him?” he growled.
His father’s eyes were wild. “Leg it, boy. Nothin’ to do wit’ ye.”
“Leave. Him. Alone.”
“Always beggin’ for it, aye? Ye like gettin’ hurt?”
Miguel always tried not to flinch at the sound of a belt being unbuckled, but it was instinctual at that point.
“Gabe, go back to your room,” Miguel ordered, eyes remaining on George.
“But—”
“Now, Gabriel.”
The younger boy was almost to the hallway when a beer bottle was being thrown across the room. It shattered right beside Gabriel’s head, making him yelp in surprise.
Miguel jumped towards George, slamming the man against the floor. Even with his advantage of awareness and sobriety, he was overpowered easily by the much larger man. He was only fourteen, and as skinny as a twig.
“Feckin’ scut!”
George flipped them around, gripping at Miguel’s throat and slamming his head back against the floorboards. His head rang, vision darkening slightly. George spat at him, tightening his hand around his throat.
Miguel thrashed, scrambling to scratch at his father’s face. But his nails were blunt from anxious biting, and it was useless. He choked, face burning at the lack of oxygen reaching his head.
His grip loosened only slightly as he brought his other hand up, a weathered brown belt in a shaking fist. Miguel knew what it felt like to be hit by a belt, but the slam of it against his face was new.
It burned, bad. He couldn’t help but cry, cold tears doing little to sooth the blooming red on his cheek.
Another whack. His eye was going to be swollen tomorrow.
And again. He’ll have to skip a day or two of school to avoid questions.
George stood, letting the belt unravel so the buckle dangled at the end. It caught on his shirt when it landed against his chest, scratching his skin underneath.
His ribs ached. What excuse would he use this time?
His shirt was torn off, the buckle creating gashes on his bony back. Maybe he’ll be sick again. Just the flu this time.
An empty beer bottle was smashed against his spine, and Miguel sobbed at the pain. It hurt, it hurt so badly. Even with all the scar tissue, the glass still managed to dig in.
“Ye deserve this, ye hear me?” his father yelled from above him.
His ears were buzzing, his head hot, and it fucking hurt.
“Say it!”
Miguel sobbed.
“Say it!”
A heavy boot pressed into his spine, twisting so the shards of glass dug in further.
“I…” he whimpered, “I deserve this.”
“Can’t feckin’ hear you!”
“I deserve— deserve this.”
“Again!”
His ribs were definitely fractured. He almost threw up when his stomach was kicked.
“I deserve this,” he gasped out.
“Louder!”
“I deserve this.”
“Louder!”
“I deserve this!”
“Louder!”
“I deserve this!”
“Why? Why do you deserve it?”
I don’t know, Miguel wanted to say. I don’t know why you do this to me.
“Huh? Tell me!”
Miguel choked, wincing at the blood in his mouth. That wasn’t good.
“Because I’m s-selfish.”
“That’s right, brat,” George agreed, pausing in his kicks to kneel by Miguel’s side. He spat alcohol-tainted saliva in his face, making his wounds sting even more. “Look at me,” he snarled, grabbing his jaw with a rough hand.
Miguel whimpered, his entire body weak. He was so tired.
“Cryin’ like a feckin’ fairy, aye? You gay? Want some old man to feck you? Maybe I’ll get some of me mates to have a go, aye? Want that?”
“No,” Miguel cried. “Please, no.”
George huffed, sitting down with his legs crossed, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting one. He took a drag before putting it in Miguel’s mouth. He coughed around the smoke, and George took it back again.
He sniffed, flicking the lighter on and off. “Nae, I won’t do tha’. Ye’d enjoy it too much.”
No I wouldn’t, Miguel wanted to deny. His lungs wheezed in protest.
George let the cigarette rest in the corner of his lips, flicking the lighter on. He grabbed Miguel’s arm roughly, and it rested in his hand like a limp noodle. Carelessly, the man pressed the lighter into his wrist.
And Miguel screamed. Despite his weakness, his body instinctively thrashed to get away. “Stop, stop, please!”
His father hummed. He sat so casually, yet Miguel had never been so scared. “Nae, I don’t think ah will.”
The lighter was pressed to his skin again, a bit further up his forearm. Again, and again, and again.
His vision whited out. Bile rose in his throat.
He yelled, throat raw. Slamming his head back in pain made his vision blur. And so he did it again.
Slam. Another burn. Slam. The pain felt more distant. Slam. Almost there.
And finally, with a strong whack of his head that pressed little glass specks in his scalp, he fell unconscious.
━━━━━━━━━
When Miguel turned twenty, he wanted everything.
He wanted validation, appreciation, recognition. Apparently, that came at a cost. Apparently, he was asking for too much and not sacrificing enough.
Tyler Stone wanted him to give up his morals to get what he wanted. Miguel didn’t want the fame all that much anymore. But Stone had told him how intelligent he was, had praised his work and his intellect, had listened to him when others got tired of his rambles, had agreed with whatever equipment he requested and encouraged him.
So he tested his work on a human (a criminal, he repeated over and over to try and justify human experimentation). It went bad. Mister Sims became a monster, and in killing him, Miguel became one too.
He handed in his resignation — tried to, anyway. Then he reluctantly had a drink (no matter how much the stench of alcohol made him gag). Then he got addicted to a drug called Rapture.
Then he was stuck.
He felt like a kid again. An older, more powerful man keeping Miguel under his thumb. His father, now Tyler Stone. Except his father was Tyler Stone, and George O’Hara didn’t share his blood. His mother had cheated, and for the second time in his life, his father took away his safety. This time Tyler Stone instead of George O’Hara.
He didn’t know if that made it better or worse. That the man who abused him and his family as a child wasn’t actually his father. Or that the man who blackmailed him by drugging him was his real father.
It was decidedly worse when Stone realised just how much control he had over Miguel. Because Rapture made him drowsy, reduced his inhibitions, messed with his memory.
Miguel couldn’t remember how far the man ever went. Only remembered the hands and the lips before he was given another dose and everything went black. Once again, he didn’t know if the amnesia was good or bad. Good because he couldn’t remember his biological father repeatedly raping him, bad because the feeling of forgetting something so important was terrifying.
After two months, Miguel finally snapped. Stone didn’t give him an extra dose, and that time Miguel remembered everything. The pain, the feeling of filth, of grease staining his flesh and not leaving him no matter how hard he scrubbed his skin clean.
Miguel had sobbed himself to sleep that night.
The next day he used the genetic procedure he’d put Sims through on himself, hoping that it would stabilise since he used his own DNA for the baseline. Even if it didn’t work, maybe death would make him feel safe for once.
It went… weird. Bad, technically. But not… bad.
Someone tampered with the DNA. He was made half-man, half-spider. He was shot, he tried to save Delgato, he failed, and then he flung himself out of the building, hoping that death would make him feel safe for once.
But falling didn’t feel safe, and he caught himself last minute. The world was against him, and Miguel knew safety wasn’t something he’d ever become familiar with.
━━━━━━━━━
When Miguel was Spider-Man, he wanted everything.
He wanted to save people, he wanted to protect the innocent, he wanted to travel the multiverse, he wanted a family.
He got all those. And then he lost them.
His fiancé was pregnant despite it not being planned. It was going to be a girl, and they were going to call her Gabriella. Except she was still-born, and there was nothing he could do. His fiancé fell into a depression, and they eventually separated. He lost two of his girls in a matter of months.
Then he founded the Spider Society, or at least the beginnings of it. Peter B. Parker and Jess were the first two, and the ones he trusted most. He'd already lost so much.
━━━━━━━━━
When Miguel was in mourning, he wanted everything.
He wanted Gabriella back, he wanted a second chance, he wanted what this universe’s Miguel O’Hara had.
And for once, the universe answered. His alternate self was killed, and Miguel slipped right into his place without anyone noticing. Gabriella was too young to process it.
He’d never felt so happy in his life, matching the thrill of when his ex-fiancé had revealed she was pregnant. He had everything he wanted; a family, a second chance, safety.
And, like always, he lost it.
“Papa, it hurts,” Gabriella cried.
The fear in her eyes was so strong, pouring out through salty tears. Miguel fought to keep his own fear inside, wiping his daughter’s cheeks of her tears.
“I know, ángel, I know.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “It’s okay, I’m getting you to safety.”
But safety wasn’t something Miguel was familiar with.
“Papa,” Gabriella sobbed. Her body glitched violently, and she screamed. Miguel felt himself break inside. “Make it stop, please!”
He choked around his cries, pulling her closer. How was he supposed to fix this? It couldn’t be solved with talons or fangs or fists. He just had to run. Just run, get her out, get her safe—
“Make it stop hurting, papa!”
“Lo siento, mi vida, lo siento. It’s okay, you’ll be okay. I promise, just hold on, just—”
Suddenly the weight in his arms vanished, and when he looked down Gabriella was disappearing from thin air.
“No, no, no, don’t take her from me,” he gasped out. “Not again, por favor!”
She was gone before he finished his sentence.
In that moment, Miguel felt a large hand reach down his throat and into his chest, pulling all his insides out. His broken heart, his frozen lungs, his churning gut, his aching bones. It scooped everything out, left only cold blood and fractured bone marrow, let him go and let his knees buckle.
He became hollow, organs replaced with fault.
━━━━━━━━━
When Miguel was the leader of the Spider Society, he wanted nothing.
Truthfully, he didn’t know how to want anymore. He had no heart to ache, no hope, no yearning, no dreams. He had work to do, people to save, problems to solve.
All because of this kid. This anomaly.
This kid who took a sledgehammer to the multiverse like it meant nothing, who broke everything and left it to Miguel to fix. Because he was the only damned person who had the guts to do it.
He broke the first time George O’Hara lifted his hand against him. He had become a monster the moment Sims died. He had lost his worth when Tyler Stone touched him. He had become empty when his daughter died for the second time.
A man may have qualms about what Miguel had to do. But he wasn’t a man. He was a spider.
He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t like what he had to do, but he did it nonetheless. Because the others couldn’t do it, he wouldn’t let them. Just like with his brother, Miguel once again found himself protecting those who needn’t suffer what he could withstand.
If he made the difficult decisions, then he could protect the other spiders from the pain. Not that he could really feel pain anymore. A spider doesn’t feel pain.
Nor does it belong.
Despite being surrounded by others who were the same as him, working side-by-side with those who go by the same name, fighting the same battles with alternate versions of Spider people, he still wasn’t the same.
In a room of people who were all the same as each other, he still managed to be on the outside.
He heard what they called him. A vampire, a jaguar, a ninja, a killer.
Miguel had talons that could cut metal like a knife through butter, and fangs that dripped paralysing venom. He had better vision than the others which made him sensitive to light. He was faster, so much so that he sometimes left an echo of himself behind when he moved. He was stronger than a lot of them despite being one of the ‘human’ versions.
Most importantly, he didn’t have a spider-sense. He didn’t have that little buzz of a puzzle piece fitting into place like Peter B. described once. To the others, he literally felt like he wasn’t one of them.
He wasn’t the same. He was the only Miguel O’Hara who became a spider person.
(He is an anomaly, no matter how much he tries to deny it. He ran over it with Lyla, trialed simulations, and yet it all pointed to the same conclusion. He was an anomaly. He was the reason Gabriella was dead.)
Deep inside what was left of his hollow corpse, perhaps he wanted something. He wanted to belong, that same old feeling of wanting to be safe. But he wasn’t ever going to be familiar with safety, and belonging was improbable, so he trapped it under bones and blood and flesh and blame and pretended he wanted nothing.
A spider didn’t feel, after all.
━━━━━━━━━
When Miles Morales met Miguel, he wanted everything.
Miguel could see it in the kid’s eyes, could see the naive optimism that burned so brightly that it blinded him. He could see the fear and the shock and the confusion, and most of all, the betrayal.
He could see a kid wanting it all, only to be told that he couldn’t have it. He could see a kid wanting safety, only to have that taken from him. He could see a kid who wanted to be protected rather than the one who protects.
He could see himself.
And perhaps that’s why he was so blunt.
Miguel tried over and over to get everything, and every time he lost it tenfold. It took him so long to learn, but maybe he could just get this kid to understand—
“Believe me, I’ve tried,” he explained, voice more pained than he was comfortable with. “And the harder I tried, the more damage I did. You can’t have it all, kid.”
Except, like Miguel when he was younger, Miles just didn’t get it. He denied it, he fought it. He was stubborn in the right and the wrong ways.
“You’re a mistake!” he yelled while clawing his way up the moon-train. He ignored how much he sounded like his father. “You don’t belong here. You never did.”
And maybe he was projecting. Maybe, just maybe he was talking to his past self. Maybe he was telling Miles what he wished he’d been told earlier, just to save him from the pain.
“Please, Miles,” he whispered over the howling of wind. “I know— I know what it feels like to want what you can’t have, I know you want to save your father but that isn’t how it works. I tried, I tried so many times and it doesn’t work. ”
“But Pavitr’s universe—”
“It’s not the same. I ran the simulations, kid. There are already too many variations in your world; your Peter Parker dying, you getting bitten, the collider— one more canon event disturbed and your universe will shatter.”
Miles stared at him, eyes pooling with pain and fear. They were the same shade of brown as Gabriella’s had been. “Like what happened to you?”
Miguel choked. “Yes.”
For a moment he thought he’d gotten through to the kid. But then the softening eyes became alight with a determined, electric blue, and Miguel knew it was useless.
“I’m not you, Miguel,” the boy murmured lowly. “Imma do my own thing.”
━━━━━━━━━
When Miles had defeated the Spot, he wanted everything.
He wanted his parents back, he wanted his friends back, he wanted his innocence back. He wanted all of it, just like before. Miguel couldn’t help but remember his first words of warning; you can’t have it all, kid.
He could see when Miles accepted the same reality Miguel had. He could see how he’d been hollowed out as well, how he choked on the blame that replaced his organs and searched blindly for a beating heart to press into his decaying ribcage.
The kid’s eyes no longer looked like Gabriella’s (bright, innocent, hopeful). Now they were more akin to Miguel’s before his transformation (cold, dull, haunted).
When universe 1610 was vanishing before their very eyes, Miguel had to bite down a bitter ‘I told you so’. But even a monster couldn’t possibly rub salt into the wound of a boy who had just lost his parents.
It was unbelievably unfortunate (and somewhat ironic) that while only a fraction of 1610 had glitched out, both of Miles’ parents were taken out with it. His home had been destroyed when he came back to it after defeating Spot and subsequently stabilising his universe. He had saved his father from the falling building; he hadn’t saved him from the universal destruction that followed.
Miguel had watched with shaky breaths when Miles screamed into the sulphur-smelling air, ripples of electricity blinding the surrounding blocks and pushing them all backwards. All except for Miguel, whose suit managed to withstand the blast albeit with a few weak glitches.
He probably should have checked on Peter B. and Gwen who had been approaching Miles before they’d been flung backwards and wracked with pale blue electricity, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the smaller spider who remained kneeling in the rubble of his childhood home.
There were no bodies to bury, only the echoes of violent glitches.
“Miles,” he said to make sure the kid knew he was there. He doubted his spider-senses were working properly.
Miles let out loud wails, ones that were half yells and half pained sobs. It was a dreadful sound that had Miguel flinching. Then the boy choked, coughed, and threw up beside himself.
Miguel rushed forward, making his steps heavy and loud. He kneeled down on the boy’s other side, hands hovering hesitantly over torn kevlar-latex and bloodied skin.
“Deep breaths, kid. Let it out.”
He vomited, followed it with a loud scream, and then let out another pulse of electricity. It was stronger due to how close Miguel was, but the unstable molecules of his suit were able to absorb it without much trouble.
“Turn it back,” Miles groaned, begging with a strained throat.
“Miles—”
“You can travel universes, surely you can travel time, just-just—”
“Kid.”
Miles was gasping, fumbling with the watch around his wrist as if he could somehow turn a switch and make it work how he wanted it to. His hands were shaking, but his nails managed to catch on the metal and switches and make it buzz.
Miguel swiftly unclipped it from the boy’s wrist, throwing it to the side before he could cause too much damage with it. The kid sobbed.
“No, just— give it back, I’ll— I’ll try, I’ll,” Miles gasped, choking on ash and tears and fried air. “You can— you can do it, right? Just— just turn it back. Go back, go back— please, go back. I’ll do anything. Please, go back.”
And suddenly Miguel was looking at Gabriella again, and she was crying in his arms because it hurt and she just didn’t understand.
“Make it stop, please!” Miles begged, and… oh.
(“Papa,” Gabriella sobbed. Her body glitched violently, and she screamed. Miguel felt himself break inside. “Make it stop, please!”)
But, once again, there was nothing he could do. Fuck. He does this job, he saves lives, he takes civilians to safety but when it comes down to it, he can’t protect them. He can’t fix it. What the fuck was he Spider-Man for if he couldn’t fix things?
“Make it stop hurting.”
(“Make it stop hurting, papa!”
“Lo siento, mi vida, lo siento. It’s okay, you’ll be okay. I promise, just hold on, just—”)
Was he in pain? He could fix physical pain, couldn’t he? Medical attention, nurses, that’s what he needed—
“Just kill me. Por favor, just— make it stop!”
Oh. Oh.
There it was. The surrender. The moment where one gives up any want for survival, the moment they throw their life into the hands of someone who could take it away from them.
Miguel had been there too many times. Had jumped off that damned building where it all started. Had leapt time and time again, each time breaking his fall closer and closer to the ground. One day he wouldn’t be able to stop any lower, and perhaps he’d finally kiss the pavement he’d been staring longingly at for years.
But he always caught himself, always dug his claws into the building or swung himself out of the decline. Maybe Miles couldn’t do it himself in the moment, but Miguel could definitely do it for him.
And so he put a firm hand on the nape of the kid’s neck (since when was he so small?), gripped it tightly and tugged his face down until it was pressed into his collar. Miles tried pushing him away, tried to punch and claw while crying for him to just make it stop—
Miguel clung tighter, ignoring how it felt like holding Gabbie. How it felt like papa, it hurts and make it stop hurting, please.
“Let go, Miles,” he murmured. “Just let go.”
So Miles let go.
The air around them exploded into violent cyan, making Miguel squint. It was strangely cold, but Miguel predicted it was more likely his suit trying to regulate the temperature change. His skin buzzed, and the air crackled. It smelled of sulphur and metal.
For a moment he thought that the electricity was screeching with its power, only for him to realise it was Miles screaming. It tore through the air, ripped right through Miguel’s sensitive earbuds, making the ground shake beneath them.
“You knew it would happen,” Miles rasped after a few moments, electricity still tickling Miguel’s hand where it rested on the nape of the kid’s neck. “You warned me.”
And yeah, he had warned him. Technically.
“I didn’t think it would… go like this, exactly.”
“But you told me. You said I’d lose it all.”
“I… I thought I’d be able to stop you.”
“I killed them.”
“No, you didn’t,” Miguel denied firmly.
“But you blame yourself, don’t you? You said you were the reason for your universe’s collapse. And now I’m—”
“It’s different. This time we had the added variable of the Spot.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter though, does it? They’re dead.”
Miguel didn’t know what to say.
Miles groaned. “They’re dead and— and it’s all because of me. I killed them. I killed them all. You— you need to kill me. I-I’m a murderer. You have to— you were trying to kill me before, weren’t you? Now’s your chance to— to take down the anomaly. It’s— it’s your job, right?”
There was a long conversation Miguel wanted to have with Miles, but in the rubble of Miles’ home was not where he wanted to have it. Instead he squeezed the back of the kid’s neck, tugging him slightly closer.
“It would be a bit hypocritical of me to call you a murderer,” Miguel murmured. “Spot killed them, arañita, not you. You’re just— you’re young, and I didn’t explain it properly, and I thought it— I thought I could stop you from making the same mistake that I did.”
“Killing them? Stop me from killing them?”
Miguel could have denied it again, but he knew Miles was too stubborn to change his mind on it; too tired to rewire his perspective on it all. Besides, he knew all too well what it felt like. He knew being told he wasn’t at fault wouldn’t do shit. He knew he’d grow bitter of that same goddamn reassurance that did more bad than good.
“I don’t think you killed them, but I know it won’t stop you from thinking so,” Miguel said carefully. “I think I killed them too, I think every life that’s lost in my presence is my fault because I could have fixed it. So I’m not going to try and convince you otherwise. I’m not going to give you those empty words just so they can go right out the other ear. I’m just going to tell you that I get it, arañita. Te entiendo.”
“But the others don’t. They won’t understand. They’ll— they’ll hate me—”
“No they won’t. They love you, Miles.”
“I can’t see them. I-I can’t see them. I don’t want to- to see…” Miles broke into panicked gasps.
“Okay, bichito.” The name slipped from his mouth without much thought. Bichito. Little bug.
(“Ah, bichito. You are only a child. It is not your responsibility to protect us,” his mother sighed.)
The same thing his mother had called him. The same thing he had called Gabbie. And it felt so easy to say it to Miles despite the bitter guilt that tugged at his tongue when he considered it as being Gabbie’s nickname and nobody else's.
Miles shuddered. “M-my mami speaks Español.” A pause, and then, “Spoke.”
And what was Miguel supposed to say to that?
They sat in silence, Miguel’s ears twitching at the sound of distant footsteps. He knew the others were coming closer again after being knocked out, but he wasn’t sure if Miles knew yet.
“The others are coming closer. What do you want to do?” he asked, deciding it was better to leave it up to the kid.
“Can— can we leave? I don’t want to… I don’t want them to see me.”
Miguel frowned. “I just chased you across universes, kid, are you sure you want to stick with me?”
“They don’t understand.” The implied ‘but you do’ remained silent between them.
“Alright, kid. Is my apartment fine?”
Miles nodded instead of answering.
Miguel still didn’t understand how the kid could possibly want to stick by his side after everything, but he supposed that could wait until later. Perhaps it would have to fit into that future conversation about self-preservation. But at that moment, Miguel just pulled open a portal and picked the kid up in his arms.
And so two spiders who wanted everything and could have nothing vanished from 1610.