Chapter 1
Miguel fucked up.
Terribly. Extremely. Like, big-time, big-time ‘fucked up.’
He knows it. He does; he sees it, in the dark corridors of HQ and the tilted heads he often gets from other Spider-people, like they’re contemplating his orders and judging his decisions. Sees it in the ceiling of his room that he can’t stop staring at when he can’t sleep at night, sees it in the mirror in the morning reflecting his exhausted, shadowed eyes.
It had been a few days. A week. Okay, maybe a little more. A month, or so, at most.
Three months, that critical, rambling voice in his mind hisses, slithering through his hair and his skin and his ears. It’s been three months.
The same voice that had shouted and snapped and seethed, roaring his faults in the darkness of midnight, the light of dawn; the same one that clawed his face and his eyes and the same one that had blamed him for everything he’d ever and never done.
You were never there. You were a terrible father. You killed your daughter, and you killed your people.
You were never there.
The same voice that was the only warning before his skin prickles and his hairs raise; eyes sharpening and everything gradually getting worse.
Pain across his flesh, aches within his bones, stomach churning so hard that he fell and heaved. Zipping through his skull like lightning, gripping his lungs with chains; he. can’t. breathe.
Almost like what he’s been told of the spidey-sense. Except—such a useful tool wasn’t supposed to do this. Something like that didn’t mislead him, didn’t overreact, didn’t throw him into panic out of nowhere and roaring randomly that he was going to die.
Many tell him, patting his back or resting calloused hands on his shoulder, that it isn’t his fault. He was naïve back then; he never knew. It’s because of him that the worlds hold on to their canon, followed their paths to keep the multiverse from crumbling.
And maybe they’re right. Maybe it is true, that it isn’t his fault to blame. He doesn’t know. He never truly will, he thinks.
But this time, the little, teeny voice (with so much power over him) is right. It has been months since their incident.
That was the worst part.
And still, Miguel hasn’t gone and worked things out, made things right. He’s apologized, sure, but he of all people know that a few awkward pretty words don’t help shit.
He’s been avoiding it, he knows. There’s a clear task to get done and he doesn’t want to face it.
But this, in itself, is hell. Anxiety and regret nestling into his chest, burrowing into his heart, pulling his brows together and tightening the skin around his eyes; drawing his lips down into a constant frown, making his hands tremble when he goes to web-sling and giving him more than a few close calls.
The thing is, he doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been good with kids, other than Gabriella, and besides—she had been younger, not yet a teenager. It had always been easy to apologize to her, because she took things in stride; offer her something she appreciates with enough sincerity and she would accept.
His chest tightens, and he has to pause to draw back and take a shallow, whining breath. Gabriella, his sweet daughter. He misses her. So much.
And—his lungs freeze, a little. It dawns on him, suddenly, with the force of a high-speed train; he can’t do this. He can’t repeat his mistakes; he doesn’t want to regret so badly, like he did with Gabriella. He can fix this, he knows he can if he tries hard enough, unlike what had happening with Gabriella; and if he would try for his daughter, why wouldn’t he for Miles?
How had he ever doubted he would try?
Okay. So—that was settled; Miguel has to do something. Miles didn’t deserve what he had gotten—Miguel knew that. He’s a kid, a teenager, a reckless child; Miguel understands.
If you were in my place, would you choose to save your daughter, Miguel?
Miles’s words. They had hit him like a snap, so hard he couldn’t breathe, so bad it felt like he would turn to dust. Miles—he’s wise beyond his years. He deserves more than what little he got from Miguel.
Miguel gnaws on his lip, lost in thought, and startles out of pure surprise when someone bumps into him. He glances to the right with a scowl, but the person is already gone.
He rubs the area on his shoulder that he was knocked into sullenly. The hit jostled one of his old wounds, and phantom pain shoots up his arm.
Rubbing his temples, he sighs. He trecked all the way to Miles’s dimension, his city, and he was here still fretting over how he should apologize.
Then he pauses, steps slowing, before someone behind him grunts a little in disapproval and he hurries to not block the sidewalks. But his wandering gaze flicks to one of the signs plastered to the wall on his right, eyes sharpening.
It was a picture of Miles. In his suit, of course, a picture taken of him with his eyes wide with surprise and arms flailing sluggishly, like he was swinging and then a camera was shoved in his face and he’s about to scramble away. (Internally, Miguel snorts.)
Above the picture of him are big bold letters flourishing across the length of the page; ‘ Spider-Man!’. Miguel’s eyes trail to the store the flier is displayed in front of and, strangely enough, discovers it being advertised by a boba shop.
Drawing a little closer, Miguel can make out more words; it turns out that this place is selling “ boba drinks with exclusive Spider-Man cups for 2$!”
Miguel frowns a little, impressed, reading the whole thing over with increasing appeal. Was Miles’s dimension really so cheap? Spider-Man cups? Well…
Gabriella always used to love boba. Since Miguel was never really interested in trying it himself, it had been surprising when Gabriella had shown up with a cup one day, beaming with those shining golden eyes of hers. Though, it had turned out to be a pleasant surprise; those things hit the spot.
Something within him aches. But it’s a nostalgic ache, almost fond; for the first time, Miguel doesn’t feel an irresistible onslaught of grief.
He glances at the menu, standing just close enough for his enhanced eyes to pick up the words. He knows that Miles isn’t one to just accept an apology and be done with it, unlike Gabriella; however, Gabriella was never one to brush things over if whoever was sorry to her wasn’t sincere enough. She’d always cared most on whether or not you meant it.
Maybe Miles would appreciate something sincere, too.
—
…which is how Miguel ends up on Miles’s porch, at his door, with nothing but the casual-day clothes on his back and two boba drinks freezing his hands.
A pause of silence, suspended between them both.
“You got me boba?”
Miles stands a little awkwardly in the doorway, hand pressed firmly against the side of the door like he was planning on slamming it in Miguel’s face but is too perplexed to. He’s in pajamas, and his wide, confused eyes indicate that he clearly wasn’t expecting visitors.
Nevertheless, Miguel stifles his urge to twitch in discomfort and draws himself up, puffing out his chest rather indignantly—though it’s a difficult task to seem respectable when he’s trying to avoid the boba thawing all over him. He doesn’t like being in this position. He doesn’t like feeling as if he’s being judged.
But Miles doesn’t look like he’s trying to judge him, no matter how confused he seems. It just looks like he’s not understanding, and—Miguel falters, catching a glimmer of wariness in his eyes.
He fights back a grimace. He’d been the one to place that burden on the teen’s shoulders.
Right. He’s doing this for Miles, not for himself.
So, Miguel swallows and musters just enough courage for what he’s planning to do. He hesitates, opens his mouth to speak—
“Wanna come inside?” Miles asks quietly.
Miguel pauses. His words freeze on his tongue.
Did Miles just—
As if to answer Miguel's silent questions, Miles shrugs. “You came all the way here. You don’t seem like you’re trying to cause any trouble, I think.” He pauses, offering a wry little smile. “Plus, despite what you must think, I do have manners.”
Miguel blinks, as if he’s misheard.
Then, finally, he sighs, resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair; he doesn’t want to drop the drinks, after all. He eyes Miles warily. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude in on you and your family.”
Miles shrugs, again. “As long as you’re quiet, my Mom won’t come running; she’s moving things in the garage, I just came from helping her. Dad’s at work, and he won’t be back for a while…” He glances up at the sky in thought, watching the sun that’s just about to begin its trek down the sky. “He’ll probably be back around nighttime, so we'll have time.”
At the mention of his dad, Miguel winces, looking away bashfully. He knows that Miles catches the reaction, but he doesn’t mention it, thankfully, and so Miguel slowly raises his gaze from the floor, eyebrows drawn together.
Miguel studies him. Miles studies him right back.
Miguel breaks the stalemate first, drawing in a deep breath to steady himself. “Well.” His voice comes out more uncertain than he’s comfortable with. “If you’re sure…?”
Miles’s lip quirks up into a crooked smile. “What, were you going to just stop by, drop off a drink and leave?”
“Uhh.” Miguel feels embarrassment rush to his face. “I…err. I didn’t exactly plan this out.”
Unexpectedly, this draws a snort out of Miles, and Miguel is at least glad his clumsiness is making him laugh. “I can see that.”
Then Miles shifts aside, leaving the door wide open before Miguel can wallow in his humiliation. “C’mon, it’s weird to talk to someone from the door while they’re standing outside. Don’t tear anything up and you’ll be fine.”
Miguel stares into the house, feeling like this show of trust is so wholly undeserved that it’s baffling. But—this is another chance, he realizes. Miles is giving him an opportunity to try again.
You don’t deserve it, that teeny voice whispers. You don’t at all.
The thing is, he knows this. Miguel knows. He doesn’t really deserve…much of anything. He’s an insane, angry motherfuck that deserves to be thrown in jail.
But—he has to do something. For Gabriella. For himself. For Miles.
Miguel steels his nerves. Takes a shallow breath that doesn’t really help but he’s at the point where anything is at least worth a try. He has to. He doesn’t have to prove that the voice is wrong; he knows it isn’t.
He just has to prove that he can grow and change. That he can pick up after himself; fix the things he’s broken.
So, all he does is cock a grin that he doesn’t quite yet feel but does anyway, because what kind of a Spider-Man would he be if he doesn’t at least try?, reaching out the boba in his right hand for the teen to take. “Does that include not throwing anyone into the walls?”
Miles smirks, reaching forward as Miguel takes a few tentative steps towards the entryway, swiping the boba away from him with a swiftness that leaves Miguel rather impressed. “Just come in, you buffoon.”