Jefferson Davis-Morales was worried.
It wasn’t exactly a new feeling. He was a cop, and his wife was a nurse, not to mention his kid was only 14. Living in any city was dangerous but in New York... The world was full of superheroes, mutants, and the enhanced, alongside everyday folks and the city always seemed to be the epicenter of all the world-ending drama. The latest of which, Jefferson suspected, had something to do with his son's change in behavior.
It was hard to tell if he didn’t notice at first because Miles was only home on weekends, or if he was really just that oblivious. But Miles had definitely changed since everything went weird a few months prior. When he disappeared for a few days, when Aaron died and apparently when the world almost ended if Doctor Octavius’s notes were to be believed. But since then Miles had been tired, jumpy.
Oh sure, he was more confident, more aware. He no longer moved like he didn’t know where his lanky limbs were in relation to his body. He was more conscious of where people were in the room. And here was this new look in his eyes, something that told Jefferson that something in those few missing days had changed him. Originally he and Rio attributed the change to Aaron's death. To Miles living in the dorms. To the new school. Now, eight months later, Jefferson wasn’t so sure.
Because hadn’t it all started when Miles knew Peter Parker died before the news broke? How he crawled in through the fire escape and asked his dad if he really hated spiderman? How Jefferson had said yes, only to turn on the news to see that the masked menace was just some 25-year-old kid. A kid who had developed a mutation and then decided to take the law into his own hands before he could legally vote. One who Jefferson had seen stop a train with his bare hands. Something had killed that kid and Miles knew before the news even broke. Both Jefferson and Rio knew in their hearts Spider Man's death had something to do with the change in their son because that's when it started.
Because Miles flinched when cars outside backfired or when a gunshot sounded from the television. Because he kept watching for movement out of the corners of his eyes. Some days he came home with cuts and scrapes and lacerations with no explanation for them or the blood on his uniforms. Rio suggested he was getting picked on at school, but when new injuries kept appearing over breaks and on weekends when Miles hadn’t even been out. Not to mention he always looked so tired. Not just from lack of sleep but like he had more weight on his shoulders than that of his bookbag.
“It's grief,” his friends from work said “He was close with his uncle, to find out he died and also to find out he was a villain?”
But that didn’t explain the injuries. That didn’t explain the exhaustion. That didn’t explain the way Miles moved with such awareness despite the weird growth spurts he kept having.
“Drugs? Or gang stuff?” Rio’s coworkers hesitantly suggested. But no, Miles would never. Besides the few times they did check, they never found anything in his room. He was too good a kid for that, not to mention the total absence of any prior crime worse than putting tags on signs or buildings.
None of the pieces were adding up, and Jefferson was stuck watching his kid be dragged down by whatever weight he was carrying. He wanted Miles to talk to him, talk to his mother. Talk to anyone really, because it didn’t seem like he was doing that. It was hard. At work, it was more or less straight forward. Fill out the paperwork, maybe sit in a car for a few hours with a radar. Block off a street, get people out of the way of the villain of the week that the new spidey was fighting. It was simple. There was a clear and concise path and an order of operations. When it came to getting his kid to open up there was none of that.
Nobody ever told Jefferson how to be a parent, not for a kid like Miles. There was no book, no advice, nothing that could have prepared him to be responsible for such a smart, kind, amazing child. No way for him to truly understand how to walk the fine line between letting his kid have the freedom to be his own person, and keeping him safe. Sure people could babble advice for hours, but the reality was always different than theory. So Jefferson was at a loss. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to help.
And all he could do was sit on the shore, watching as his kid drowned.