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It’s not an exaggeration for Miguel to say he wishes he were anywhere else.
Mrs. Morales smiles gently at him, the Nurse Look™️ firmly affixed as she sets aside a handful of bloodied gauze and opens a suture pack. Mr. Morales and Miles are having an argu— discussion in the kitchen in tones that might be low if the listener were hearing impaired. As it is, Miguel is capable of catching every word, and doing his very best to not.
“You’re not having any double vision? No headache?” Mrs. Morales asks. Her smile twitches at an exclamation from the kitchen and the rattle of dishware.
“I told Miles I didn’t need medical attention.” Miguel says, and it could have come out sharply (would have, if it were Lyla or Jess asking) but the idea of being rude to Miles’ mother and causing issues for the teenager to deal with when Miguel leaves is enough to soften his tone. Also, he’s not always an asshole. Just most of the time.
“This is a big wound, señor.” Mrs. Morales says. Her tone is inching towards chastising— it might be the mother in her, but it could also be the licensed nurse. “You should see a doctor for a scan. Head injuries can be dangerous.”
Miguel clenches his fists and fights back the urge to say I’ve survived a car being dropped on my head, repeatedly. He licks over the tips of his fangs instead and keeps his eyes on the scuffed dining table he’s sitting at. Mrs. Morales sighs, quietly, but her hands are gentle as she tips his head forwards and parts his newly blood-free hair.
Miguel has survived enough injuries that the suture threading through his scalp hardly registers. He’s used to the advanced healthcare of Earth-2099, would have used it to fix himself up any other time—but Gwen, Pavitr and Hobie were worried he’d be locked back up if he returned to the Spider Society, so Miles dragged him to Earth-1610 to be seen by his mother. It makes him feel like a child.
“Todo listo,” Mrs. Morales murmurs, tying off the suture. Miguel lifts his face to thank her when her fingers pass through the hair at his temples, smoothing it back and tracing the jagged lines of gray present. It freezes him in his tracks.
“You’re too young to have gray hairs already,” Mrs. Morales says, and Miguel huffs with a laugh that makes his broken ribs ache.
“Old enough,” Miguel says, and Mr. Morales’ voice lifts angrily from the kitchen in a way that has Miguel tensing and then forcibly relaxing. Mr. Morales isn’t like his own father—Miles is fine.
“Por el amor de Dios,” Mrs. Morales mutters, shoving the bottle of antiseptic back into her overly large first aid kit. “I’m sorry—just a moment, please.”
Miguel flattens his hands to the table when Mrs. Morales strides from the room. He focuses his hearing on the world outside the cozy apartment—rain still pattering against the sill, the occasional car passing. He doesn’t let himself pay attention to the others except for tracking Miles’ heartbeat. A little elevated, but nothing bad.
There’s shuffling and murmuring he can’t ignore, though, and then Miles pops around the divider between the rooms and hurries over, a bottle of painkiller in his hand and a glass of water.
“I don’t know if it’ll work—“ Miles admits, setting both down in front of Miguel and lounging in his own chair. The collar of his spidersuit peeks out from under his hoodie. “They don’t really do anything for me anymore, y’know, since—“
Mrs. Morales steps back into the room with a somewhat strained smile on her face, bearing two overloaded plates of food. Her husband follows after with a long-suffering look and a glass of water in his own hand. No alcohol. That’s good. This is all—this is all good.
The silence lasts for a minute at most—fifty-three seconds, and no, Miguel is not counting— when Mr. Morales clears his throat.
“Where did you say you two met?” He asks. Miguel shovels another forkful of arroz con pollo into his mouth and arches an eyebrow at Miles. The kid laughs nervously.
“Uh, he, uh—I ran into a—bad crowd, but not, like, a gang, or anything, and he—helped me and Gwen out of a tight spot?” Miles offers, glancing between the three adults at the table. “Isn’t that right, tío?”
Miles’ parents exchange pointed looks at that, surprise flickering across his mother’s eyes when he uses the familiar term. Mr. Morales has a look of bald disbelief on his face.
“Why on earth were you running into a gang? Where was this?” He asks, looming a little in his seat, and Miguel bites hard enough on his fork that the tines bend. This is fine. This is fine.
“Was it that girl’s doing?” Mrs. Morales demands, voice rising, and Miguel chugs half his water while Miles tries to back himself out of the situation he’s found himself in. It’s more than a little amusing—even in the wrong universe, too close to a man that is built like his father, Miguel can feel the smile trying to tug at the corner of his mouth.
Miles sees the smile on his face, though, and claps a hand over his own mouth to try and hide his answering grin—and Mrs. Morales leaps to her feet, evidently at the end of her rope.
“Is this funny to you, Miles?” She asks, but it’s close enough to a shout that—and she’s leaning forwards, hands flat on the table—she’s Miles’ mother, she isn’t going to hurt him—
But then Mr. Morales is standing, too, and his placating hand on his wife’s shoulder looks like a threat to Miguel’s overworked, exhausted brain—
He blinks and finds himself standing in front of Miles, also on his feet, a hand on the kid’s chest to keep him behind the width of his shoulders. The apartment goes silent. Miguel’s heart thuds in his ears. The food he had just eaten feels like a stone in his gut.
“— fine, Miguel, they’re not gonna—no one is gonna hurt me, just chill out a little, dude—“ Miles is saying when Miguel’s hearing finally comes back in. Both Miles’ parents are staring at him with wide, surprised eyes, but Mr. Morales—a police officer, Miguel tells himself, his dad wasn’t a cop, they’re not the same —has a knowing tilt to his brows that makes Miguel want to flee.
“It wasn’t Miles' fault.” Miguel says stiffly. “If anything, it was mine. Gwen wanted to introduce Miles to me. I should have taken better care about how it happened.”
The two look at him—look at the clothes he hastily changed into, joggers and a hoodie from Earth-2099 and painstakingly clean. Mrs. Morales’ eyes flick up to his recently-treated head wound and then down to where he has an arm around his ribs.
“Can I—mamá, dad, can we talk for a minute? In my room?” Miles asks somewhat desperately. He dances around Miguel with reassuring pats to his arm and smiles up at him. His eyes crinkle—just like Gabriella’s eyes. “I’m gonna explain things to them, alright? Just sit down on the couch for a minute—I’ll be fast—“
Miles ushers his parents into the small hallway and Miguel listens to the door shut behind them. He feels—uprooted, almost, like he’s been cast adrift. He could use his dimensional watch and return home. He could walk out the front door, even. They’d just—left him there, in their dining room, and—
With a sigh Miguel scoops up the dirty plates and assorted cutlery and steps into the kitchen.
“You better explain yourself right now , and tell the truth.” His mother says, rounding on Miles once they’re in his room. Her earlier ire has cooled somewhat, though—she looks a little unsettled. Miles can relate.
“Miles,” his dad interjects, and he’s got his arms crossed and an unsure look on his face. “Who’s that guy? Why does he think—he acted like we were going to hurt you.”
His mamá looks angry again, all of a sudden, and Miles drops his face into his hands and groans. Miguel has been on edge the whole time—Miles should have considered it, really, just how stressful it would be to drag an injured Spider into a foreign universe. The few times he’s been hurt bad enough for it to stick all Miles has wanted to do is curl up in his dark room and hide for a while.
“Miguel really did help me out of a tough spot,” Miles says, lifting his head. “That’s how—he got hurt because of me, and I feel bad enough about it already, okay, since it was to do something he didn’t even want me doing in the first place—“
“Mijo—“ his mamá cuts him off. Her voice is trembling and Miles feels sick to hear it. Her eyes are pleading and a touch wet, and Miles feels like a monster, having driven his mother to tears. “Please, just—tell us the truth. Puedes confiar en nosotros, cariño.”
Miles feels helpless. He had felt a little like that, back in the Spider society, before Miguel let him go—had felt like that while chained to the punching bag in Not-Uncle Aaron’s loft. He wants to tell them. He wants to tell them so badly—so they can understand, so he doesn’t feel so alone, so they’ll be able to get why Miles has so easily attached himself to Miguel. The older man doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s risking the laws of the multiverse just to give Miles a chance to keep his dad. That matters.
“Mamá, dad, there’s something I need to tell you.” Miles says slowly. A hand lifts to his chest and he fiddles with the hoodie zipper over his suit. “I don’t—I don’t want things to change, and I haven’t told you because I was—I was scared, I was scared of how you’d react, and Miguel—he hasn’t done anything wrong, okay? It was—it’s all on me, he’s here because of me, okay? I’m just—remember that I’m still your son—“
“Miles,” his dad interrupts, stepping forward to set a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Are you—is this you coming out?”
Miles stares blankly at him.
“Mijo, we don’t care if you’re gay—“ his mamá adds, and Miles feels like he’s been dropped in the wrong dimension again. “Just—Miguel is—he’s too old, Miles, okay? He’s got gray hairs, and—and we had thought—Gwen—“
“Did he coerce you into something?” His father demands. His hand drops to his waist even though he never wears his firearm in the apartment, and Miles’ mind jumps back into motion. “I don’t care what he’s done for you—you’re fifteen—“
“I’m Spiderman!” Miles yells, yanking his zipper down so they can see his battered suit. “Miguel is—he’s a Spiderman from another universe, he makes sure the multiverse doesn’t—I don’t know, dissolve, he’s not—we’re not—we’re not— “
His mamá and dad stare at him, eyes glued to his torn suit, his father’s eyebrows slowly climbing up his forehead.
“And I’m not gay!” Miles yelps.
Miguel once again forces himself to tune out the discussion happening a dozen yards from him. He had settled himself on the couch shortly after washing the dishes and forks and leaving them in the drying rack, bringing a glass of water with him to keep sipping.
It’s surprisingly easy to relax in the Morales’ apartment; it smells like Miles, like sketchbook paper and ink, but the scents of his parents blend in nicely as well. The couch folds under Miguel’s aching body and he lets his head drop onto the backrest. There’s a slowly increasing itch in his ribs that means they’re coming along well with healing. He’ll have to take it easy for a few days.
Miles’ voice climbs into a shout only once—the revelation, the confession that almost every Spider has to endure at some point, and Miguel tenses so quickly his claws pop through the couch coverlet. There isn’t anymore yelling after that, though, just the hum of conversation, and Miguel slumps against the armrest again. He tugs his claws free with a wince. Hopefully no one notices those.
More minutes pass—more, and more, until Miguel is half-tempted to tip over and go to sleep—before the three Morales finally emerge from Miles’ room.
Mrs. Morales marches over to him with an incensed look on her face. Miguel’s spine subconsciously straightens.
“Let me see it, then!” She barks, tapping her foot on the ground. Miguel glances at Miles in confusion and then finds himself trying to shove himself through the back of the couch as Mrs. Morales lunges forward and grabs the bottom hem of his sweatshirt, yanking it up. Miguel freezes in a mix of shock and mortification.
“Mamá!” Miles shrieks, scrambling over and trying to free Miguel’s poor shirt from her iron grip. This is the first time Miguel’s been stripped in such a way and he finds himself baffled.
“Stop undressing him! Mamá, ¡en serio!” Miles cries, and manages to wrestle the stressed hem from her grip.
“You said he’s also Spiderman!” Mrs. Morales rants, turning on her son. “Where is his suit, huh? ¡Todo lo que veo son vendajes!”
“Were you shot?” Miles’ father asks, standing a few feet back, and Mrs. Morales’ head whips around to pin Miguel with the glare of a nurse that feels she’s been lied to about a patient’s status.
“I was stabbed—a little, only twice—“ Miguel says, hands up and trying for soothing, and the other two adults make outraged noises in unison. He feels so out of his depth he might as well be drowning.
“Who was trying to stab you?” Mr. Morales demands, turning to his son, while Miles’ mother hisses “solo dos veces, solo!” and marches back into the dining room.
“Okay, that wasn’t—they weren’t trying to stab me, they were definitely going for Miguel—“ Miles says, and he’s somehow wedged himself between Miguel and the coffee table, effectively barring his father from Miguel. It takes a few long seconds for him to realize Miles has picked up on Miguel’s discomfort and is trying to protect him.
“Kid—“ Miguel tries, planting a hand on the armrest to haul himself up even though his tired body begs for rest—
And then something in his chest shifts with a shock of blinding pain, and Miguel drops gracelessly onto his ass and tries to breathe through it. His vision takes several moments to clear of black dots. Mrs. Morales has returned in that time, bearing her stuffed first aid kit.
“Tío?” Miles asks hesitantly, kneeling by his side, and Miguel shakes his head and forces himself to straighten up.
“Just a rib settling back into place.” He admits, grimacing as he heaves in a deep breath.
“Shouldn’t that have been—it’s been hours, right?” Miles asks, and Mrs. Morales nudges him aside with an impatient look on her face.
“I don’t heal as fast as you and the others,” Miguel admits, and allows Mrs. Morales to lift his shirt and cut off the bandages Hobie had given him. They drop to the ground in a blood-splattered heap.
“Looks plenty fast from here,” Mr. Morales says, squinting at the stab wounds—and it’s true, the wounds look a few days old, instead of a few hours. Bigger wounds take priority with his healing, which is why these two look older, but the wound on his head looked fresh.
“They’re too far along to suture.” Mrs. Morales says, though she still wipes them clean and rebandages them. Miguel is hyper aware of the eyes on him—for the second time that day—as he holds his sweatshirt up awkwardly.
“It’s all true, then?” Miles’ father asks after a few moments of silence. “Miles is—he’s Spiderman, and you’re one, too? There’s hundreds of you?”
Miguel grimaces and nods instead of saying actually, there’s thousands, and Miles is more of a Spiderman than I’ll ever be.
Mr. Morales drops into an armchair with a gusty exhalation.
“Anything else?” Mrs. Morales asks, knotting off the bandage and giving Miguel a stink-eye. Miguel shakes his head.
“Nothing that needs any help.” Miguel says. She gets to her feet with a few muttered words in Spanish that have Miguel’s eyebrows lifting against his will. Miles drops onto the couch next to him with a sigh and squeezes underneath his arm.
“I’m so glad there weren’t any awkward misunderstandings!” Miles says faux-cheerfully, an almost manic grin on his face. The kid is almost vibrating with relief at having told his parents, tremors running through his body and up Miguel’s arm—Miguel wishes he knew how it felt; wishes he knew the taste of that kind of solace.
“Hold on a minute, Miles,” Mr. Morales says, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. Miles goes still. “I’d like to make sure Miguel’s story matches up, alright?”
“You’d think I’d lie?” Miles asks, and there’s a current of hurt there, shoulders rounding forward under the weight of his father’s disappointment.
“What have you been doing?!” Mr. Morales yells, and Miguel doesn’t have time to flinch before the other man is dropping his head with a tired sigh, dragging his hands over the curve of his skull. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I do trust you, Miles, I just—it’s been a year—“
“A year and four months,” Miles mutters, sinking into his hoodie, and Miguel presses a hand to his eyes. This kid. Unhelpful.
“If you could explain some things, I know that I and my wife would appreciate it.” Mr. Morales says, pointedly ignoring his son. However reluctant he is, Miguel is also tired— and he had agreed to babysit Miles until Gwen had figured things out with her own dad. It wouldn’t be right for him to flee just because he has to answer a few questions. He was a dad once, too—he understands.
“I can do that,” Miguel says, and Miles’ smile from the corner of his eye is enough to blind him.