Chapter Text
Miles felt like that famous illustration of a small dog sitting at a table while the room around him was engulfed in roaring flames, calmly declaring that everything was fine. Except, in his case, it actually was fine.
At thirty-five, he had reached a level of mental stability that his younger self could never have imagined. He had a career he enjoyed and a life that was finally quiet. He had already survived the “Canon Event” nonsense—the sprawling Spider-Society and Miguel’s brooding insistence that Miles was an anomaly who had to let his father die to save the world.
He had handled it.
He had fought the fate they tried to force on him, saved who he needed to save and eventually found a way to trust his old team again, even if that healing had been a slow, agonising process. He was proud of the man he had become.
So, finding himself back in the past, inhabiting the lanky, awkward body of his fifteen-year-old self, felt less like a catastrophe and more like an odd weekend project. He did not necessarily need a second chance at life—he had won the first one—but since he was here, he might as well do some preventative maintenance.
The transition back into his fifteen-year-old self had been a disorienting blur. It had been somewhat like the indigestion following a particularly aggressive plate of arroz con gandules, but Miles had adapted with the practiced ease of a man who had spent decades dodging interdimensional glitches. His Spider-Sense was sharper than ever, and his adult focus made the chaotic bus ride to Alchemax with Peter B. feel like a slow-motion rehearsal.
It was a pity Miles had not arrived early enough to save the Peter Parker of his own universe. That knowledge sat in his chest like a stone. He had gone back as far as the gizmo would allow, but it wasn’t far enough. Peter was already gone. The original Spider-Man of his universe had already died, and there was nothing Miles could do to change that.
It had taken him years to make peace with that fact the first time around. Miles had spent so long wondering what if, so long wishing he could have done something, been somewhere, moved faster. But if being an adult had taught him anything, it was that the past was a fixed point.
He and Ganke had actually taken a sabbatical year together in Thailand, immersing themselves in the philosophy of “slow life” and the calm of Buddhist mindfulness.
He knew better than to cry over spoiled milk—not that he considered the original Peter’s death “spoiled milk,” but he understood the necessity of focusing on the variables he could actually control. Stealing the computer from Dr Olivia Octavius was infinitely easier this time.
Miles moved with a precision that bordered on unfair, though he made sure to keep the “young and confused” act up just enough to let Peter B. struggle. Despite his Zen outlook, Miles was still a child of a generation that understood the quiet satisfaction of petty revenge.
Yeah. That’s right.
Watching Peter B. bumble through the lab was a small, deserved payback. Not only that, but also Miles even made sure to throw the bagel at Dr Ohnn again, ensuring the loop started exactly where it needed to—only this time, with a different ending in mind. Once the coast was clear, he smoothly excused himself, telling Peter and Gwen that his mother needed him to pick up some groceries at a speciality shop on the way back. He promised to meet them at Aunt May’s later, finally alone to handle the one man who mattered.
Miles stared out of the window of the Porsche Taycan, watching the autumn trees of the Hudson Valley blur into a streak of auburn and gold. He found himself wishing he could break the fourth wall with the effortless grace of that red-suited mercenary from Earth-616.
Wade Wilson, right? That guy had the right idea, although Miles certainly did not want to adopt the rest of the package—the senseless violence, the questionable hygiene, the constant disregard for property damage or the habit of talking to a literal yellow box in the sky. Still, a little bit of meta-commentary helped him process the absurdity of his life.
The proposal flashed through his mind again.
“Will you marry me?” and his own, impulsive “Yes.”
Miles felt a heat crawl up his neck. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the landscape shift from dense forest to the industrial outskirts of the city as the sun began to dip below the skyline, painting the clouds in bruised purples and deep oranges.
He could see his reflection in the glass. He had long since ditched that terrible store-bought Halloween costume. It had been cute in a “first-day-at-hero-school” kind of way, but completely useless for actual physics-defying combat. Instead, he was back in his “civilian” camouflage: a green hoodie and an oversized denim jacket he had “borrowed” from the Alchemax lost-and-found.
It was shockingly easy to forge a student visitor badge when you had thirty-five years of experience and a high-tech hacking device, and most security guards didn’t even look at the photo if you carried a clipboard and looked sufficiently stressed.
“You’re very quiet,” Jon said softly. His grip was on the steering wheel. “Are you feeling quite alright? The concussion... I mean, mine, not yours... it isn’t making you feel lightheaded, is it?”
Miles shifted in his seat, watching Jon’s side profile.
The man really did pull off the “overworked genius” aesthetic quite well, and Miles found himself cataloguing the details the way he had been doing all afternoon, without meaning to, without being able to stop. Short brown hair, neatly trimmed, the kind of practical cut that said I don’t have time for maintenance but I still want to look professional. Blue eyes—a pale, almost grey-blue behind the thick square frames of his glasses.
According to Jon, the tired look was “part of the scientific charm,” though Miles suspected it was just a lack of a proper work-life balance. On the left side of his forehead, a blooming blue bruise marked the exact spot where the bagel had struck.
Miles winced internally. Sorry I nearly gave you a brain bleed, future husband, he thought. But I suppose me coming back in time and choosing you first makes up for the breakfast-related trauma? No? Probably not the time to bring it up.
In fact, he wasn’t sorry. Not really. The bagel had been necessary, and Jon was fine, and in the grand scheme of things, a bruise was nothing compared to what Jon would have become if Miles hadn’t been there. But he was a little sorry. For the lying, mostly. For sitting here, in Jon’s car, with Jon’s hand on the steering wheel and Jon’s voice asking if he was okay, while the bruise on Jon’s forehead was still fresh and the truth sat heavy in Miles’s chest.
Jon noticed the prolonged stare and cleared his throat nervously. “You’re still staring. Should I be concerned? Do you think... perhaps... a concussion is contagious when you’re with the love of your life?”
Miles’s eyes widened, a heat rushing to his cheeks. “What? No, that’s not—” He suddenly lunged forward, pointing at the windshield. “Watch the road!”
Jon scrambled, his foot finding the brake just in time to avoid a minor fender bender. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, adjusting his glasses. “Right. Spatial awareness. Very important. My apologies, darling. I was merely caught in your orbit.”
Miles rolled his eyes. “If you keep driving like this, my ‘orbit’ is going to be a chalk outline on the pavement. Stick to the speed limit, Einstein.”
The sun had officially vanished, leaving only a faint, golden rim along the horizon as the car moved toward the outskirts of Queens. Jon was driving much more carefully now, his eyes darting between the road and Miles in the passenger seat as if Miles were a delicate chemical compound that might explode if handled incorrectly.
“I’m just stating a fact,” Jon said, glancing at him through those thick, square glasses. “The gravitational pull of a person like you... it’s enough to make a man forget the basic mechanics of a red light. I think it’s a romantic hazard.”
Miles snorted, leaning his head back against the leather headrest. He watched the orange glow of the streetlamps begin to flicker to life as they crossed into the residential districts. “You’re supposed to account for hazards. Or did you skip that chapter in university?”
“I excelled in all chapters,” Jon said, though he sounded more like a pouting schoolboy than a PhD holder. He slowed the car as they entered a quiet, tree-lined street. “I… must admit... I’m pleasantly surprised. Most people would say a boy your age is ‘mature for his years,’ but you? You’re delightfully, authentically fifteen.”
Should he be offended? Miles was literally a thirty-five-year-old veteran of a multiversal war. He had spent a decade perfecting his “mature adult” persona. To be told he was “authentically fifteen” felt like a critique of his acting skills.
“Authentically fifteen? Is that your way of saying I’m annoying?”
“No!” Jon squeaked, nearly swerving again. “It’s my way of saying I’m glad you’re not one of those clichés. You know the ones. The older man who targets someone because they’re ‘so mature’ as a way to justify... well, the inherent creepiness of the age gap. I’m trying very hard to remain on the right side of the law here, Miles. I don’t wish to go to jail. I would look terrible in a jumpsuit. The horizontal stripes would clash with my complexion.”
“You know,” Miles said, watching the streetlights of Queens start to blur together. “By your logic, if you don’t think I’m mature, you’re basically saying you’re a creep who likes kids. That’s a bold confession for a first date, Dr Ohnn.”
Jon’s face went a shade of white that shouldn’t be biologically possible. “I—I’m not—it’s a… a specific attraction. I’m not interested in ‘youth,’ I’m interested in you.”
Miles bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Jon started reciting the periodic table in a frantic whisper to calm his racing heart. “Am I a monster? I’ve always considered myself a moral man.”
The car came to a smooth stop at a red light. Miles reached out, sliding his hand into Jon’s. “Hey. Stop panicking. I’m the one who said yes, remember? I’m fifteen, not stupid. I’ve got a mind of my own.”
Jon squeezed Miles’s hand, reluctant to let go even as he accelerated when the light changed. “But the law. The philosophy of power dynamics. A minor is a protected variable! I’m supposed to be the responsible adult, yet I’m the one being led around by my heart.”
“Maybe I’m just that good,” Miles teased. “Maybe I’m a hunter and you’re my prey.”
“This is not a joke, Miles! My career! My freedom!” Jon huffed, clearly annoyed that he couldn’t find a reason to justify his feelings other than the fact that he was hopelessly smitten.
Miles smiled to himself. He knew he was a catch—he was a hero, a time-traveller and apparently, the only thing keeping Jonathan Ohnn from becoming a hole-filled nightmare. I’m literally saving the world by dating you, Miles thought. If anyone deserves a medal, it’s me. “You’re safe with me, Jon. I won’t let them take you away.”
“You’re a saint,” Jon murmured. “My sweet treasure.”
“Don’t call me that,” Miles snapped, though he didn’t pull his hand away. “It’s weird.”
“Honey? Beloved?”
“Terrible.”
“My angel? My light?”
“Nope. Try a normal one.”
“Dear?”
Miles bit his lip, his stomach doing a little flip. “Yeah. That works. I guess.” He turned his head to the window, his reflection showing a goofy grin he refused to acknowledge.
Miles stepped out of the Porsche, the cool night air hitting his face. Then, he leaned back down toward the open passenger window. Jon was leaning across the centre console, his large square glasses sliding down his nose as he peered out. The neighbourhood was quiet, bathed in the amber hum of the streetlamps. The warm light caught the edges of Jon’s messy hair and made his blue eyes look unnervingly soft.
He looked like a man who had just discovered a new element and named it after his favourite person.
“Thanks for the ride,” Miles said, reaching a hand through the window.
Jon took Miles’s hand with the reverence of a knight and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. “I shall count the minutes until our next data point, my dear,” he whispered. Miles felt a warmth bloom in his chest, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Go home. Get some rest. You’ve had a long day of being a human target,” Miles said, trying to sound firm.
Jon looked pensive, his brow furrowing as he checked the darkness of the street. “Are you sure? I could wait around the corner. I don’t mind the idling time if it means I can take you home safely afterward.”
Miles shook his head, offering a reassuring look. “I’ll be fine. I’m just seeing some friends for an hour and then catching the night bus. Don’t worry.” Jon bit his lip, seemingly weighing his desire to stay against his duty as a ‘good future husband,’ but eventually, he gave a reluctant nod.
“Get out of here, you dork,” Miles laughed, shooing the car away with a playful wave. He watched the taillights disappear, hoping the man wouldn’t spend the night planning a wedding that was still years away. Jon looked like he had just experienced his first crush—the kind of dizzying, 24-hour romance Miles remembered having when he was twelve, before the girl broke up with him and they went back to being awkward classmates.
Miles turned toward the porch of Aunt May’s house, taking a steadying breath. Inside, he knew Peni Parker, Spider-Man Noir and Spider-Ham were likely already waiting.
Even though things were fine in the future, he had missed them.
He remembered the first time he arrived here with Gwen and Peter B., how May had ushered them into her ‘hut’ that turned out to be a high-tech underground lab—a total Batcave move that Miles still secretly geeked out over.
He walked up the steps and rang the bell.
And it did not take long for the door to open.
Miles stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, half-expecting to see a swarm of high-tech security drones or perhaps just the cold, empty hallway of a grieving house. Instead, the door swung inward to reveal May Parker.
Seeing her was like a physical explosion of happiness in his chest. She was exactly as he remembered: the short grey hair, the sharp but kind eyes, and a smile that could anchor a collapsing universe. She looked stern for a fraction of a second—the look of a woman who had seen too many strangers on her porch lately—but as she took him in, her expression softened instantly.
“You must be Miles,” she said, shooing him inside before he could even get a word out. “Peter and Gwen already told me you were coming.”
Miles opened his mouth to introduce himself, to say something polite and appropriate, but May was already pulling him inside, her hand on his arm, her presence warm and solid beside him.
“Hello, I’m Miles Morales,” he said anyway, because his mother had raised him to introduce himself properly, even when the person already knew who he was. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Parker. I’m sorry to intrude. I—should I take off my shoes?”
He was already bending down to untie his shoes, his hands moving automatically, because Ganke’s family had taught him that you always took your shoes off when you entered someone’s home, and his mother had reinforced that lesson a hundred times, and—
Miles stopped. His hands were on his laces, his sneakers half-united, and May was looking at him with an expression that was somewhere between amused and touched.
She waved him off with a click of her tongue. “No need for that, dear. Though I must say, you’re a very polite boy. Your parents raised you well.”
Miles felt a flush of pride. “Thank you. My mami is mostly responsible for me being functional, though I probably picked up some habits from my best friend, Ganke.”
Actually, Miles thought, Ganke and I were absolute disasters at fifteen. Messy, disgusting teens who lived off energy drinks and discarded socks. We only grew into clean, functional adults because we had to. I’m basically cheating by being this polite now, but hey, I’ll take the win.
“May—I mean, Mrs Parker—”
“May is fine,” she corrected, patting his arm. “Or better yet, Aunt May. That seems to be the trend with you Spider-folk.” Miles felt his throat tighten. He wiped his palms on his hoodie, adjusting his denim jacket as he took a shaky breath.
May started to lead him toward the kitchen, but Miles stopped.
“Aunt May,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. May turned. She was a few steps ahead of him, and her expression was patient, waiting.
Miles’s throat tightened.
He had been planning to say this. He had been rehearsing it in his head, the whole drive over, the whole walk up the steps, the whole time he was standing on her porch. He had been planning to say something simple, something polite, something that wouldn’t make her cry, wouldn’t make her sad, wouldn’t make her look at him the way she was looking at him now.
But now that she was here, now that she was looking at him with those kind eyes, Miles found that the words he had rehearsed were gone. All that was left was the truth.
“Are you alright? Do you need some water? You look a little peaked.”
“No, I’m... I’m okay,” he lied, though his voice wavered. As she stepped closer and patted his back, Miles looked her directly in the eye. “I just wanted to say... I’m so sorry for your loss. For Peter.” He felt the phantom weight of the collider’s hum in his bones. “I was there. When he... when your Peter died. I wanted to help, but I didn’t know how to use these powers yet. He found me, realised I was like him and offered to train me even while he was...”
He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the floor.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’s finally smiling and you bring up the funeral? Great timing, Miles. No matter the timeline, you’re still a disaster.
May was silent for a long moment, her hand still firm on his back. Then, she reached up and gently patted his cheek, guiding his face back up to hers. She was smiling, though her eyes were misty. “Thank you, Miles. My Peter would have done exactly that. He always looked out for people. And I think... I think he’d be very happy that you’re the one who survived.”
Miles bit his lip, the pressure behind his eyes becoming unbearable.
If he spoke, he was going to sob.
May’s smile widened. “I think we might need a hug, don’t you?” Miles let out a wet laugh that turned into a sob, and he didn’t hesitate for a second. He leaned in, burying his face in her shoulder as she pulled him into a warm embrace.
The walk to the garden hut was a path Miles could have navigated with his eyes closed.
In the previous timeline, this backyard had been his sanctuary, a place where the weight of the mask felt a little lighter. May was the person who had sat at his parents’ dinner table, debating the best way to season pernil with his mother while his father laughed in the background. His parents knew his secret, and they had embraced May as part of their circle.
Seeing her now, surrounded by the scent of damp earth, felt like coming home.
“Are you staring at my hydrangeas?” May asked with a nudge of her elbow. “I suspect you’re planning a heist to take some cuttings for your own window box.”
Miles felt his face heat up, but he did not look away. “I can’t help it. You have the best soil pH in Queens. Besides, gardening is about situational awareness. You have to notice the smallest change in a leaf before the whole plant goes south. It’s good practice.”
May beamed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I didn’t expect a teenager from Brooklyn to be such a connoisseur of mulch. You’re far more mature than the boys Peter used to hang around with. Most of them couldn’t tell a weed from a rose.”
“Well, I had a very high-quality upbringing,” Miles said, puffing out his chest with a cheeky grin. “My parents didn’t raise a slacker. I’m polite, I’m observant and I’m arguably the best cook’s assistant in the tri-state area.”
May shook her head, a soft chuckle escaping her as they navigated the wide garden path. “I love how you manage to be both the most humble and the most arrogant person I’ve ever met, Miles Morales. Is this a very specific talent?”
Miles offered a mock bow, his grin widening. “I prefer to think of it as being accurately self-aware. If I don’t appreciate my own brilliance, who will?”
“Clearly, your mother has her work cut out for her,” May teased.
They came to a halt in front of the small, weathered wooden hut at the back of the property. It looked like any other potting shed in Queens, smelling of old cedar and damp earth. May reached into her pocket and pulled out a sleek, metallic fob.
She turned back to him. “Are you ready to see the world behind the curtain?”
“I’ve been ready for this my entire life,” Miles replied, his heart hammering against his ribs.
May pressed the fob, and the “normal” door pulsed. A hidden scanner hummed, and a brilliant, glowing white spider symbol bled through the wood, illuminating the garden in a sharp, neon halo. As the door slid back with a mechanical hiss, a wash of pristine, cool light flooded out. Miles stood frozen. He remembered this from his old life, the awe of seeing Peter’s legacy, but experiencing it as a “first” in this new timeline felt like a physical weight lifting off his chest.
He was lucky. He was so incredibly lucky to witness the magic again.
He let out a low whistle, stepping into the glow. “I have to say, Aunt May, your interior decorator really knows how to make an entrance. This is definitely an upgrade from the shed.”
“Flattery won’t get you a discount on the web-fluid, Mr Morales,” May joked, her eyes twinkling as the platform shuddered almost imperceptibly and started to drop. As they sank below the garden level, the air turned cool and crisp. “But in all seriousness, you have a kindness that is rare. Peter always said the suit was just fabric—it was the person inside that mattered. He would have loved seeing you in it. He would have been so proud to show you the ropes.”
Miles nodded slowly, the weight of the “first” time feeling heavier now. He could still see Peter’s face from the collider, but here, the memory felt like a sacred anchor. “He was the best of us. Even if we didn’t have much time, I learned enough. I’ll make sure his legacy stays alive.”
May shook her head. “It’s actually annoying how polite and kind you are. I keep waiting for you to be a typical, moody teenager, but your parents clearly did a legendary job with you.”
“I could try being more difficult if it would make you feel better? But seriously, you should come to the house for dinner. My mum is a world-class cook.”
“And have your parents connect the dots the moment they see me? No, thank you. I’m not ready for that conversation yet. Once you’ve broken the news to them, then we can talk about dinner.”
Miles grinned, watching the vast computer monitors flicker to life in the distance. “I respect the hustle, Aunt May. I’ll tell them soon, I promise.” He gave her his best “Golden Child” smile, the one that usually got him out of doing the dishes at home. It was a look that radiated pure, unadulterated sweetness—a weapon of mass distraction that he wielded with expert precision. It was not exactly a lie, because he truly did love being around her, but he knew exactly how to make himself the most adorable person in the room.
As they stepped off the lift, Miles caught her looking at him again. He tilted his head like a confused puppy, trying to read the gears turning behind her eyes. She seemed to be re-categorising him in her mind, looking at him with an intensity that made him wonder if he had accidentally grown a second head.
“Are you okay, Aunt May? Do I have motor oil on my forehead or am I just that dazzling?”
May chuckled, reaching out to pat his shoulder with a look of pure fondness. “Neither. I was just thinking that we’re going to have to find a bigger shelf for all the trophies you’re going to win for being the ‘Best Spider-Man.’ I suppose I’ll have to start keeping your favourite ginger biscuits in the cupboard from now on.”
Miles stood speechless for a second. Since when did he get “favourite biscuit” status? “Wait, really? I—”
“Miles!”
The loud, familiar voice echoed through the cavernous lab, cutting him off. Peter B. Parker was standing near the main terminal, looking like he had not slept in three days and was currently halfway through a very sad-looking slice of pizza.
Looking at Peter B. Parker was like looking at a “Before” photo in a fitness advert that never actually got an “After.” He looked as though he had been dragged through a hedge backwards and then compensated with a lukewarm slice of pepperoni.
Miles couldn’t help it. Even after the mess at the Spider Society and the whole “letting canon events happen” fiasco, his heart still did a little flip at the sight of the guy. He was the ultimate “divorced dad” energy in a spandex suit, a walking meme of a mentor who probably had more lint in his pockets than actual web-fluid.
But he was his Peter, and Miles was genuinely happy to see him.
“Peter!” Miles shouted, his voice echoing off the metallic walls.
He launched himself across the lab floor and collided with the older man in a full-body embrace. Peter B. immediately went stiff, his arms hovering in the air like he was trying to figure out if he was being attacked by a very affectionate backpack.
“Uh, hey, kid. You’re... we’re doing this?” Peter stammered.
“Hug back, you big dork,” Miles muttered into his chest, squeezing tighter. “It’s called affection. Just put your arms around me and pretend you have a soul. Honestly, I’m the best thing that ever happened to your social life.”
Peter snorted, finally letting out a long, weary sigh as he slumped into the hug. He wrapped his arms around Miles. And for a moment, everything felt right.
Peter smelled like damp earth, old sweat and the faint, greasy scent of the cheap pizza Miles had bought him during their first meeting. He wasn’t in peak physical shape—he was “fluffy,” as Miles liked to think—but he was warm and solid. Miles nuzzled his head against Peter’s shoulder, soaking in the comfort of a mentor who was more like a slightly smelly uncle.
“Geez, guys,” a familiar voice chimed in from the rafters. Gwen swung down, landing gracefully on the edge of a console. “I’m starting to feel like a third wheel. Is this a ‘Spiders and their Dads’ moment only?”
Peter actually let out a small huff when Miles started to pull away, the older man’s arms tightening for a second as if he were not quite finished with the emotional recharge. Miles kept one arm hooked around the older man’s waist but turned his head to beam at Gwen.
Seeing her always sparked a complicated reel of memories.
In the previous timeline, he had been a walking disaster of teenage hormones, nursing a crush so intense it was borderline painful. Looking back now, with the mental clarity of a thirty-five-year-old, he could only cringe. He had moved past the pining, forgiven the secrets of the Spider Society and settled into a deep, soul-level friendship.
He scanned her iconic white-and-pink Ghost-Spider suit. He wanted to wince just thinking about their “meet-cute” at Visions Academy. He had tried Uncle Aaron’s “shoulder touch” technique, only for his haywire powers to kick in, leaving his hand stuck to her hair.
Finally disentangling himself from Peter, Miles stood tall. “Gwen! Good to see you. Quick question: Have you ever had an alcapurria?”
Gwen blinked, looking entirely lost. “A what?”
“It’s a fritter. A gift from the gods, courtesy of my mother’s kitchen,” Miles explained, puffing out his chest. “I’m going to bring you some. They’re so good you’ll finally forgive me for that time I nearly scalped you in the admissions office.”
Gwen’s eyes widened in surprise before she let out a bright, genuine laugh. “Miles, I’m not the type to hold a grudge over a bad haircut. Besides, the short look actually suited me.”
“Well, I’m the type to hold a grudge against my own embarrassment,” Miles said with a grin. “So, you’re eating the fritters.”
Peter immediately draped an arm over Miles’s shoulders, looking wounded. “Hey, what about me? I’m the favourite mentor! Where is my fried dough of forgiveness?”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “You get crumbs.”
“Don’t fight,” Miles said, patting Peter’s hand. “I have a big heart. There’s enough for everyone.”
May stepped forward. “As much as I enjoy watching you three audition for a sitcom, we have guests. Miles, there are a few more people who have been waiting to meet the boy who keeps Peter from falling apart.”
Gwen muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Miles to catch it: “Falling apart is an understatement.”
Peter’s head whipped around, his expression a mix of indignation and something that might have been embarrassment. “Hey! I’m an adult dealing with very adult things. I have a mortgage I don’t pay, a failing career in freelance photography and I have successfully avoided my taxes for three consecutive years.” He paused. “Wait. That actually sounds... much worse when I say it out loud. Why did I say that out loud?”
Miles reached up—since he was still a good few inches shorter than the older Spider-Man—and patted Peter’s shoulder with a sweet, reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Peter. I wouldn’t trade you for a version that actually has his life together.”
Peter’s eyes went misty. He did not look at Gwen or May; he just stared at the top of Miles’s head. “I almost ran away. I was going to leave you. I was going to be the guy who just... walked away from the best thing to happen to this job.” He suddenly hauled Miles back into a crushing, desperate hug, burying his face in the boy’s shoulder. “I’m a total idiot! Thank the glitch I dropped in that dumpster. Thank the pizza! I almost missed out on this!”
“Holy silhouette, what is with the waterworks?” a high-pitched voice piped up. A small, bipedal pig in a Spider-suit stepped out from the shadows, sniffing the air. “I can smell the emotional radiation from across the room. It’s like a Hallmark movie exploded in here.”
Spider-Ham pointed a gloved hoof at Miles. “So, is this the one? Is this the kid that Depression-Sweatpants over here has been bragging about?”
Last time, it had taken Miles a good ten minutes to accept that a literal cartoon pig was standing in a high-tech basement, but seeing him again felt like a comfort. Peter Porker was a walking violation of the laws of physics—a two-dimensional soul trapped in a three-dimensional world, smelling of hot dogs and ink.
But… if the multiverse was vast enough to include a guy who lived in a dumpster, Miles supposed a talking pig with an anvil in his pocket was only a minor leap in logic.
As Porker stepped closer, Miles felt that familiar, buzzing hum at the base of his skull. It was like a radio station finally finding the right frequency.
“You’re like me,” they both said at exactly the same time, pointing a finger—and a hoof—at each other in perfect, unrehearsed sync.
“Spooky,” Porker muttered, then stuck out a gloved hand that was dripping with a suspicious amount of water. “Pardon the moisture. Just washed the mitts. Peter Porker’s the name, being a nuisance’s the game.”
Peter opened his mouth to explain, but Miles didn’t wait. He crouched down to Porker’s eye level and shook the wet hand without a second thought. He watched the pig’s face. It was hard to read those giant, expressive eyes, but Porker looked genuinely stunned—pleasantly so—that a human didn’t find him “too weird” to touch.
“It’s an absolute honour to meet you, Mr Porker. I’m Miles,” Miles said with a polite nod.
Instantly, Porker’s hand—and Miles’s—were bone dry, as if the water had simply decided to stop existing. “I like this one!” Porker declared, gesturing broadly. “Finally, a Spider with manners! You’re definitely the only good thing in this room. The rest of these jokers? Please. Between Monochrome-Mood-Swing over there and The Girl Who Lives in a Music Video, I was starting to think I’d accidentally walked into a very boring reboot of a better show.”
Miles laughed, looking toward the shadows where the others were waiting. “I don’t know, they sound pretty cool to me. A bit intense, maybe, but cool.”
Porker’s snout twitched. “Cool? Cool? Let me tell you about cool, kid. Cool is not—” He waved a hoof at the corner where Spider-Man Noir stood, a dark silhouette against the wall. “—standing in the corner brooding about the proletariat or whatever he’s brooding about. That’s not cool. That’s a one-man off-Broadway production of ‘Angsty Man: The Musical.’”
Noir’s voice drifted from the shadows, flat and dry. “I am never brooding.”
“You’re standing in the dark in a trench coat,” Porker said. “That’s brooding. That’s textbook brooding. If you were any more brooding, you’d be a character in a young adult novel about vampires.”
“The proletariat—”
“See?” Porker interrupted, turning back to Miles. “See what I have to deal with? And then there’s—” He spun around, pointing a hoof at Gwen. “—the Drummer Girl who spent twenty minutes trying to explain ‘vibes’ to a guy who is literally made of ink. It is a madhouse.”
“Hey! I was explaining the concept of a sub-culture!” Gwen protested, her hands on her hips.
Porker snorted, a literal puff of cartoon smoke appearing from his snout. “Anyway, Miles, you can call me Porker. It’s a privilege, a title of honour. I only let the others call me that because they’re too thick-headed to learn my full name anyway.”
Miles stood up, his laughter echoing through the cavernous lab as the banter continued. He turned his attention toward the shadows, where two more figures were waiting. There was Spider-Man Noir, a private eye from 1933 who looked like he had been sketched with charcoal and lived on a diet of matches and grit.
Beside him was Peni Parker, the brilliant pilot of the SP//dr suit. She was so bright and energetic here. In the previous timeline, by the time he met her again in the Spider Society, the light had been dimmed by the weight of her own canon events. She had been colder, more mechanical, having initially agreed with Miguel that destiny was an unchangeable cage.
But… in the end, she had chosen him. She had helped him save his father and defeat the Spot because she knew the only thing that truly defines a Spider-Man is the choice to do the right thing, regardless of what some “canon” says.
Noir stepped forward, his trench coat billowing in a wind that did not exist in the lab. “Miles Morales. You have a steady gaze. Most rookies have eyes like pinballs, bouncing all over the place. You look like you have already seen the worst the world has to offer and decided to keep your manners anyway. I like that.”
“Thank you, sir,” Miles said, offering a respectful nod.
“Tell me,” Noir continued, lighting a match that cast no light. “How long have you been carrying the weight of the mask? A few years? A decade of hard knocks?”
“Five days,” Miles replied.
The room went silent.
Noir actually froze, the match burning down toward his gloved fingers. “Five days?”
“He’s a prodigy!” Peter B. chimed in, throwing a protective arm around Miles. “He helped me break into Alchemax and walk out with a mainframe! He mastered the web-shooters in under an hour. Best student I have ever had.”
“I’m your only student,” Miles said.
“That’s not the point,” Peter said. “The point is you’re the best. The greatest. The—”
“The shortest?” Porker offered.
“I’m still growing,” Miles said quickly.
Gwen nudged Miles playfully on the shoulder, a smirk on her lips. “He’s a fast learner, sure, but let’s not forget he also accidentally stuck himself to a ceiling for twenty minutes during the heist. And his ‘thwipping’ is still a bit... experimental. He has a long way to go before he stops being a hazard to low-flying birds and his own dignity.”
Miles laughed, and the sound was warm, bright, filling the room.
Peter was still draped over his shoulders, Gwen was still smiling, Porker was still perched on his napkin throne, Peni was watching him with something like wonder in her eyes and Noir was standing in the shadows, his arms crossed, his goggles reflecting the light, but there was something in his posture that looked almost like approval.