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Sometimes he likes to believe that his actions, his way of thinking, the way he reacts to certain things and people are more than justified.
And it's not because he wants to come and plant a victim complex in front of so many individuals from all over the multiverse, of course not, especially being the leader and the one who has to manage everything they know as 'a safe place' on his own because a job well done can only be done if he puts it in his own hands, even if it costs him hours and hours of rest that are then irremediably prolonged with hours and hours of work if there was an anomaly that he directly and personally had to deal with given the incompetence of whomever they had sent; he likes to think he has even a tiny bit of freedom to feel overwhelmed.
If that wasn't enough, his situation already on the edge only seemed to come crashing down after the incident of multiversal magnitude that required a lot of sacrifices to be made. Sacrifices of which, he's not going to lie, he isn't the least bit proud, and he torments himself every night with the 'what if?' letting the guilt worm its way up from his guts until his eyes fall down with exhaustion in his office or wherever he was.
No sleep though, that's a privilege he can no longer afford.
A part of his head growls through his teeth and he ignores it thinking it's better that way. So what if the other spiders look at him in terror, disappointment or fury? They should know very well how things are around here, they know better than that and Miguel can only attribute this reaction to a tantrum that sooner or later will pass. It's what they have to live with and if they decide to concentrate that remorse into negativity towards him like little children? Well, he's fine with that, as long as they get the job done.
He is a natural leader and protector, that means that even if others don't like his decision making and hate him for it, Miguel will only resign himself to the fact that eventually they will come to their senses to understand him. Mistakes cannot be allowed, whatever form they come in.
And if they never forgive him for doing what he has to do, he is perfectly fine with it, he's always been better off working alone without the disturbance of someone else, or having to supervise or correct the mistakes of whoever was helping him. He's saving himself a thousand inconveniences and being more efficient in the process.
However, what he thought he could grant as a new kind of peace suddenly seemed to make no sense to the Universe and they decided to send him something, anything, that might arouse his stress now that there was no longer any Peter B. Parker, Gwen Stacy or Hobie Brown to do it.
Miguel has a parasite, because he has no other way to call it but an annoying bug that follows him everywhere like a shadow.
He doesn't know, or remember, when it started, but he has a small idea that it's quite recent as the way his body and mind seem to freeze in its presence isn't something he would get used or allow to become accustomed to. So it definitely must be something fresh that, for some reason, he has no way of explaining the origin.
And Miguel shouldn't mind, he should just ask Lyla to run an analysis on him and get rid of that annoyance as quickly as possible because he can't indulge in any kind of mishaps.
The detail is that this is not just any parasite, of course not, this translucent pest has the face, voice, expressions, gesticulations and everything of Miles Morales.
A Miles Morales that should be in his universe. A Miles Morales who months ago defeated Spot and saved them from a possible dimensional breakdown. A Miles Morales that right now should be buried six feet underground.
When he looks at it, it's as if he has the same kid from a few months ago in front of him, the same one who vowed to prove him wrong and succeeded but at an irreversible price.
But at the same time he is different, beyond the almost transparent skin and eyes as white and empty as the shining nothingness itself. This one is younger, and its clothes are different. Its face has still baby fat is in its cheeks, and the suit on its body underneath its shorts and jacket seems too big hanging off its slender anatomy. He remembers some photo Parker would have shown him from when he first met his Miles, but even if he hadn't been paying attention at the time, he knows this parasite-plague-ghost-whatever-it-is chose a younger appearance.
This parasite has taken the form of the anomaly he indirectly managed to eliminate, and even though Miguel doesn't know the boy in front of him, he knows it's Morales.
The anomaly he allowed to escape and turn the chaos into something greater than it ever should have been.
Venom climbs up his throat and he forces himself to focus his attention on the screens in front of him monitoring the hallways of the barracks.
"Can we go outside?" the parasite asks like a little kid who needs their parents' permission to go and walk around and find something to entertain themselves with, "You've been stuck in here all day, don't you get bored?"
"I have work to do," he explains for some reason.
"Can't you do it later?" the thing squeals and Miguel can already feel a headache forming in the back of his skull.
"No," he replies curtly and sternly and the parasite seems to get the message because its cheeks puff out as its arms cross and it decides to focus its attention with those stormy hollow eyes on one of the screens.
He tries to concentrate on his work, to keep checking that things are going along with everything as they should naturally be, but the annoying pest next to him seems totally willing to make sure that this can't be so by the way it wobbles and makes impatient little sounds. Miguel, whether from a gut feeling or his own experience as a parent, knows that there will soon be a tantrum that will destroy the last fibers of his patience and he'd rather that didn't happen now that he can avoid it.
With a heavy sigh, he turns off the screens with a single hand motion and looks at the thing.
"Let's go home," he concedes, and the parasite smiles at him.
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Lately he's been wondering odd things like whether it's possible to strangle a ghost, and it's worrying enough when he can't even tell Lyla. It's the first time he remembers keeping a secret from her.
Fear or regret, he doesn't know, but he prefers this to be his own personal torment.
He doesn't need anyone else to be distracted from work by dealing with an annoying bug that doesn't seem to have any purpose other than to make his day-to-day life hell.
"You know? I'm sure you would've loved to see my mural, it's-it's this big!", the parasite acts up and proclaims the person and name of Miles Morales, and Miguel finds no anger in himself for this fact for after all that belonged to an anomaly, a mistake that should never have existed in the first place, so he figures it can claim him if it wants to.
"Ah, really?" he decides to humor it, lifting his head ever so slightly from the support of the mattress he's lying on, and it smiles widely showing all his teeth and quickly nodding.
"Yes! It was Uncle Aaron's secret place and he shared it with me," it explained excitedly looking down at its little hands as if trying to come up with the right memories, "it was hard to get to. We had to squeeze through some tunnels and once I fell climbing the fence but then I was fine!"
What it doesn't know is that Miguel already has knowledge of this 'secret place', and everything that happened before and after that.
He finds it very weird, perhaps one of the things that intrigues him the most about this ghost. It doesn't seem to have a clear sense of time despite its physical age. Occasionally it will talk about future or past events, whether it's the defeat of Kingpin or Miles' first encounter with Spot, or say things like whether his late uncle Aaron is still alive.
Very rarely will it mention events related to his arrival at the quarters and what unfolds after that.
A great part of Miguel unconsciously feels an incredible sense of relief with that.
"I think we should go!", suddenly jumps the parasite on his chest and Miguel barely manages to suppress his bewilderment when he remembers that this pest must be some kind of ghost so the weight on his body is absolutely non-existent. "I still remember the way. I could now show you, surely uncle Aaron kept working on that!"
Miguel's mind flashes back to a time in the past where he witnessed two parents crying and pleading heartbroken, devastated, with the body of their son in their arms. The fury of a mother's broken heart, and a father's incandescent inferno of hatred.
He pushes away the guilt that is not his to bear. That mistake was not his to fix. If that's the way the universe wanted it, who was Miguel to question it?
"Maybe later," he replies calmly as it tilts his head and looks down at him from above waiting for him to elaborate, "it's too late, we can go another time."
"Oh, okay," it sighs but seems to settle with his answer, accommodating itself by laying down on his chest as if Miguel is his personalized couch and he can barely suppress an offended snort.
A few minutes pass and Miguel feels his eyes close against his will, exhaustion finally getting the worst of him even though he only meant to relax his body on the couch for a few minutes.
Miguel may not get tired like any man, but the mental agitation of all this madness had taken its toll on him. His back ached. His eyelids protested with each passing second. His head - well, that was another story entirely. A part of him, a big one, couldn't help but feel that he deserved this pain and even more.
It was a mercy compared to everything he failed at.
Before he could fall victim to exhaustion, he hears it speak in a very soft but somewhat resigned voice.
"Uncle Aaron couldn't continue painting the mural, could he?"
Miguel can't and won't answer. That seems to be enough for it.
"It's okay, I don't think I can either."
He succumbs to the darkness.
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"I want to go home, Miguel."
His hands stop dead in their tracks and he feels a cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck. His gaze lingers on the screens in front of him and he tries to pretend he didn't hear what was said, but it seems hell-bent on pressing on.
"I miss mami, and daddy. I want to go now," it whines with a small sob, although its eyes and expression do not give way to the fact that it was going to burst into tears, it just looked frustrated, upset, but anyway Miguel felt the horrifying tension rising up his spine.
He tries to regain his posture, concealing as much as possible a shaky sigh as he pretends to continue working with the screens.
"They're busy," he replies simply and quickly.
"That's what you always say!" it complains, clenching its tiny hands into fists, "Peter, Gwen, Noir, Porker and Peni, they're all busy!"
"Kid, they've got work, do you understand-"
"But I want to see them, it's been a long time since I've seen them and I miss them, they're my only friends!"
He thinks of Stacy's raging gaze filled with nothing but hatred, how her body trembles and always seems to need an external force to stop her from doing something that will probably bring many consequences against Miguel.
He thinks of Peter's somber expression, indifferent and disregarding his existence, turning his back on him and always covering Mayday with his body whenever they are in the same room as if he feared that Miguel's company would represent a danger to her.
A hand runs over his face and he breathes shakily.
"I promise you that as soon as I'm free from work we'll go see them," the lie slips so naturally and simply from his lips, but he can't feel guilty when the empty eyes narrow with excitement and a smile makes its way across the other face making it evident that his lie was plainly believed.
He feels sick.
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There are days when the parasite disappears without any kind of prior warning, and contrary to what one would think, it doesn't really make things better.
There are days when it simply doesn't utter a word and its mouth seems stitched shut, staring at him from some corner until Miguel meets it with his gaze and, as if mocking him, disappears.
He loathed that silence because if he knew one thing about Morales, it was that the boy never seemed to be able to close his mouth.
The only time he ever saw him silent for more than three minutes was when he found him buried under piles and piles of red-soaked debris. His chest didn't rise and his mouth remained partially open but no words came out no matter how much Miguel shook him and threatened to isolate him from all contact with any member of the HQ quarters.
In a moment they pulled him aside and more people surrounded the boy as if it were a damn circus, there was uproar and hundreds of voices but Miles' didn't join them.
The boy remained silent and Miguel slowly began to develop a resentment for the silence.
Sometimes, when he feels self-centered enough, he wants to blame Morales for that, for ruining yet another thing that brought him so much ease and comfort in his usual days of loneliness.
But if there's one thing he hates more than the silence, it's it choked cries.
Because if it isn't talking or being perpetually silent, it cries uncontrollably like a soul in pain just like in the stories he heard during his childhood about spirits prowling the villages in search of some kind of closure.
That must be one of the worst things that can happen because Miguel can do nothing about it, just continue with whatever he was doing and wait for the crying to stop by some miracle.
It may take minutes or hours, there is never a specific time, but he knows that trying anything will only be in vain.
Even if his hands and chest burn screaming at him to bring comfort to that parasite that does nothing but turn his days into a living hell on earth, he knows from experience that it won't do any good for, no matter how many times he tries, his grip will only pierce it's body and the crying will continue unfazed.
This time, as if by chance, there is only silence.
He thinks it's been days, but he's not entirely sure. It could have been closer to a month, but he'd like to think it hasn't been that long, that he hasn't fallen as deep as he really has.
He'd rarely left his office, had become involuntarily and forcibly accustomed to the parasite's only company during his work and it's a burden that, as a leader, he's willing to bear for the sake of remaining tied to his job as a protector. The life of someone like him was meant to be lonely and should not distress him, and for that very reason he didn't fight it.
He hadn't before and it was too late when he set out to do so; there was far less reason to do so now.
"Miguel," sometimes it will appear and utter something, anything, and disappear again. It's distressing how painful that reality becomes every time he has to face it, "I don't hate you."
His eyebrow quirks up but he doesn't let surprise and shock make their way into it, instead, he continues with a grimace of utter indifference.
"You still hate me?" he genuinely doesn't know if he still does. In the first place, was there any reason for him to do so at this point? He doesn't want to delve into that question any further, he has enough things on his mind that keep him up at night.
"I don't hate you, kid," it's not true, but it doesn't sound like a lie either and he doesn't know why he's even answering to that thing.
"Oh, that's good," it whispers oh-so-softly and returns its attention to its hands wrapping and playing over its lap.
As he had guessed, the parasite vanishes. Miguel doesn't bother to count the time of its absence because if he does, he knows he has genuinely hit rock bottom.
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A fist crashes with merciless force against his face, and he almost has the audacity to think how unfair it is to use their powers in a bare-knuckle fight.
"He's dead!" he roars with an incandescent wrath of which he would never have considered Parker possible. Gwen? Definitely. Hobie? Another strong likelihood. For fuck's sake, he could even see Pavitr capable of it with how protective he was when it came to his loved ones if one looked hard enough.
But Parker? Always peaceful, moronic, annoying Parker who even stood up for Miguel in the worst of circumstances and appealed directly and indirectly on his behalf? It sounded ridiculous.
They both fight, and Miguel would have the man on the ground by now if it weren't for the fact that his senses had been clouded for so long now and he was incapable of acting with the same speed and efficiency he silently prided himself on.
But even if he could, he doesn't see himself capable of raising a fist against him, against any of them. He is their leader, he's supposed to be the one who should best handle the situation and keep his head on straight first and, most importantly, keep them safe and united now more than ever. How absurd that sounded now.
In the end, they are both exhausted and breathing heavily. Parker's knuckles are red and bloody, and Miguel can feel a future bruise begin to form on his forehead and cheeks. He contemplates that perhaps things would have gone further if Jess hadn't taken pity on him and decided to push them away by grabbing Peter by the arm.
Parker trembles in place, fury painting every corner of his face. Miguel decides instead to focus on Mayday's absence in his chest.
"Miles is dead," he sentences with terrible carefulness to every word, as if daring Miguel to dare to say otherwise, "My kid is dead and you don't have the right to come and taunt me in my face by talking about ghosts. You hear me, O'Hara? You don't have the goddamn right!"
Miguel doesn't utter a word and that seems to be the worst decision as Peter is again letting out a snarl between his teeth and stepping forward before Gwen stepped in front of him advising him not to waste his time.
"He's dead because of you! You don't have the right to even say his name!"
For a moment, the atmosphere dropped to a crescendo and the tension intensified to great depths, especially when Miguel raised his face and looked directly into his friend's eyes clenching both fists and jaw. Peter didn't budge.
A few seconds passed and silently feared for the worst to happen, waiting for both men to lunge at each other's throats like animals.
But nothing happened. His gaze fell hollowly to the floor and he felt like a doll with its strings cut.
Jess is quick to reach over and grab him by the shoulder, her gaze annoyed but deeply concerned, speaking words that never reach Miguel's ears.
Down the hall, however, he hears a childish giggle mocking him and, instead of being pissed off, he takes helpless comfort in it.
Miguel is alone.
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"Do you think you really would have killed me on the train?", it asks once it realizes that Miguel really isn't doing anything vital with his gizmo.
"Don't you have something better to do?" he growls squeezing the device tighter than he should on his wrist risking it to break.
"I always wondered if you would have," it casually remarked while completely oblivious to the man's growing annoyance, "but then you say you don't hate me, and that just confuses me more."
His head drops into his hands after crashing his elbows against the desk in front of him, he feels his claws drag through his hair and is sure these are leaving a trail of cuts behind that will later be a painful nuisance.
"Can't you just fade away already?!"
"But you look lonely," it whispers with sickly compassion and Miguel can't stand it.
"Perfect! I like being alone, so get the hell out of here!"
"I thought you didn't like being alone anymore?"
"You thought wrong," he growls through his fangs, "you shouldn't even be thinking in the first place, a parasite like you shouldn't be able to!"
"That's cruel," it whines innocently but with no real hurt behind.
"Why the shock can't you just leave me alone and stop ruining my life?", he spits with venom every word even though his body and mind can't conceive even a hint of loathing that would make his words more convincing, only weariness.
When he turns to confront the parasite face to face, he finds a sad expression decorating its face but a understanding smile adorning it.
"For a boss around here, you're pretty silly, tío!" it giggles softly and its body melts away to disappear into nothingness as if it had never been there in the first place.
The next few days it doesn't matter how many times Miguel looks for it in every dark corner or calls it or apologizes or scratches at any wall or artifact within reach.
It disappears and Miguel hates how it feels like the worst kind of punishment.
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Warm tears stream down his cheeks and he is unable to remember when was the last time he broke down like this. His legs feel incredibly weak underneath him and he's about to collapse so he barely manages to lean against the couch in his living room, wrapping his body around himself and trying to hide his face from all possible light. He can barely hold back the urge to throw up.
Miguel is a leader, he is a protector. This kind of weakness cannot be allowed as such.
But, he comes to the terrible realization, he stopped being one so long ago.
Maybe even before the arrival of Morales. Before the death of the Peter of his universe. Before the death of Gabriella. Before everything.
Maybe he looked for ways to avoid that reality by keeping busy with his work, creating a society that was supposed to keep the multiverse safe.
And for a while, he believed that lie as true until Miles came along and Miguel at this point can't find it in himself to continue to selfishly blame the child for his mistakes.
He isn't at all used to make mistakes. Everything has a plan, everything is coldly calculated and measured to get the best and most successful chance that his machines and technology can offer him. Everything is predictable so nothing ever takes him by surprise or makes his work more difficult than anticipated. He never allows himself to fail.
"Miguel," he hears the small voice in front of him, drops of sorrow permeating its tone despite the expressionlessness on its cold face, "you're crying."
He doesn't bother to avoid a bitter, shocked laugh that sounds more like a pained sniffle, cringing as much as his body will allow, letting his arms slip off the couch and lay completely limp on the floor.
He's supposed to be a protector, his purpose with all his work was supposed to be to keep everyone safe. But it seems he failed long before he even had the chance.
Now he's nothing.
"You should rest," the little parasite with Miles' face whispers and feels it take a seat at his side thanks to the cold shiver that runs through his body but which he so despairingly clings to, "the job can wait."
Maybe, maybe not, in the end it doesn't matter. Miguel has already failed in his one task.
He drops like a dead man on the floor and decides to listen.
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"I think he's fucking dead, mate."
"You're not helping."
"I'm just saying he's nicer like this."
"I give him that point."
"Guys, you're really not helping!"
"Okay, okay, let's take a breath, I feel like the kid's about to have a mental breakdown."
"'About to'? I'm already having one!"
Very slowly and painfully, his eyelids flutter open and he has to cover his vision from the blinding light with his arm which causes a grunt to come from his throat. He tries to get up but his body sends out waves of pain that force him to fall back down lying against the soft surface he is on.
The voices around him suddenly cease and he hears some gasps.
When his eyes finally seem to settle well enough in the light of the room, he is surrounded by familiar faces.
Hobie with his arms crossed and his signature smirk even if traces of relief are evident on his face, Pav at his side releasing a big breath. Gwen stands next to Jess rolling her eyes as the woman whispers a not-so-discreet 'I told you so', and Peter, always the first to be a pain in the ass, holds up both hands and approaches him chanting words of "You're finally awake! God, we thought for a moment we'd lost you, big guy, but it seems once again luck is on your side."
He doesn't have time to get angry and growl at Parker to get out of the way as Jess takes a few steps until she's at the side of his bed, her expression promising a future scolding once he was in the right condition.
"Looks like the Mysterio you guys went to face had more tricks up his sleeve than we anticipated. His little magic tricks seem to have hit you harder than they should since the medics took a while to get you out of that allusinatory trance you were in," Jess explains when she notices the more than confused and disoriented look on Miguel's face, even though it's for entirely different reasons.
"Be thankful here the kid managed to take him down before he could use his powers against him as well, because if he had, we definitely would have had a much bigger problem on our hands," she smiles.
"Hey!" laughs a voice on the other side of his bed that he hadn't noticed but sends a rush of chills throughout his body and paralyzes him in place, "I told you I had it figured out! Definitely after this I deserve to finally be able to have solo missions."
"Don't push your luck, Miles," Peter jokes to which the boy snorts.
"Totally not fair, man."
His eyes, wide in pure shock, search desperately for the boy and when they have him in front of him, he can barely feel the air get into his lungs.
Miles is in front of him, alive, smiling nervously and saying something that doesn't make it to his ears. He doesn't look pale, his eyes have that bright honey and vivid hue in them, his suit fits him perfectly. But most importantly of all, he's alive.
His hands, like a second instinct, immediately grab the boy's shoulders and pull him against him, slamming him into his chest in a safe embrace despite the sudden surges of pain his aching body emits with the impulsive movement. Miguel ignores it completely.
He lets out an almost frantic laugh that dissolves into anguished choking sobs that he futilely tries to stifle by hiding his face against the kid's shoulder when he can feel his warmth against him and not the intense coldness he faced for months or the invisible impenetrable shell that his hands could never hold no matter how many times he tried.
Miguel feels Miles paralyze under his grip but that's okay, it doesn't matter, what matters is that he can hold him and make sure once again that he's there and it's not some cruel hallucination on the part of his wicked head thanks to all his sleepless nights.
He doesn't think that now, let alone soon, he will be able to have the little spider out of his range of vision and without making sure that he's genuinely there, alive. Hundreds and hundreds of excuses are being fabricated in his head to see him more often, along with genuine apologies that he had foolishly deemed unnecessary to rant and left to interpretation. But those are problems for his future self. Right now he focuses on the comforting warm feeling he didn't know he had longed for for so long.
"I think he's still sick," Miles whispers nervously, not having the courage to push or escape from Miguel's arms.
"Aw, mate, since when did you and the boss grow so close? And I thought Peter here was enough mama cat over you."
"Still not helping, Hobie!"