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Air rushed past his head, whistling in his ears. Miles plummeted towards the ground, his stomach leaping up into his throat from the free-fall. Time seemed to slow down, holding him in place, frozen in the moment. Lights from the buildings around him flashed past him, and his hand was tightly clenched around the strand of webbing that he had just shot away into the city.
Miles counted to himself.
Three.
Two.
One.
With a jolt to his shoulder, he was caught, swinging upwards away from the pavement below, lifting up, up up , impossibly high, until he was level with the tops of skyscrapers and the people below him looked like specks.
Soon, Miles made his way to an empty rooftop. He plopped himself down on the edge, letting his feet dangle over. He pulled out his phone. It might’ve been a monday night, but it was only around nine-thirty. He had plenty of time to finish patrol and his english essay.
Just as he pulled himself to his feet, police sirens wailed in the distance. Grinning under the mask, Miles thwipped away in the direction of the sirens.
He arrived before the police, only to find a pawn shop in the middle of being robbed. Two men with what looked like large shotguns stood watch outside the shop. He could see more inside the shop through the windows. Quietly sticking to the wall and turning invisible, Miles crawled along past the two lookouts and into the shop.
In the middle of the shop, on his knees with his hands behind his head was who Miles could only assume to be the owner. He was a older man with a beer gut and a weathered face that seemed to be common among any born-and-bred New Yorker past the age of fifty. Tears streamed down his face, and the man bit back whimpers. Standing behind the shop owner was a man in a ski mask, holding a gun to the head of the man in front of him. Behind the counters, three more men tore the store apart, stuffing cash and whatever things they wanted into backpacks.
Miles crawled along, upside-down and unseen, barely daring to breathe as he clung to the ceiling. He considered his options. He needed to get the gun off the man in the middle and free the owner, but the three guys in the back were probably armed. He could try and pick the three off separately while invisible, but there was a chance they would notice and find him. Miles figured that his best plan was to web up the guy with the gun, and then venom strike him, and then take care of the three in back.
Outside, the sirens grew louder. It was now or never. Miles carefully moved until he was dangling over Gun Man. Letting himself become visible, he whistled loudly, getting the attention of everybody in the store.
“Hey everybody, how’s it going tonight?”
Before anybody could react, he fired his web shooters at Gun Man, trapping his arms at his sides. The gun clattered to the floor.
Awareness flooded Miles’ mind, alarm constricting his muscles and dropping him straight down before he could think about it. That was a good thing, because two of the three men behind the counters had pulled out guns and fired at where he had previously been. Miles quickly twisted midair and slammed down onto Gun Man, delivering a venom strike that knocked the man unconscious. His spider-sense flared up again, and he leapt to the side as one man fired at him, performing a flip as he did, mostly for his own amusement.
The rest of the fight went pretty quickly after that. The three men were webbed up, one dangling from the ceiling in a cocoon, one man stuck to the back wall, and the other lying on the ground in a heap of webs.
The police finally pulled up outside, startling the two lookouts, who were somehow were oblivious to the fight inside. Miles saw that it was his cue to leave, and he webbed away onto a nearby fire escape. He watched, satisfied, as the men were lead away into cruisers. One car door shut, and Miles saw his father get out of his cruiser and survey the scene. Shaking himself out, Miles turned invisible and swung down as stealthily as possible, landing on top of Jefferson’s cruiser.
“Busy night, Officer?” He made sure his voice was as deep as he could get it to be, but Jefferson never seemed convinced.
“It’s been going alright. ‘Bout as busy as normal.”
Jefferson never understood why Spider-Man always sought him out. The last Spidey had been friendly with the cops in the past, but never really stuck around beyond what was absolutely necessary. The new Spidey liked to chat afterwards, but usually only with Officer Davis. He never really asked for Davis by name, but he had a knack for showing up whenever he was on duty.
Jefferson studied the boy crouched on top of the car. He was obviously a boy, a child, with gangly limbs that seemed too big for his body in the way of teenagers who weren’t used to how they moved in adult bodies. If Jefferson had to guess, he would say that the new Spider-Man was maybe a year or two older than his Miles. He had guessed as much that first night, watching the tiny hero face off against the Kingpin, but ever since that first encounter with the hug and the “I love you”, Jefferson had never been this close to Spider-Man. Now, he could really take a look, and it was plain as day.
Up on the roof of the car, Spidey cleared his throat.
“It was nice to be working with you,” he said in that fake-deep voice. “Adios!” With that, he shot off a web and swung away around the corner, saluting to Jefferson before he was whipped away.
The Morales family had a tradition on friday nights when Rio or Jefferson didn’t work: The two adults would make dinner together while Miles got started on homework for the weekend in his room, and once it was finished, they would eat as a family at the dinner table and discuss their week.
Rio had just finished her story about a patient who came into the emergency room with an action figure stuck in their ear when Jefferson eyed his son, who was eagerly shoving food into his mouth as fast as he could.
“Slow down,” Rio advised, looking like she was trying not to laugh. “Or you’ll choke. You can always get more. Querido , how was your week?” She looked at her husband, trying to give her son more time to actually process his food instead of inhaling it like he had been.
“Well, I talked to Spider-Man on monday night,” he started. Across the table from him, Miles choked.
Miles coughed and hacked, choking around the mouthful of chicken that had been sucked into his airway. Eventually, after a long drink of water and a lot of spluttering, he managed to grin sheepishly at his dad.
“Sorry. Go on!”
He tried not to overthink the look his father gave him as he launched into his story: a pawn shop robbery that was already stopped by Spider-Man by the time the police arrived. Jefferson shook his head as the story wound down.
“This new Spidey is… Well, he bothers me.”
Miles’ heart pounded. This was the most his dad had talked about Spider-Man ever since the death of Peter Parker, even after the night where Miles had fought Fisk.
“Why’s that?” Miles tried to look nonchalant, pushing his rice around his plate with his fork.
“I think… Well, I think he might be a kid.”
Rio scoffed. “What kind of parents would let their child out to do something so dangerous?”
Miles shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t have parents?”
“ Pobrecito ! Jeff, is there anything you could do to help him?”
Jefferson made the I-Don’t-Know sound. “There’s nothing I can do if we don’t know who he is. That’s the problem with these vigilante types, they could be anyone or do anything, and nobody can call them on it.”
Suddenly needing to have the attention on a different subject, Miles stood, taking his plate to the sink.
“So, in physics we learned about this really cool concept…”
Miles crouched on a rooftop, watching pedestrians pass by beneath him. It was a nice tuesday afternoon, one of the days where winter started melting away just a bit too early, making the entire city yearn for warmer weather weeks before it would really come. For now, Miles took advantage of the sunlight by sitting in the warmest rooftop perches he could find while on patrol. It really had been a good afternoon! He had gotten an A on his english test and he was more than halfway through his logic paper, when he had swung past a school bus earlier, all the little kids on board held out a hand for him to high-five, and a very nice old lady bought him a hot dog from a nearby vendor after he webbed up the man who had snatched her purse.
The idyllic afternoon was shattered as a car screeched around the block, taking the corner on two wheels. Stretching himself out, Miles pulled his mask into place and leapt to his feet, taking a running jump off the roof.
It didn’t take him long to catch up to the fleeing vehicle. Two or three swings on his webs and he was keeping pace with the car. He was kind of amazed at how fast the thing was managing to go; it looked like an old minivan, and he could see it was weighed down with as many passengers as it could fit.
Of course, wherever the criminals went, the cops were never far behind.
Sure enough, just as the van pulled onto an emptier street, three police cruisers pulled into position at an upcoming intersection, blocking the road. Cops spilled from the cars, taking position behind open doors and pulling their weapons out. But the van just kept going.
Miles flew threw the air on the upswing, and managed to twist in midair to land on the roof of the minivan.
“I’m no expert, but I think you guys might be speeding,” he quipped. He heard the sound of the passenger side door opening, and sure enough, leaning out the open door was a mean looking guy, pointing a very large gun at Miles, opening fire.
Miles yelped, and leapt away off the van, flinging out a web at a streetlight, flying away from the bullets.
He landed in a crouch, horizontal to the ground against a nearby building. The van wasn’t stopping or slowing down, and it was less than a block away from the police barricade. Sure enough, the cops opened fire, peppering the front of the van with bullets.
It still didn’t slow down.
Instead, it swerved around the barricade, driving onto the sidewalk.
Pedestrians screamed, diving out of the way as the van roared past. It slammed through light posts, fire hydrants, street vendors. Miles expected it to swerve back onto the road once it passed the police blockade, but as he took off swinging after it, he saw a traffic jam up ahead, cars backed up for a few blocks. The driver must have seen the same thing.
Miles frantically tried to think ahead. Pedestrians were in immediate danger, he could try and circle around ahead of the van and move people out of the way before it arrived, or he could try and stop the van as it plowed on.
He sped up, throwing up webs as soon as he dropped the old one, trying to catch up to the van. He had an idea, he had seen the old Spider-Man do something similar once.
Miles managed to gain on the speeding van, and let himself drop to the pavement in front of it.
“Get out of the way!” he shouted to as many people as he could, and then fired off a bunch of strands of webs at the buildings on opposite sides of the street. In the last few seconds until the van was upon him, he wrapped the strands around his wrists a few times for good measure.
He planted his feet as firmly as he could, and met the eyes of the driver. He could’ve sworn on his uncle’s grave that the man sped up.
As it turns out, even with his weird, spider-induced advanced healing thing he had going for him, getting hit by a speeding minivan hurt a lot .
Thankfully, Miles managed to hold onto his handfuls of webs, digging his heels into the ground as much as possible.
It was not as easy as the last Spider-Man had made it look.
Eventually, the van ground to a halt, the police close on their heels.
The doors opened, and all seven of the passengers spilled out, machine guns locked and loaded. Miles let himself go invisible, and stumbled away off to the side, catching his breath as fast as he could before leaping back into the fray. A handful of venom strikes and too many webs to count later, all seven of the criminals were apprehended.
Jefferson had just stepped up to the counter of the newest coffee shop near the station when his radio crackled.
“ There’s a high-speed chase on Rodger’s Avenue, near Sterling Street, suspects armed, all available units respond.”
Jefferson sighed, and stepped out of line. “This is Jefferson Davis, I’m on my way.”
By the time that Jefferson arrived, the van had already broken past the barricade.
“Just swerved on by,” said an officer. “Spider-Man took off after it, though, so who knows what’ll happen.”
Jefferson’s head snapped up. “Well, what are we doing standing around? Get after it!”
He didn’t have to drive very far before he watched Spider-Man drop to the ground less than half a block away from the van that was gaining on him rapidly.
Jefferson could only watch as the van rammed into Spidey at full speed, slamming into the kid’s back and pushing him forward. Maybe it was his imagination, but he swore he could hear a sickening crunch . But somehow, the van started to slow down. Somehow, Spider-Man kept his grip on the webs wrapped around his wrists. Somehow, the van stopped, feet from where an old man had fallen to the pavement in the mad scramble to get away.
Once the van ground to a halt, Spidey disappeared, right as everyone stumbled out from the van.
It didn’t take long for the seven criminals to be loaded up in the backs of cruisers.
Jefferson looked around for Spidey, and found him watching the proceedings from a nearby fire escape.
Jefferson waved up at him, and was rewarded with a tired salute.
“Did you pick up that trick from Peter Parker,” he called up, “because I saw him do something like that once, but to a train.”
Spidey shrugged nonchalantly, but the eyes on his suit narrowed. “I saw him do it on a youtube clip,” he shared. “But it was pretty old.”
Jefferson thought about it. He knew the video he was talking about- it was from 2008 or 2009, one of the two, he wasn’t sure. But it was a pretty famous video.
“Well, imitation is the most sincere form of flattery,” Jefferson said, at a loss for what else to say.
Spidey sighed.
“I guess. Hey, thanks for the assist, Officer. Adios!” With that, Spider-Man disappeared from sight.
Later that night, Jefferson sat on the couch, watching the youtube video that Spidey had mentioned earlier. It was uploaded in 2009, but had been filmed in 2008. Jefferson went over the timeline in his head.
Jesus, the first Spider-Man had shown up in 2008, and knowing that Peter Parker died at twenty-six and had been active for about ten years as Spider-Man. That means that the masked man in the video is no man, but a boy instead, just sixteen years old.
Miles had been three when Spider-Man first arrived on the scene. He loved the vigilante, always asking to watch just one more video, please Papi? Jefferson had tried to steer his son’s admiration back to more law-abiding figures, or when that failed, ones of more cultural relevance.
“Miles, what about Captain America? He’s from Brooklyn, just like you, and he’s from the past! Your old man even used to have his trading cards when I was your age.”
“What can he do?”
“Well, he uses his shield to protect people, and he always follows the rules-”
“But can he shoot webs and fly?”
“Well… no, but he can-”
“He’s boring!”
And around and around it went.
“Look, kid, have you ever thought about maybe sticking to… I don’t know, smaller stuff?”
One fight with the Scorpion later, Spider-Man and Jefferson were watching as cops lead the cursing and belligerent man into the back of an armored van. Spidey hadn’t escaped the fight unscathed, nursing what was probably a small concussion. Jefferson leaned against the side of his cruiser, Spider-Man sitting on the hood of the car, idly kicking his feet.
Spidey tilted his head to the side, eye lenses narrowing.
Jefferson shrugged. “I can’t really stop you. You won’t listen to me if I tell you to stop entirely, and to be honest,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “we don’t quite have the manpower to deal with every single issue in the city at every moment. But you’re, well,” he gestured to all of Spidey’s person, “you’re young. You don’t have to take on all of these heavy hitters by yourself, at least not right away.”
Beside him, Spidey sighed.
“I’ll consider it,” he offered in a tone that implied he wouldn’t actually. He didn’t use the fake deep voice like he usually did, though.
Jefferson looked at the kid next to him. He really couldn’t be too much older than his Miles.
“Just be more careful out there,” he advised. “I don’t know if your parents know what you’re doing, but I think they’d be pretty upset if…” He trailed off, not wanting to finish with what they both knew was a very real possibility.
Miles bolted upright in his bed, panting, sweat pouring down his face. It took him a few minutes to catch his breath, and in the time it took for him to calm his heart rate, memories of his dreams caught up to him.
Fists descending with a visceral crack , a gunshot piercing the silence, the feeling of someone breathing their last in his arms, and he could do nothing about it, not a single thing, and it was all his fault and all he could do was watch like a coward-
Miles flung the sweat-soaked sheets off him and slid out of bed. Outside his window, the sun had yet to rise, but the city still rushed on.
He cracked the door to his room open and padded towards the kitchen. Thankfully, it was a Saturday- or, maybe early Sunday morning was more accurate.
He opened the cabinet door where they kept the cups and pulled out a glass. His hands were shaking as he filled the glass with water, and he tried not to dwell on his dream with little success.
Miles was so distracted that he missed the counter entirely when he went to set his glass down, instead dropping the glass to the ground where it shattered, loudly.
It was a tense, quiet moment before Miles’ spider-sense pinged and resounding thumps echoed down the hallway, Jefferson skidding into the kitchen, only to freeze upon seeing Miles.
“You okay?”
He picked his way around the broken glass towards his son, who took a second too long to reply.
“Yeah, Dad. I’m good, just an accident.”
His voice was tight, and he struggled to speak around the rapidly forming lump in his throat.
Jefferson took notice, putting a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. Miles took the invitation, letting himself be pulled into a tight hug.
“Nightmare?”
Miles nodded against his dad’s chest, and let himself be comforted.
Late at night, the city turned into something different. It went from a daytime marvel to a labyrinth of neon lights. Brooklyn was Miles’ city, his backyard and playground and home , but there was no mistaking the dangers that lurked in the shadows.
“Leave me alone! I told you to stop following me, so just- go away! ”
Miles heard the woman shouting mid-dive, and flipped in the air, swinging away towards the commotion.
It was a scene that was sickeningly familiar.
A man who looked like he’d belong at some sort of hipster convention was standing just out of a streetlight, slowly advancing on a woman who was backing away.
The woman reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a canister of pepper spray, but Miles could see her hands tremble even as she held it up in the glow of the streetlights.
“Stay back, Todd! I’ll use this! I mean it!”
Invisible, Miles crouched on the side of the building. He didn’t want to get involved if Todd would back down on his own.
But Todd didn’t back down, instead he reached into his coat pockets, pulling out his phone and something else that Miles couldn’t see in the darkness.
“That’s nice, Britt. But the thing is, I’ve got a… let’s say he’s a friend of mine, the details aren’t important- who knows where you’ve been hiding. And he says that your roommate sure doesn’t have a good security system- it would be a shame if something happened to her.”
Britt thought to herself for a moment before hesitantly lowering the canister.
“Fine. What do you want?”
Todd didn’t say anything, instead he stepped back towards a nearby, gesturing for Britt to follow him.
That was enough for Miles.
Still invisible, Miles carefully worked his way around to behind Todd.
“Did I hear you threaten her? ‘Cos that sure sounded like it was a threat.”
Miles became visible as soon as he spoke, which proved to be a mistake.
In an instant, Miles was able to figure out what that other, previously obscured item Todd had been holding: a knife.
The blade slashed through the suit like tissue paper, and tore straight through into Miles’ side.
Miles gasped, feeling blood begin to soak through the suit, but he wasted no time in venom striking Todd right in the neck, sending the man flying back into the alley, stunned.
“Go home,” Miles gasped out to Britt. “He won’t bother you again.”
She stared at him, shocked.
“He… he stabbed you!”
Miles shook away her concerns. “I’ll be fine, just get to safety. Go!”
With that, he webbed himself away, one hand clutching the gash in his side. He made it about four streets away before the pain in his side grew too sharp, and he more or less collapsed to the sidewalk in the middle of the street. When he hit the ground, his vision whited out.
Miles hauled himself around a corner into an alleyway. His legs shook beneath him, and his gasps for air were getting weaker. One hand clutched at his side as tight as he could, while he used the other hand to support himself against the wall as much as possible. When he moved on, he left behind red handprints, staining the brick. Once he was around the corner and technically inside the alley, Miles finally let himself collapse, sinking to the ground in a heap.
Jefferson was finishing up his shift when a voice crackled over the radio.
“We’ve got a report that someone saw a child who looked injured in an alley in Bed-Stuy, just off of Tompkins and Quincy.”
Nervous at the thought of the kid being hurt, Jefferson quickly leaned into his radio.
“I’m on it.”
The drive was a short one, and it wasn’t long until Jefferson pulled up outside of the alleyway. Sure enough, there was a blood trail along the sidewalk and the sides of the building, almost like someone had drug themselves along the side of the brick wall. What was weird was that there was that the trail started in the middle of the sidewalk, with no indication of where it came from or how it started. Like the injured person had just swung in out of nowhere.
Suddenly aware of the possibility that he might be dealing with someone of the super variety, Jefferson kept a hand on his gun and carefully approached the alley. It was dark, sheltered from the bright lights of the city, and Jefferson had to pull out his flashlight to see the rest of the alley.
It looked enough like a standard New York alleyway, lined with dumpsters and fire escapes and cars that belonged to the residents of the apartment buildings that made up the sides of the alley, but one thing in particular caught his eye: illuminated in the beam of his flashlight, leaning against the side of a dumpster, was a figure, slumped over in a hoodie, face obscured.
“Hello? PDNY, what are you doing? Are you alright?”
The figure didn’t raise their head, and Jefferson began to worry about the all-too-possible reality that he might be too late. He approached slowly, carefully sinking to one knee besides them. At his approach, the figure shifted a little bit, weakly raising their head to reveal a black mask beneath the hood. One eye opened, observing Jefferson. When Spider-Man spoke, it wasn’t with the fake-deep voice. His voice was tight, almost breathy.
“Can you help me up?”
Jefferson didn’t miss the way that the kid’s hands were clutching his side, and certainly didn’t miss the blood that dripped past his fingers.
“Do you have somewhere to go? Family, parents, sidekick? Anyone?”
Spider-Man shook his head.
“No hospital,” he said weakly.
That complicated things. It took Jefferson a moment to think of a solution.
“My wife is a nurse. You could come with me, we take you to her at our house, you don’t even have to take the mask off. You can trust me.”
It took a moment too long for Spider-Man to finally nod his head.
“Okay. I’m going to pick you up now, alright? Hang on.”
He lifted Spidey into his arms- the kid barely weighed anything. In his arms, Spidey made a choked cry, whining around the mask.
Jefferson carefully tucked the kid into the back seat of his cruiser, and turned the lights on, speeding off towards home. He blazed past red lights and stop signs alike, not slowing down until he reached his house.
“My son is away at school,” he said to Spider-Man as he hefted him into his arms again, just to fill the silence, “but I think he’d think this was pretty cool. Rio! Come get the door!”
His wife, his lovely wife, bless her heart and soul, had been waiting near the doorway since she had seen the cruiser turn down the street way before Jefferson was supposed to be home. She opened the door and ushered them in, taking one look at the boy in his arms and rushing ahead.
“Put him down on the couch,” she instructed, “I just need to get my bag and I’ll do what I can. Qué le pasó ?”
“Side wound, don’t know much more beyond that. We got a call there was a hurt kid in an alley, that’s it.”
Rio had made her way back to where Spidey sprawled on the couch, nearly unconscious.
“Leave me,” she said to Jefferson, “I can handle it from here. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
Jefferson retreated to the kitchen, where he spent the next hour or so waiting for Rio’s word to come back.
He considered texting Miles, just to see how he was doing, but it was late, nearing midnight. If he wasn’t working or studying still, he was sleeping and he didn’t want to risk bothering his son.
Eventually, Rio came and got him. “ Mi amor , there’s something you need to see,” she said, gesturing for him to come close.
Spidey was sleeping on the couch, his mask intact but his top half of his costume removed for better access to the wound. Stitches pulled the skin together, but that wasn’t what held Jefferson’s attention.
On Spider-Man’s hip sat a birthmark, a discolored patch of skin that stood out against Spidey’s dark skin.
It was the same one that Miles had.
“Maybe it’s a coincidence?” Jefferson offered, knowing deep down that it wasn’t.
Rio just shook her head.
“I’m tired, I’m going to bed. We can talk to him about it in the morning.”
They didn’t talk in the morning.
Jefferson rose with the sun, having hardly slept at all, and emerged from the bedroom to find an empty living room. On the couch sat a note, written in big, stylized letters-
Thanks for everything! - Spider-Man
Jefferson stared at the note. He would recognize that handwriting anywhere.
Cans hissed and spat as paint speckled a previously blank wall. Miles checked the image on his phone again and again, adding a touch of color here, a quick streak of brown there.
“Dad,” he called to Jefferson, “gimme a boost up, will you?”
Miles stood on his shoulders as he added a yellow halo around Aaron’s head, and then he leapt down effortlessly, jumping backwards from Jefferson’s shoulders.
Pulling out a purple can from his bag, Miles surveyed the painting before scrawling “REST IN POWER” in stylized letters.
What kind of father would he be if he didn’t know his own son’s handwriting?
Miles managed to swing into his dorm room unnoticed and change his clothes from his costume to his school uniform just before the bell rang to alert students that classes would begin soon.
The day passed swiftly, though Miles had a hard time focusing between the lack of sleep and the wound in his side. Despite his advanced healing, a wound of that caliber took a while to fix itself. He was just lucky his mom and dad were there to help.
As soon as the final bell for the day rang to dismiss students, Miles’ phone began to buzz. His dad was calling him.
“Hey Dad, class just got out, what’s-“
His father cut him off, his tone allowing for no nonsense at all.
“ We need to talk. I’ve already signed you out at the front office and I’m waiting out front. See you soon.”
With that, he hung up.
Miles tried his best to process beyond the panic and shock that was overwhelming his mind. As if on autopilot, he returned his bag to his room and changed out of his uniform into street clothes, and made his way down to the front entrance, where, sure enough, his father was waiting in his squad car.
Jefferson gestured to Miles to get in, and Miles slid into the passenger seat.
“Hey Dad, what’s going on?”
Jefferson didn’t answer as he started the car and drove. The entire drive was silent and tense as they made their way back to the house.
“ Hola!” Miles called out into the house, expecting his mother to reply, but received only silence.
“She’s at work,” was Jefferson’s stoic reply.
Miles sighed, and turned to face his dad.
“What’s going on? Am I in trouble?”
Jefferson cross his arms. Sighed. Ran a hand down his face.
“Miles, I know.”
“Know what?”
“That you’re Spider-Man.”
Miles froze.
“Um, no? That’s crazy?”
“If that’s so crazy, then who did your mother stitch up last night in our living room?”
Miles buried his face in his hands. He was so screwed. His dad hated Spider-Man, always had and even though he seemed more fond of the new Spider-Man, he was always very clear that he didn’t approve at all. His dad was gonna kill him, bury him, dig him back up and kill him again, and then ground him for life-
Miles’ panic-spiraling was cut off by strong arms pulling him in close to Jefferson’s chest, holding him tight.
“Don’t ever keep something like this from me again,”
he implored from where his face was buried in the top of Miles’ hair. He pulled away to study his son's face. "I've been so worried about you, Miles. Stop scaring me so much!" He tried to discreetly wipe the tears from his eyes, hoping Miles wouldn't notice.
“Am I not grounded?”
Jefferson chuckled, sounding almost on the verge of tears. “Oh, you’re definitely grounded, but there’s no way for me to stop you from being Spider-Man. Now, tell me everything. Don’t keep something like this from your old man.”
Miles took a deep breath.
“Okay. Let’s take it from the top. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, and…”