Found: Spider-Kid in Need of a Hug

by althor42

The kid was incredible. Jefferson had admitted that to himself early on. But he was a kid, and Jefferson had always known he'd die a kid if no one saved him. The day had finally come that Jefferson thought he'd failed; that Spider-Man had gone to his death, and there was nothing he could do. Things didn't get any easier when the mask came off.

1. The Best Laid Plans

A/N: So, no AO3 warnings apply, but there's some potentially upsetting content in this fic. Check the end notes for spoilery warnings.

«/» indicates someone speaking in Spanish.

The Best Laid Plans

Miles swung through the city, glad for the changing seasons helping him to keep just a little warmer in the cooling late afternoon air. His suit was incredibly agile, perfect for Spider-Man's style, but it was mostly only his enhanced metabolism that had kept him from turning into a popsicle in the winter.

He was less glad for all of the chaos around him. The streets below were gridlocked, people were panicked, but Miles didn't even know what was going on. His spider sense had been bothering him all day, a small vibration along the back of his neck instead of the static screech warning of immediate danger. But by the time he had left Visions, news of whatever was going on still hadn't broken. Just his luck that it broke in a big way as he was just starting to swing his way towards danger. A mile closer to Manhattan, and people started flooding out of buildings, racing to evacuate the city.

It didn't impede Miles at all, swinging above the chaos. It didn't impede him, except to tear at him, every time he saw someone struggling, in need of help. They needed him, down below on the streets. But his spider sense was telling him he was needed downtown even more. So he didn't stop for the fender benders or even the fights between desperate people who thought someone was keeping them from getting away. He just kept swinging.

For all that he wished he'd hung back just long enough to catch the news, he was also kicking himself for not leaving earlier. Every time he had to put off superhero work for school he felt ridiculous, and today was the worst of all. All the while his spider sense had been tingling, he'd been spending the day in a series of anti-bullying and tolerance seminars and break-out groups, which had lasted long after typical school hours (one of the many joys of going to a boarding school).

Could this panic have been avoided if he had left sooner? He could have just ditched, made an excuse. Except, he hadn't wanted to look like a punk trying to get out of the anti-bullying program. Eyes were already on him as an Afro-Latino scholarship student, and it was bad enough he was caught AWOL as much as he was.

He was zeroing in on Central Park Tower, and if that was where the trouble was, then he really hoped it would be obvious, or his spider sense could be a little bit more specific. The building was still under construction, but huge enough that it could take all night to search if the trouble wasn't obvious. Except, maybe he wouldn't have to search at all, because there was a definite, if still small, police presence invading the construction area on the ground. Mile's stuck himself up top of a good sized building to cast his eyes about.

It was no wonder there were so few cops present. Only two SUVs, and a handful of motorcycles. Just like the route he'd taken, everything was gridlocked as far as Miles could see. Only the most local of cops would have been able to respond here. There was a helicopter approaching the tower, with another coming in from the distance, but they were surveillance copters, not people movers.

The trouble wasn't obvious though, at least not from here. But Miles could pinpoint a familiar face down on the ground, who'd be a good bet on getting a rundown on the situation.

Miles swung down, alighting on a fence post around the construction site before making his entrance. He did three flips in the air, but landed next to his dad as casual as could be.

"What's the situation, Officer Davis?" he asked choosing a random voice and accent. It was a little game they played, for all that it had never once fooled his dad into thinking Spider-Man was an adult.

His dad didn't startle, used to Miles popping up out of nowhere. He seemed to be in charge, a lieutenant in a situation that was probably begging for a captain, overseeing the eight other officers present in setting up positions and equipment.

"This isn't a Spider-Man situation," he said. "You should evacuate with everyone else. Hazmat and bomb squad are en route to handle this."

"I wouldn't say no to having Spider-Man on site," said a younger officer, setting up some electronics on a plastic folding table, his dad's new rookie partner. "We still don't know if that Nazi psycho has any accomplices in the area."

"Why hazmat, what's going on?" asked Miles.

"You don't know?" asked the other officer.

"What's going on is we've got a neo-nazi terrorist that decided that New York is the paragon of mixing all the different races together in ivory tower whatevers, and now he's dying of radiation poisoning, and we've confirmed he transported a device with eight barrels of explosives up to the top of this tower. So unless you're an adult, and that suit's a hazmat suit, and you know how to defuse a bomb, you need to get out of here."

Miles's insides did something funny, with that horrid understanding that that bomb was for him, and for his mom, and for his dad, and so many of his friends.

"Sir, I got ETAs," said another officer coming up, one hand to their ear. From the look on their face, Miles can tell that whatever the news is, it's not good.

"What have we got?" asked his dad, his grim tone reflecting the same understanding.

"Bomb squad's grid locked. We're not getting their command vehicle, with so many abandoned vehicles in their way, and it may be as much as half-an-hour until they can get air transport. Hazmat…they think they can get here in an hour."

"An hour? They're supposed to have a response time of-"

"They're gridlocked too, sir. They weren't able to clear a path. They're en route on foot to a helipad for extraction, but it's going to take time to transport the gear they'll need."

"Is SWAT en route?" asked Jefferson.

"Twelve minutes by air."

"And we don't know how much time we have," said his dad, looking wan. Uncertain in a way Miles had never seen him. "Get me the commissioner. They're going to need clearance to send SWAT in without hazmat. Volunteers. They'll have respirators, and full body protection at least. They can abseil a couple men down onto the highest floor."

"I don't think we can do that," said his dad's partner. There was dread in his voice, and dread on his face, as he stared at the screen in front of him.

"Copter one has achieved visual on a count-down clock," he said. "Thirteen minutes, thirty-three seconds. They'll never have time."

Miles's stomach dropped. At the entrance to the construction site, another squad car and a couple of ambulances were pulling in. Whatever good they could do at this point.

"Howie," said his dad, his voice almost dead of inflection, "give me the helmet cam and the tool kit. Officers, we've got no time for soul searching. I'm going to need volunteers to go up there with me as back-up. I'll be the only one to approach the device."

Miles turned back to his dad in shock. "Are you crazy?!" he screamed before he was even aware of the words leaving his mouth. "You have a family! You can't go up there. You're in freaking…a freaking windbreaker, for crying out loud!"

"Get out of here, Spider-Man."

"No, this is a Spider-Man situation. I can get there in a minute flat. I have accelerated healing. I'm durable. I'm resistant to some radiations." (According to the comic books). "I'm the only one going."

"This isn't a debate," said his dad, using his dad voice. "You have no idea if you can survive that!"

"You're right," said Miles. He was so incredibly angry, and so much of that anger was at his dad. "It's not a debate."

He webbed the helmet cam and the tool kit from out of his dad's hands, before he leapt back a good ten feet, just in case anyone tried anything. He webbed the helmet to his head, rather than take the time to bother with straps. "I'll be in touch," he said, webbing himself a radio from off the table, the throat mic trailing behind it as he caught it.

"Stop!" his dad cried after him. And maybe it was just his imagination that his dad sounded heart broken.

!

They watched, powerless, as Spider-Man leapt away, launching himself effortlessly up to the perimeter fence before really leaping high and sending out one of his webs. He swung his way around the surrounding buildings, ever higher, though the incomplete tower was still far taller than anything around it, other than 220 Central Park South, which itself towered over most everything else. In the end, with his webs anchored at the top of two of the taller nearby buildings, he about slingshot himself up to one of the unfinished floors of the building, catching himself on an I-beam. Here, it got tricky for him, with nothing to swing on. They could all just barely make out as he tensed and then leapt straight up, using another web to secure himself to the building again. Three more ridiculously high leaps from there, and he disappeared into the building.

The kid was incredible. Jefferson had admitted that to himself early on. Not just capable, but compassionate and earnest. Whatever Jefferson's thoughts on vigilantism, it was easy to see that the kid was doing it for the right reasons. It was easy to see that he wanted to help as many people as he could.

But he was a kid, and Jefferson had always known he'd die a kid if no one saved him.

"Lieutenant, report," came a voice behind him.

It wasn't his captain, but it was a captain, and one he knew and respected. This wasn't his beat, but when needs must.

"What's the timer at?" Jefferson asked his partner Howard 'Howie' Cho.

"Eleven minutes forty," was the reply.

"SWAT's about eleven minutes out, Hazmat and Bomb Squad aren't getting here anytime soon. Spider-Man's approaching the bomb with a helmet cam, radio, and tool kit from our squad's crisis kit," Jefferson.

"You let the spider kid go?" asked Captain Montgomery.

"I didn't let him do anything," said Jefferson, feeling the weight of his failure.

"Figures," said the Captain. He looked at Howie's nameplate "Cho, we'll need you to stay on tech. Get Spider-Man patched into the bomb squad."

"Um," Howie interjected, very uncomfortable. "Bomb Squad's server is sequestered from ours, sir. It would take a hot minute for an administrator to patch us in. And without cell service, I can't exactly manage a workaround."

Cell service was down to prevent the bomb from being detonated remotely.

"Dammit. See what you can do, without directions that kid is worthless to us up there," said Captain Montgomery. "Jefferson, how many rifles are on scene?"

"Two," he said. "Unless you brought one."

The captain shook his head. "Just a shotgun in my vehicle."

"Sir!" An officer that had come with the Captain, and had stepped away a moment ago with his hand to his earpiece, approached them again in a rush. "Dispatch has linked us to the New York National Guard." He indicated his radio. "They've been activated. Their bomb squad can't get here for another ten minutes, about, but they're able to force a connection through the cell towers. They can receive our video and provide guidance."

"Officer Cho," said Captain Montgomery.

"On it," said Howie.

"Jefferson, I'm pretty sure they'll come with their own tactical team, but I want rifle teams of two up top One-Eleven West and Two-Twenty Park on the lookout for shooters. Then tell the paramedics this is above and beyond, but if they want to evacuate, they're leaving their busses here."

"On it, sir," said Jefferson.

It was good to have something to do that wasn't listening to Spider-Man kill himself over the radios. There was a part of him that wanted to grab one of those ARs himself, and take up the search for any neo-nazi's who'd decided to stay and guard the bomb. But he was a beat cop, not an action hero. Soon enough, he was back at their ad-hoc command post.

There was a bomb on the screen. Just like the images they'd received from the construction site's security system, they could see the mass of barrels and electrical equipment, only now they were strapped together and wired up, instead of being transported up two barrels at a time. Excepting that this time it wasn't security footage, it was from the jerky body-worn camera strapped to Spider-Man's head. Howie was still working to patch the feed over to the Army bomb squad, while Officer Biggs was relaying everything he could see on the screen verbally to bomb squad.

"I'm ready, anytime you are," said Spider-Man over the line, not even bothering at this point to hide how young his voice was.

"We're not ready," said Howie. "Step back a bit more from it, but give us more angles on it."

Step back, because even a small distance from the radiation source could drastically increase your odds of survival. It was radiation 101, but Spider-Man had never had that seminar.

"Should we be worried about some sort of back-up cell phone trigger?" asked Spider-Man, starting to move around the device.

"Cell phone towers have already-"

The camera feed suddenly went wild, Spider-Man seeming to suddenly leap away, just as a shot rang out from the distance. Jefferson moved.

He had his pistol, but this wasn't a firefight he could take part in, so his pistol stayed at his side. The only way Spider-Man could diffuse this bomb was if he got instructions from bomb squad, and that meant protecting the AV equipment and Howie. So that's where he put his body, between Howie and the most likely source of that shot (and maybe it had something to do with Howie being a junior officer, his junior officer). With his level three body armor on (no not just a wind breaker, Spider-Man), he could almost feel comfortable standing there in the open. Almost, but he didn't know what caliber rounds were being fired, or what kind of ammunition.

"Copter Two has visual, shooter on the roof of One57!" said Howie.

"Cheng, Rogers, shooter is on the roof of One57," Jefferson barked into his radio. "What is your position?"

"We just made the highest accessible floor," was the reply from Rogers, from the also-under-construction One-Eleven West.

"We need cover fire now! You're the only ones with line of sight."

"Bomb squad's ready," said Officer Biggs.

"We're not ready with an active shooter," said Captain Montgomery.

And the placement of the bomb on that floor, so far from the elevator, made sense now. So close to the edge on the south-east side of the building, it was perfectly placed for someone from the roof of One57. Howie relayed the situation to the incoming bomb squad and SWAT teams, that they would be coming in with an active shooter.

"I can do it," said Spider-Man. "I can dodge any incoming shots."

"Negative," said Officer Biggs, "any incoming shots could detonate the device."

"Wait, no, I can turn invisible, see?"

"Uhhh…Spider-Man, I can't see, because your camera feed went dark," said Officer Biggs.

"What? Aw hell."

The camera feed came back showing a different angle, but Spider-Man was clearly still up on the ceiling.

"Can he turn everything but the helmet invisible?" asked Howie.

"Not if you don't want the sniper aiming at the helmet that isn't the slightest bit bullet proof," said Jefferson.

"We're in position," reported Officer Rogers.

"Open fire," ordered Captain Montgomery over his radio.

Shots began ringing out. The sharp raps of Cheng's AR cracked through the air, firing measured shots one at a time, followed suddenly by the clapping boom of a much more powerful rifle. Jefferson hoped that the top floors of One57 were empty. It certainly wasn't normal business hours, but this was the city that never slept, and Cheng was firing an assault rifle at the glass building.

"Confirmation, sniper is disrupted," said Howie.

Disruption was likely the best they could hope for. Cheng wasn't a sniper.

"Spider-Man, what's your condition?" asked Officer Biggs.

"My leg caught a little shrapnel, but I'm fine. It's hardly bleeding."

Jefferson felt like his soul was leaving his body.

The Captain's face twisted with a grimace. "Begin operation," was all he said, though.

"Spider-Man," said Officer Biggs, "your first direction is that if we get down to forty-five seconds, you are to shove the device over the side of the building to minimize the spread of contaminant. Do you understand?"

… "I understand. Hey, if I pull the bomb further back into the building, the sniper wouldn't have line of sight."

"Um," Officer Biggs said dubiously. "Hold on."

He checked in with Bomb Squad.

"Negative, Spider-Man. Moving the bomb is dangerous, and is a last resort."

"Copy, that," said Spider-Man.

"Good, now to start, we want you to begin by unscrewing the back panel of the device up top."

"On it," said Spider-Man, his feed lurching again as he dropped back down towards the device.

He was fast. Of course he was. He was Spider-Man, every move precise, measured, nimble, even with shrapnel in his leg. Never mind that estimates of his age ran as low as eleven; he was good at this.

Jefferson hated the fact that Spider-Man was the perfect person out of all of them for the job.

Word came in that FEMA had been activated. They had a hazmat crew from one of their Disaster Medical Assistance Teams inbound in ten minutes. Jefferson started coordinating with them.

Then everything went wrong when that panel came off.

A mist billowed out from the device, followed by a choked off gasp from the boy.

"What was that?" asked Officer Biggs.

"Aerosol," Spider-Man said, his voice strained around his coughing. On the screen, his hand darted quickly into the device and pulled out a tiny component, stopping the spray. "There's an aerosol rigged to the panel."

"Are you okay? What is your status?" asked Officer Biggs.

"I'm fine," said Spider-Man. The video feed lined up with the inside of the device, Spider-Man waiting for further instructions.

Everyone knew he wasn't fine. He'd almost certainly just inhaled a radioactive substance. Jefferson's own throat felt like it was going to close up. The pain of that realization physical and immediate. But shots were still ringing out, and he kept his position.

"Um," said Howie, and Jefferson wasn't the only one feeling choked up. "I got the feed through to bomb squad."

"Good job," said Captain Montgomery, clapping him on the shoulder.

Jefferson relayed the situation to hazmat, then moved to Officer Bigg's mic.

"Spider-Man, hazmat is recommending that you try a few big coughs to clear your lungs, and spit regularly to your right hand side. Make every effort not to swallow your saliva."

"To my right hand side?" asked Spider-Man.

"Just pick a side so you're not getting it everywhere," he said.

"Right."

The work began in earnest then, Spider-Man being walked through the delicate procedure. Down on the ground, a couple of officers had finally commandeered an E-Z Up from the construction site to provide some visual cover for their command station.

"Sniper is back in position!" Howie warned.

"Spider-Man-" Officer Biggs began, before the loud resounding clap of the sniper rifle went off again.

Again, Spiderman dodged out of the way.

"Scott free that time," he said, tension in his voice as he hung upside down from the ceiling. The feed suddenly lurched again. "Crap!" the kid yelped as he fell to the ground.

"Have you been hit?" asked Officer Biggs, though they hadn't heard the sniper rifle go off.

Spider man seemed to duck behind a column. "I think, um, my fingers are too burned to stick okay."

That horrible fact was just sinking in when Howie gave the all clear again.

"Jefferson, make sure things are ready for Hazmat when they get here, they'll need to be able to begin decontamination immediately," said Captain Montgomery.

"Sir," Jefferson acknowledged.

He switched channels, and began talking to the FEMA team chief. Distantly, he was aware of a military helicopter moving into position near the One57, and more shots being exchanged. He was aware of soldiers rappelling down onto the One57 rooftop. Distantly, he was aware of confirmation that the sniper was down. Not so distantly, he was aware of the sound of the kid coughing with greater frequency and intensity over his channel.

Jefferson worked mostly with the paramedics who had stayed (and all of the paramedics had stayed). One of them went to move a water truck into position. There was a large ditch that sunk down about two and a half feet nearby where the water could pool instead of run off, and he had another put a tarp down in the bottom, and dig a deeper hole next to the tarp to further channel water into. They got a receptacle for contaminated materials, and put down flares where the helicopters could land. They moved one of the ambulances into position; not for evac, but for the equipment inside. Spider-Man would be medevac'd as soon as he was ready for transport.

"Was that blood?"

Jefferson's gaze swung to the screen. He couldn't see any blood.

"I'm fine," was the kid's reply. He really didn't sound it.

"Spider-Man, are you coughing blood?" asked Officer Biggs.

"Bomb squad, what's my next direction?" asked the kid. He spat a bloody mess onto the ground.

Jefferson's hand went to cover his mouth.

Bomb squad's next direction was to avoid coughing blood into the device.

They all watched as the kid kept going. Pulling screws, snipping wires, further disassembling the device. He kept going as his hands started trembling, and his coughing came with ever increasing frequency. A little blood did get into the device. They saw a lot more of it land off to the side.

Jefferson just wanted to yell at him to get the hell out of there. To get down to where they could begin decontamination so they could get him to treatment. But life didn't work like that. Spider-Man was all that they had.

"Your next direction is to cut the blue wire," said Officer Biggs.

They watched as the wire cutters in the kid's hand moved to the blue wire, but then suddenly still.

"I can't cut the blue wire," the kid said urgently.

"Please clarify?"

"It's my spider sense. It's saying, 'do not cut the blue wire.'"

"You have a feeling about cutting the blue wire?"

"Spider sense is very real! It's why I was on my way here before the news dropped."

There was some deliberation with bomb squad.

"Okay," Officer Biggs got back to the kid. "Apparently it's either the blue wire or the top yellow wire."

"Did they pick at random?!"

The exclamation was followed by some ragged coughing, but then the kid snipped the yellow wire. Nothing happened, so they moved forward.

"Sir, we've had communication from the FBI," said Howie. "They believe that an associate of Turner's was able to acquire forty-three pounds of cesium-137."

"Good god," said Captain Montgomery. "How'd Turner survive to get to the hospital if he was moving cesium in barrels like that?"

"He may have had a more secure container, and only added the component when he set the device," said Officer Biggs.

"He's dead now, actually," said Howie. "As of about twenty minutes ago."

They all turned their heads to look up at the Central Park Tower, where the kid was sitting right next to the stuff; where he had inhaled the stuff. This was why Jefferson still didn't like vigilantes. Even when they were so incredibly good, they died and they took your hope with them.

SWAT arrived, and began securing the tower. As much as one SWAT team could secure a building that size.

They watched as the kid's movements became less nimble, less sure; his actions delayed, and his coughing more frequent. But still, the device was declared defused with one minute and thirty-two seconds on the clock, just as the the Army Bomb Squad was landing. FEMA's hazmat crew was expected within ten minutes. Everything was running smooth for the moment, except the kid's reaction to the declaration of defusal was a protracted coughing fit, which went on and on, with ever louder gasps in between.

"Hey guys, I um, I think I don't feel so good," he said, his voice raspy, when he'd caught his breath.

There was fear in his voice now. There had been emotion in it through the encounter, but this was the first time he'd allowed himself to sound scared, now the threat was gone.

"We just need you to get down here," said Officer Biggs. "The construction elevator on the South side of the building is working. SWAT believes your path down here is clear. They have your floor and the ground floor secure. They are present to guard your exit, but they cannot render you direct assistance. We believe you are contaminated with particulate radioactive material. We have a decontamination area ready for you, but you need to get yourself down here."

"Okay," said the kid.

The helmet cam stayed on as the kid made his way through the floor he was on, swaying and lurching. Jefferson remembered that the kid had shrapnel in his leg, but even still his gait seemed to be deteriorating with every step.

"Kid, I think you're going East," said Howie.

"What?" asked the kid.

"You're walking towards the Marriot. You should be walking towards the park."

"Isn't that…"

The kid turned right, instead of left.

"SWAT team, please give Spider-Man a shout towards your location," Howie said.

"Copy that."

They didn't hear the shout over any of the radios. They just saw the camera feed do a one-eighty, making the kid wobble for a moment.

"I'm okay," he said, going for reassuring, but sounding anything but through the pain and the subsequent coughing fit.

Jefferson gave just the faintest sigh of relief when the kid finally found the elevator. He didn't feel any relief though as the kid let himself collapse once the elevator started moving down. The kid was panting painfully for breath, and then the camera went flying to the ground before they heard the sound of the kid retching.

And god, but the elevator was moving slowly. Everyone who wasn't watching the feed, (now just a tilted view of the kid's arm, propping him up from the floor), was watching its slow decent.

"Hurts," the kid choked out.

"You're almost down," Officer Biggs lied. "We'll get you taken care of."

"I…" another coughing fit. "I'm supposed to go up. There's…there's a bomb. I…"

He was completely delirious. Probably a severe fever, if Jefferson remembered his radiological training correctly.

"The bomb's diffused, it's all taken care of."

"No, I-." His panting breathes became sharp and fast. "It hurts!" he gasped out. His head came into view on the monitor, the mask up past his mouth, showing a bloody jaw line that had never seen a razor blade and was now marred with blisters and lesions.

Jefferson was trembling. Every instinct in him was telling him to run to the kid. But all he'd succeed in doing was contaminate himself.

"Spider-Man, it's time you need to take your suit off," said Officer Biggs. "It's carrying radioactive particulates near to your skin."

"No, I…I can't." The kid instead pulled his mask back down.

"You're poisoning yourself," said Officer Biggs. "Now that you're away from the device, you need to remove your mask at the very least."

"I- I don't know what's going on," said the kid. "You can't…It hurts. It hurts so bad!"

He was curled up now on the floor of the elevator.

Jefferson went over to the radio. "Spider-Man, it's me. You need to take off your mask. It's irradiated, and it's killing you."

"I want…I want my dad," said the kid, his speech rough. "I want my mom and dad." There was a long hyperventilating pause. "You can't tell my parents I'm Spider-Man. You can't. But, I want my dad. It hurts, I want my dad."

His words were becoming more and more garbled.

"We'll get your dad," said Jefferson. "We'll get your dad, and if you're not wearing your suit, then he won't know you're Spider-Man. It won't hurt as bad if you're not wearing the suit."

The kid rolled out of view of the camera, and a moment later his hand fell into view on the floor, clutching the mask tightly.

"It-," the kid was panting for breath, "it still hurts!"

"I know, kid, I know, but you're almost here. You did so good, and you're almost here."

"The bomb?"

"That's right, you did it," said Jefferson.

"I have to…there's a bomb. I don't think I can do it. You need to get out of here. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I don't want you to die too."

"We're okay, kid, the bomb's taken care of," said Jefferson.

"Ooohhhhhhhh, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts," said the kid.

"You're almost here," said Jefferson, and this time it was actually true. "I know it hurts, but I need you to get up. I need you to get up, and walk out of the elevator in just a moment. Use those exterior doors, not the ones you came in."

"I can't!"

"You are Spider-Man, and Spider-Man always gets back up! Come on, Spider-Man!" And it burned to call him 'Spider-Man' then, when the child has killed himself for them. When it was more obvious than ever that he should have never had the mantle pushed on him. Because it didn't matter that he had gotten the job done, he was just a kid, and he was dying.

The kid was hyperventilating hard now, so hard that it was a miracle he hasn't passed out yet. He retched again, even as his feet came into view, holding him up.

"That's it, Spider-Man! You're there. You need to open the doors, and walk out."

"Hurts!"

"You got this. You can do this, Spider-Man!"

The kid's feet moved from view of the camera, and Jefferson was relieved to hear the sound of the elevator doors opening. Even in the darkening evening and at a distance, though, Jefferson could tell that he'd opened the wrong doors, opening the elevator to the inside of the building instead.

"I- I can't," said the kid.

"You can put one foot in front of the other. Come on, Spider-Man. The exit's the big glass doors to your left."

The kid makes a keening noise of pain and frustration.

"Are you moving?"

The kid made a high guttural sound by way of response.

"We have eyes on Spider-Man," came a report from SWAT. "He is moving towards the exit."

"You're almost there, Spider-Man," Officer Biggs took over again. "Once you're outside, you're going to be flagged down to your right. Move to your right when you get out the doors. There's a large ditch with a tarp at the bottom. You need to move to that tarp."

His breaths sounded more like growls as a silhouette appeared at the front doors. Everyone who wasn't doing something moved in his direction. Even if they couldn't help, they felt the need to be near. The kid had his hands against the door, seemingly resting.

"Keep moving, Spider-Man," ordered Officer Biggs.

The heavy door swung open wildly, evidence that, as much as he had deteriorated, he still had super strength.

The kid that stepped into view looked horribly familiar.

It still took him a moment to realize who he was looking at.

"Miles?"

The question was softly asked as his brain seemed to short-circuit for a moment. Captain Montgomery's face was turning towards his in horror.

"NO! MILES!"

It was the Captain who grabbed the back of his jacket as he tried to race forward. Jefferson had just shrugged himself out of it when Howie tackled him around his legs.

Howie was tiny next to Jefferson, but it was enough to give a couple other officers a chance to take him down.

"I'm sorry, Dad," the voice is faint, guttural.

"Jefferson, you can't go to him. He might survive the shit he's covered in, but you can't. Don't put Miles through that, do you hear me?"

"HE'S MY SON, LET GO OF ME!"

"Do you want your life on your son's conscience for the rest of his? There's nothing you can do!"

"He's my baby! He's my baby, let go of me!"

"Keep him down," said the Captain.

"Spider-Man, get back up," Officer Biggs was saying, because Miles was on all fours again, throwing up. Everything was red. "Once we get you clean, you can see your dad."

"No, no, no," said Jefferson.

But Miles got back up, staggering. He lurched towards the pit, and fell into it.

"Okay, Spider-Man," said Officer Biggs. "You need to take off that suit, okay? Take off everything. They're going to start spraying you with water, but you need to get out of those clothes."

"Oh god, my baby boy," cried Jefferson.

One of the paramedics wearing a full face respirator went down partway into the ditch with the hose, still keeping his distance from Miles.

There wasn't any audio from Miles anymore, and Jefferson couldn't see him. Didn't know if he was alive.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he said. "Just let me up. Let me see my boy."

"Jefferson, do you understand that you can't go close to him without hazmat protection?" asked Captain Montgomery. "Can you control yourself right now? I need you to keep yourself level."

"I understand," said Jefferson. "I just want to be able to see my boy."

"Alright, let him up," said the Captain, and the other officers got up off of him. The captain helped Jefferson to his feet.

There was a fifteen foot perimeter around the ditch that they stopped at, and there was Miles. He was mostly naked, and trembling, curled up on the ground as he was sprayed down with water in the cold evening air, his socks still on, and his boxer shorts hung off one ankle. There was a steady stream of red coming from his mouth and from a hole in his thigh, and there were sores all over his face and hands, and more seeming to form about his body.

"I can't get him to get back up, or even to just roll over," the medic with the hose called out.

Digging down for a strength he didn't think he could have, Jefferson spoke up. "Miles, I'm here. Dad's here, and I need you to stand up for me, okay?"

The growl that came out of Miles's mouth might have sounded like 'Dad.' But that might have been wishful thinking.

"Miles, you are a Morales, and you are Spider-Man, and neither of those things allow you to lay down on the ground right now. Get up! Get up right now!"

And somehow, Miles managed to do it. Not all the way, but he got one foot on the ground, and planted a knee right next to it, even as he made a sound that has no business coming from his boy.

"I'm here, Miles! I'm here with you! You're doing so well! I'm so proud of you."

Miles finally made eye contact with him, and his eyes weren't bloodshot, they were just completely red all the way through. His mouth a painful bloody rictus.

"I love you so much, Miles. Don't you give up! Don't you give up for one second!"

The medic with the hose moved to another angle as the blessed sound of another helicopter landing came in from behind them.

FEMA's Hazmat team rushed in. They had scrub brushes on poles, and soapy water in pressurized tanks on their backs, and they took over decontaminating Miles. It was awful to watch, like something from out of a schlocky sci-fi thriller. But it was his son, and it was real.

Miles collapsed again, and this time he didn't get back up, no matter how much Jefferson begged him. Hazmat still kept their distances as much as they could, only approaching him briefly to turn him over. Then they checked him over with a geiger counter, before someone approached him with big swabs to clean out his nose and mouth.

"Sir," said a new voice. There was a hazmat suited responder next to him. "I have a suit for you, if you'd like to accompany him to the hospital. I can help you put it on."

"Yes," the word choked quickly out of him.

So they kitted him out. It wasn't a full pressurized suit, not now that they were decontaminating Miles. Just enough to protect him from any stray particles Miles may breathe out.

They finally carried Miles out of the pit and placed him on another tarp. Jefferson moved to go towards him, but the officer who kitted him out held him back.

"Once he's dried and passed off to the next team, you can approach. Otherwise you'll have to re-suit, and there's no time for that."

There were medics tending to Miles even as he was dried off, wrapping his leg wound and putting an oxygen mask on him. And there was blood on the white towels, blood from his leg, and weeping sores on Mile's hands and arms, his face and neck and chest. There was blood that misted out with every wet and gasping breath.

The geiger counter was used again, lighting up around Miles's face, and again, they pulled out swabs to clean out his nose and mouth.

It had been three months ago that Jefferson had held his brother's dead body in his arms. He couldn't convince himself that he wouldn't be holding Miles's by the end of the day. His boy was completely unresponsive by that point, his distressed breathing the only indication that he was still alive.

It was only once Miles was placed on a gurney and wrapped in a blanket that he was allowed to rush forward, chasing after the already moving gurney towards the medevac helicopter. Its blades were already spinning, had never stopped spinning.

He was pushed towards a seat and had a headset shoved over his head.

"Buckle up!" was the terse order that came through the headset.

Jefferson wanted to be on the floor, sitting next to Miles's gurney, holding his son. But he had sense enough by this point not to argue. The only thing that mattered was getting in the air.

He kept his eyes on Miles through the flight as though he'd disappear otherwise. They had to intubate him only two minutes into the ride. Miles remained completely unconscious through the procedure, and Jefferson had to watch as his blood pressure dropped, as his heart rate rose, throughout the ride.

Then he started seizing, and Jefferson strained against his restraints as though he could do something about it. The muscle spasms were small; Miles wasn't flailing. But everyone, even Jefferson, knew to stay back after Miles ripped open the blanket wrapped around him and dented the rail on his gurney. Then he started flickering in and out of view. Not all of him at once, but parts and pieces of him. A crackling sound, piercing the noise of the rotors and the muffling of their headsets, was the only warning before arcs of electricity began running over his body, making the convulsions all the worse. Jefferson watched on in horror. This was his son, with bloody red eyes rolled back in his head, his face a rictus of weeping sores, moving so unnaturally. It was his son who looked like he should have died already.

"Twenty-five seconds," someone announced when it was over. It had felt like hours.

Hospital staff were waiting on the roof for them, fully kitted out in protective gear. And Jefferson should have realized what was about to happen. If he'd had any thought in his head that wasn't Miles's ever deteriorating form, he would have thought to give warning. But he hadn't.

Rio was the head ER nurse at Bellevue Hospital. Of course she was on the case, and of course she was on the roof.

"MILES! DIOS NO!"

And this time it was Jefferson holding her back.

"Shit, Cathy, take over for Rio!"

"My baby! It's impossible, no!"

"He's strong, Rio," Jefferson said. "He's strong, and you work with the best of the best."

She looked up at him in shock, not having realized who had grabbed her.

"How? How did this happen?!"

Jefferson held onto his wife as Miles was rushed into the elevator, not knowing what to say. He didn't understand it himself.

"Sir," said one of the Hazmat team. "Decontamination protocol says I need to get you changed out of protective gear. You too, ma'am."

"Mi hijo! I need to be with Miles."

"We're on the other side, right now, Rio. We're not a nurse and a cop. We're just parents."

He'd just barely had enough time to process that, himself.

"Dios mío, they said he aspirated cesium! That hijo de puta already died of it!"

"That son of a bitch wasn't Spider-Man," said Jefferson. "He's going to be okay. He's a Morales."

"He was shot!"

"Shrapnel," said Jefferson. "I saw it; it's a small wound. And we shot the nazi bastard that did it. We shot him to hell."

And he'd never said it like that before. Never celebrated an officer involved shooting. It felt ugly, but there's so much hate in him right now that he doesn't care.

"How did this happen?" asked Rio.

"I don't know," said Jefferson. "I just don't know."

!

They went through the decontamination protocol. It was nothing too intense, just a particular way of removing and quarantining their protective gear, before they were allowed down to the waiting room.

They both had training around the subject of radiological emergencies, but mostly pertaining to how to deal with it in a practical sense as a nurse and a cop. This was the first such emergency either one of them has dealt with. They didn't really know what the prognosis could be, what kind of treatment Miles would need. Because of that, Rio began researching on her phone.

It was kind of a torture for the both of them.

Most of the info she found was about Acute Radiation Syndrome, ("It says the LD 50/30 is four to five sieverts." "I don't know what that means, Rio." "It's the dose where half of patients die within thirty days. Eight sieverts has a fatality rate of 100%." "Does it say how we're supposed to know how much he was exposed to?") There didn't seem to be as much information about internal contamination, but they knew that Turner had inhaled some of the substance, and now he was dead.

All that Jefferson could say in turn was, "He heals fast. He'll pull through."

But the speed with which Miles had deteriorated was a very bad sign. Rio figured it made it all the more likely that his bone marrow, or his GI track, or his central nervous system would fail him. Any one of which could slowly kill him within a couple of weeks.

But Spider-Man healed fast.

(Peter Parker hadn't healed fast enough to avoid his death).

Jefferson wanted to tell his wife to put away the phone, to stop taking in that poisonous information until they knew more about what they were dealing with, but he didn't, because a part of him demanded he know as much as possible. It was better when she was talking about different treatments. Because people did recover from ARS.

Captain Dubois, his own captain, pulled him out into the hall some amount of time later.

"Jefferson, I need to know right now if you knew that was your son under the mask."

His voice was a hoarse roar. "If I'd known that was my son, I would have chained him to the radiator three months ago! If I'd known that was my son, there isn't a power in this world that could have kept me from chasing him down and dragging him away from that bomb!"

"I believe you," his Captain was quick to say. "I didn't need Montgomery to tell me you were shocked. God, I've known you since you were a cadet, but I still had to ask."

"Patrick," said Rio, stepping into the hallway herself. "Please tell us if you know. What was the dose he was exposed to?"

The captain pressed his lips together. "It's only a rough estimate. There's a number of factors that can swing it in either direction."

"Whatever it is," said Jefferson, "please just tell us."

"Seven hundred and fifty rem," said his Captain.

Out came Rio's phone again to do a unit conversion. The conversion was pretty straight-forward. Seven hundred and fifty rem was the same as seven and a half sieverts.

"No!" cried Rio.

"He's strong," Jefferson told her, even though he felt dizzy with grief. Eight sieverts was always fatal, but it wasn't eight. He didn't know how much of a difference half of a sievert could make, but he knew the odds were terrible either way.

"We're all praying for him," said his Captain. "They're saying there's a chance for recovery even for a person with normal physiology. Whatever he's got enhancing him, it can only be a good thing."

Whatever was enhancing him had put him in that tower, defusing that bomb, while Jefferson did nothing.

"You've got me behind you," said his Captain. "Montgomery, too. Initial estimates are…a three square mile zone, near three million people, could have been irradiated if not for Miles. The whole city has your kid in their thoughts. Keep faith, we'll pull through this."

Time moved again, and Jefferson got a call on his cellphone.

"Ganke," he greeted in surprise. It was only seven o'clock. Too early for Ganke to be so worried about Miles disappearing that he'd call.

"I'm downstairs in the lobby. They won't let me up."

"They won't let you…" for a moment, he thought that someone wasn't letting Ganke up to their dorm, but then understanding catches up to him. "Where are you?"

"The hospital. Bellevue," said Ganke.

"I'll be right down," he said.

There was a buzzing in his head as he took the elevator down.

Ganke was there, alright, bundled up like it was still the middle of winter, and looking nervous.

"Come with me," he told the kid.

No one questioned where they were going. Not even Ganke, when Jefferson led him not to the waiting room, but to a small courtesy office that officers used when they had business at the hospital.

"Miles's name hasn't hit the news, yet here you are. How long have you known that my son is Spider-Man?" he asked once they were alone.

Ganke flinched.

"How long?!"

"Since after the super collider."

"Three months?! And what were you kids thinking?"

He knew that it wasn't fair. That the person he wanted to be screaming at was in an OR fighting for his life.

"We were thinking we were doing the best we could!" said Ganke, as though it was perfectly reasonable for Miles to go galavanting about with superpowers to fight crime.

"The best you could do would have been nothing!" said Jefferson. "Nothing at all! He should never have been out there!"

"You think we don't know that?!" asked Ganke. "You think we don't know it's insane? That the shine didn't wear off? That we didn't have our reality checks?"

"Then why?"

"You say it like he had a choice," said Ganke.

"Of course he had a choice," said Jefferson.

"Yeah? Well do you know how many spider people he met around that whole multi-dimensional event?"

"What does that-"

"Five," said Ganke, "plus our own OG Peter Parker. And it's not how similar they are, but how different they are that really strikes you, you know? Peter Parker from the nineteen forties. Peter Parker from the early two-thousands. Peter Parker's friend Gwen. Penny Parker from the distant future. Some freaking anthropomorphic pig named Peter Porker. They all got bit by a spider that gave them superpowers."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"They're all similar but different, Mr. Davis, different, but they all got bit. Different, and they all lost someone close to them not long after they got their powers."

"What?"

"I guess Peter always loses his uncle. So did Miles. Penny lost her dad. Gwen lost Peter. Then they all became superheroes"

"Ganke, what the hell are you saying?"

"I'm saying Miles got spider powers the day before Peter Parker died, and then a bunch of different spider people slammed into our world to give him a mission and a crash course on spider powers. I'm saying the game was always rigged to make him a superhero. You think he ever had a choice?"

"That's not…"

"The deck's stacked, Mr. Davis, and it's already been dealt."

"I can't accept that," said Jefferson.

"I don't think it matters if you do," said Ganke. "Is Miles okay?"

"No," said Jefferson. "No, Miles is not okay. He thought it was a good idea to disarm a dirty bomb without a hazmat suit." So had Jefferson, but that was his prerogative. "He has severe radiation poisoning."

"Well…Miles has super healing, he'll be okay," said Ganke.

"Miles was choking on his own blood and had a seizure," Jefferson doesn't say, because he has a modicum of restraint.

"I'll let you know how he's doing when we get word," Jefferson said instead. "I don't know how this is all going to play out. You shouldn't be here. Go back to Visions."

"I should be here when he wakes up," said Ganke.

"He's not waking up anytime tonight, Ganke," said Jefferson. "I'll let you know when it's okay to visit."

Ganke nodded miserably.

The thought wouldn't leave his head as Jefferson walked back up to the waiting room.

Peter always loses his uncle. So did Miles.

!

Last Week Tonight aired the same as ever, somehow, with John Oliver broadcasting from the set of a New Jersey local morning news show, because of course he'd been able to evacuate. So had Trevor Noah and Roy Wood Jr. from the Daily Show, and Oliver hosted them to talk about terrorism, racism, the police, and Spider-Man.

"We all knew he was stupid young," said Wood, "But was he Peter Parker young, or younger? Parker was fifteen when he first started swinging around Queens."

"The general consensus was always younger," said Noah.

"Right, the voices, the stunts. That box full of puppies he almost fainted over," said Oliver.

Jefferson had seen that video. Someone set up on the sidewalk with a box of puppies ready for new homes, and Spider-Man, Miles, had melted trying to pet all of them.

"He's a baby," said Wood. "A baby that saved our city twice now. Are we supposed to be okay with that?"

"I mean, I'm grateful," said Oliver.

"I'm hella grateful," said Noah. "The experts are saying that, while the initial death toll would have been low, there could have been thousands of New Yorkers with severe medical complications, with millions more impacted. Even if they all recovered, it would potentially leave them with life long disability, a much shorter lifespan. And that New York may not have been able to recover as a city from the decontamination process."

"Yes, but what does it mean to be grateful to thirteen year old child in critical condition for responding to a situation he shouldn't have ever been near in the first place?" asked Wood. "A very young black child, who was every inch the target this terrorist and his accomplices had in mind. What do we as a city, as a society, do with that gratitude?"

Miles's names still hadn't broken yet, though Jefferson didn't doubt that it was only a matter of time. But black and stupid young sure had spread fast.

Laura Ingram had suddenly had a lot to say about the new Spider-Man, too, Spider-Man and his family, with a lot of aspersions to cast that she'd never said about Peter Parker. Apparently he and Rio might be drug addicts or in jail, since Miles was out on the streets at all hours.

Tucker Carlson spent quite a while asking a lot of heated questions. "It behoves us to know as much as possible about this street kid that's out pretending to be a superhero." 'Street,' as though he knew anything about Miles based on his skin color and haircut. 'Pretending,' as though Miles couldn't be a real superhero.

Jefferson was just waiting for people to figure out that Miles was hispanic as well, and maybe this was just another kind of torture, combing the internet for information about his own son.

They were shown to Miles's room around midnight, and stood outside of it, looking in through the window. Jefferson still didn't understand what all had been done in all that time, but Miles was laid out on a hospital bed, most of the top half of his body covered in bandages. There was a special ventilator they were using to prevent radioactive particulates from escaping after they were breathed out. Because Miles's lungs were still radioactive.

"He has been treated with one round of bronchoalveolar lavage, which radiological assessment shows has been highly effective in reducing the amount of cesium particulate in his lungs. Two rounds of gastric lavage has been effective in reducing the amount of cesium particulate in his stomach. We'll want to repeat the bronchoalveolar treatment tomorrow, when he's stabilized further. We've treated him with a granulocyte colony-stimulating factor, to support white blood cell production. Prussian blue dye chelation is being administered to bind to the cesium particulate and help remove them from his body. That's going to drastically reduce the biological half-life of the cesium already absorbed in his body."

"But it's still in him?" asked Jefferson.

"We've gotten a lot out, but there's a sizable amount of contaminant that has already been absorbed by his system. The bulk of treatments now are managing symptoms of the ARS, and helping his body to flush the cesium out as quickly as possible."

"What's his prognosis?" asked Jefferson.

"For a normal teen, we'd have a very low probability of survival from this kind of exposure, but we're already seeing evidence of his enhanced healing. The wound on his leg was already closing up by the time he arrived here, and the skin lesions seem to be fading already. We're hopeful that that indicates a much higher chance of recovery, though I also hope you can appreciate that we simply don't have the data to be able to give you a firm response. We don't know how his healing factor works, or if he will be as vulnerable to secondary infections and long term cancer risk. Right now, we're going to have to wait to see what condition he's in by morning, before I can give you any kind of expectation of what his recovery will look like."

"If he pulls through the initial symptomology, will we expect the typical recurrence of ARS symptoms down the line?" asked Rio.

"Recurrence?" asked Jefferson.

"With ARS, there's usually an initial amelioration of the acute symptoms, followed by a recurrence days or weeks later. A specialist on ARS is flying in from the CDC, and an expert on meta-human physiology is en route as well. Hopefully, they'll be able to give us some manner of theory of what this will look like."

"Can we sit with him?" asked Jefferson.

"He is still emitting low levels of gamma radiation from the internal contamination," said the doctor. "Brief contact is fine, but if you want to sit with him, we'll need you to be wearing leaded aprons and radiation glasses."

"Whatever we need to do," said Rio.

"You'll need to wear your dosimeters at all times," said the doctor, "and minimize close contact."

"Of course," said Jefferson.

"Take care not to sleep at his bedside. If you insist on staying in the room, you can make use of the couch, but please don't move it closer to the bed. We'll be checking your dosimeters regularly. If the indicator turns yellow, we'll have to exclude you from the room for at least twenty-four hours."

"Whatever it takes," said Jefferson. "We want to be here for Miles."

There were lead sheets hanging around the rails of Miles's bed, but they were still able to reach over and touch their son. Jefferson put his hand on Miles's chest, feeling the rise and fall, and the thump-thump-thump. It helped, feeling those signs of life.

"He'll be okay," Jefferson told Rio. "I know he will."

!

He was surprised to get a visit from Captain Montgomery at around two AM.

"Sir," he said, getting up from his chair. The Captain had flagged him down from the window, not quite approaching the doorway.

Rio was asleep on the couch. They'd both agreed to follow the doctor's recommendations pretty closely.

"You know he'll blame himself if either one of us gets cancer ever," Rio had said.

So they stayed in the room, but they kept close contact to a minimum, as much as it pained them.

"Let's talk," said the Captain when Jefferson joined him in the hall.

So Jefferson wound up back in the courtesy office he'd talked to Ganke in.

"There's been a lot going on tonight," said the Captain by way of an opening.

"I'm sure," said Jefferson.

"Looks like the sniper's going to pull through," said the Captain. "FBI's chomping at the bit to get their hands on him. Of course, I'm wondering how the Feds knew about the Cesium so fast. Makes me think they already knew about it in the first place."

"Wouldn't surprise me," said Jefferson.

"What's the bet they thought they could wait till the eleventh hour and get on the news stopping it themselves?"

"Not taking that bet, sir," he said. "What did you really come here to talk to me about?"

Because whether or not the captain was finished at the scene, there was no way he was done for the night. The Captain would probably be working through till morning at least.

"Been talking to a lot of people. Consulted with Captain Dubois. Good man. We think we've got things pretty well under wraps."

"Sir?"

"It wasn't a small operation tonight, but relatively speaking, we got lucky. There's thirteen officers, four paramedics, three doctors, two nurses, a chopper pilot, myself, and Dubois who know your son is Spider-Man. Everyone is in agreement that, for many reasons, not least is the safety of your son and your family, that the official account tonight is that Spider-Man was unmasked, but not positively identified."

"Sir, I…I can't ask you to do that," said Jefferson.

"You haven't," said Captain Montgomery. "You think it's in the best interest of the PDNY for Spider-Man to be the thirteen year old son of a Lieutenant? You think we want the controversy of just that revelation? Never mind figuring out what the hell to do with him legally, that doesn't piss off half the nation either way."

"But…"

"And let's get back to the safety of you and yours, Jefferson. I'd like you to take a look at this."

He pulled a piece of paper from a folio he had come in with. Jefferson took a look at it.

It was a list. A long list, of names and organizations. The first name on the page was 'Wilson Fisk, AKA King Pin,' and the second name was 'Mac Gargan, AKA The Scorpion.'

It was a list of his son's enemies.

"When did he piss off the triad?" he asked.

"He hasn't directly. But they have a standing bounty on any third party that operates on their territory, and he's stopped a couple muggings thereabouts. Here's something else to look at."

There was another list, longer, on more than a few pages.

"Enemies that Peter Parker had, that you need to consider your son may have inherited. And these lists, Jefferson, they don't even cover the numerous white supremacy groups in our nation that might decide that the black Spider-Man who just foiled an arian terror plot should be public enemy number one.

"Now, you might be thinking that Miles could turn state's evidence on Fisk, and any number of other cases, and get himself into witness protection, but how realistic is that, really? He'd have the most recognizable face in all of America, and you'd have to bank on him keeping his powers under wraps. You'd have to bank on him not getting himself kicked out of the program by going out and fighting crime.

"Can you keep your family safe in a world where your son is the face of Spider-Man?"

"Sir, I don't know if my boy's going to survive the week," said Jefferson.

"I know, Jefferson," said Captain Montgomery. "And we're praying for him. We'd be burying officers if it weren't for him. Frankly, I don't think the device could have been defused at all without him, not with the clock where it was at. Would have taken you near four minutes to get up there, and none of our officers can dodge bullets. We owe him a debt. And because we do, we're going to behave as though we know he's going to be okay, and that he will need this protection we're securing him."

"How would it work?" he asked, his gut twisting. It was a cover-up, and it went against everything he believed in. Everything he had tried to live by. But, by god, the man hadn't said anything that wasn't true.

"For one thing, on paper, you and your wife are not Spider-Man's parents here at the hospital. You're an officer assigned to him, she's his nurse. We've already restricted access to his hallway, so you shouldn't have to worry about appearing too familiar with him. The only people attending to him will know the truth already."

"And the official story?"

"It's very simple. Spider-Man was unmasked as part of the decontamination process, but the damage to his face was already so extensive that it made positive identification impossible. The radiation burns to his hands has made fingerprinting impossible. And we already know from Parker that whatever happened to their DNA garbles up the testing. If anyone outside of the circle does turn up saying they heard that there was an officer claiming that Spider-Man was his son, and there's been no whispers of that so far, then it will be simple to say that it was a false identification. The boys looked similar enough, and under stress you mistook the bloodied form for your son's. But we quickly confirmed that it was not him."

"And when he gets better? When the wounds heal?"

"He's Spider-Man. He'll just have to flee the hospital before a proper identification can be made. You'll want to call his school tomorrow. Tell them he showed up at home tonight looking awful. He's gotten mono. A doctor here will provide a note saying Miles is ill and cannot attend school for the time being, which will be completely factual."

"You think we can pull this off?" asked Jefferson.

Captain Montgomery nodded. "We already are. We haven't talked to anyone who was more than a little reluctant. Everyone understands the need for this. I hope you'll understand though, but of course, on paper, you'll have specifically requested to handle the protection detail yourself. Citing your already existing rapport with the boy. Your wife assigned at your suggestion for simplicity sake."

So that if Miles was ever unmasked, it would look like the only people concealing his identity were his parents.

"Okay," he said, knowing it wasn't the right choice, but not knowing what else he could do.

"Good," said Captain Montgomery. "We'll keep you posted on any developments. Now, let's talk hospital security."

!

His world consisted of repetitive sounds and waves of pain for a while. There was no context to it, no understanding. Just repetitive beeps and whooshes. The opening and closing of valves. The pain was everywhere. It would deaden for a short while, and the noises would come to the forefront, but more often than that the pain was sinking deep, deep, down into his bones, until every whoosh brought with it its own wave of pain. Then there would be a ticking sound, and the pain would recede again.

…

Someone was touching his head.

…

Someone was whispering, but he didn't know what they were saying.

…

Everything hurt so much.

…

The pain went away. It really went away, and all that was left was the sounds, until even those were gone too.

…

The pain came back, and the sounds came back, and he was moving around. His eyes were open, but he couldn't see, and there was something over his face.

There was something in his mouth, in his throat!

He reached up to grasp at it, ignoring the new waves of pain it brought him, and he pulled.

"Miles, stop!"

Miles couldn't stop, not until he could breathe again.

He gagged, and then started coughing the moment his throat was clear.

"I need you both to stand back," someone said. "We need to clear the contaminant."

"I can't see!" Miles choked out.

"Miles, my name is Nurse Cathy, and I'm taking care of you right now."

"What's going on?"

It hurt to talk. It hurt so much to talk.

"You're in the hospital. Your face is bandaged, that's why you can't see. You've just pulled out your breathing tube."

"Where's my parents?"

"We're right here, mijo," said his mom.

"We're with you," said his dad, "we just need to stand back while the nurses do their job."

"Wha-"

He started coughing, and that hurt the worst of all.

"You've been exposed to radioactive contaminants," said the nurse. "It was in your lungs, so we need to decontaminate this area, okay? We're going to take away this breathing tube. We're going to take away the blanket, and we're going to clean you up a little. We're going to make sure we took care of any contaminant by checking with a geiger counter. And we'll be very gentle with you, okay?"

"Don't understand."

"Miles, it's dad, there was an attack, okay? You breathed in a radioactive substance, and you're at the hospital. You've been recovering great."

"Don' remember."

People were touching him. The thing that was in his throat, the breathing tube, was pulled out of his hand. A smaller tube was wrapped around his face, blowing into his nose. A rush of cool air came over him as his blanket was removed. Someone started wiping away at his mouth, while someone else started unwrapping something from his hand.

"Wanna see," he said.

He didn't like this. He didn't like this. Why would someone spray him? Was this because of Spider-Man?

"We'll ask the doctor about removing some of the bandages in a minute, hon," said Nurse Cathy. "But there's a lot of tissue damage, and it's important to keep them on right now."

"Mom," he tried.

"I'm right here, mijo. Cathy's a friend of mine, she's taking really good care of you."

Something slotted into place in his head. "I'm radioactive?"

"A little bit," said Cathy. "That's why we're all being very careful, and you're receiving excellent care. You've got some of the best doctors in the world taking care of you."

"Who else?" he asked.

"It's your mom, me, nurse Cathy, and Nurse Felix in here right now," said his dad.

Miles shook his head. "Who else sprayed."

"No one, sweetheart," said his dad, and oh god, but his dad didn't pull out 'sweetheart' all that often. "Everyone else is fine. We're all just worried about you. I guess you don't remember, but you saved a lot of people. You saved me."

"You know…"

"Don't worry about Spider-Man," said his mom. "Just focus on feeling better, alright?"

There was a clicking sound over him, the kind instantly recognizable as a geiger counter.

"Bad?"

"No, I think we've cleaned you up just fine. This level is higher than we want it to be, but it's been steadily going down as we've cleared out your system. It's going to keep going down."

Someone was rewrapping his hand, and someone put another blanket on him. The tube under his nose, the canula, was taken away, and an oxygen mask replaced it. There was a loud shuffling of plastic bags.

"You can come over here," said Nurse Cathy. "I'm just going to be checking some vitals, and the doctor should be here soon."

"Dangerous," said Miles. "I'm radioactive."

"We're okay, Miles," said his dad, a lot closer. "We're wearing protective gear, and we have dosimeters keeping track of our exposure. We're being safe."

"How are you feeling, mijo?" asked his mom.

"Hurts," he admitted.

"What hurts?" she asked, putting her hand on his.

"E'rything," he said.

"Can't we give him something?" asked his dad.

"He's maxed out, even on the new protocol," said Nurse Cathy. "Ideally, he wouldn't even be awake yet, but…Doctors Chase and Hawthorne will have to consult again, I think."

"Water," said Miles, feeling incredibly rude, but every word was taxing.

"We'll start you out with some ice chips, okay?"

"I can do that," said his mom.

"Double glove, please," said Nurse Cathy.

"Of course."

The ice chips were nice and soothing.

"'r there blit'rs in my mouth?"

"They're a lot better than they were," said his mom.

"You've healed a lot," said his dad.

"Don' feel like it."

"It was really bad, Miles. You're a lot better than you were. Better than we'd even hoped."

"A…a bomb?" asked Miles. Memory was coming back to him.

"That's right, there was a bomb," said his dad.

"Got shot," said Miles.

"Yeah, there was a piece of shrapnel in your leg."

"Why'd they-" He started coughing, and everything hurt so much worse when he was coughing. The blackness was replaced by a hazy white.

«It's okay, Miles, you're okay, you're doing so good, come on baby.»

Miles finally pulled in a full breath, coughed one more time, and then fell back panting on his bed.

«That's it, baby, let's slow those breaths down.»

"You got it, Miles."

"E'rything hurts so bad," he pressed out of his lips.

«I know, baby. You're going to be okay. It won't hurt forever.»

"It's going to be okay, Miles," said his dad.

Miles took a while to catch his breath. He felt dizzy.

"I'm going to replace your mask, okay Miles?" asked his mom.

He nodded.

"How bad's it?" he asked when he had a new mask on (he wondered how many replacement masks there were if that was the protocol).

"You're a lot better than anyone thought you would be," said his dad.

"You've been stable for the last two days," said his mom.

"How long?"

"Three and a half," said his mom.

"M' algebra test!"

"You cannot be worried about your algebra test right now!"

Who was this, and what had they done with his dad?

"The only thing you need to worry about is getting better, and you've got a lot of help with that," said his mom.

"The bomb?"

"It's all taken care of," said his dad. "You don't have to worry anymore about the bomb. God, you were so fever addled after you defused it, you kept thinking you needed to go back to do it over again. I was terrified you'd try to."

Miles shook his head. "Why, though? Why…"

"Oh," said his dad. Miles felt his dad's big hand come to rest on his shoulder. "It was a white supremacist group. Someone went in and riled them up, I guess. Gave them resources. They decided New York was the ultimate symbol of everything they hated, so they tried to make it uninhabitable."

Miles felt hollow. It felt so incredibly personal, so deeply disturbing, and he didn't know what to do with that.

"We catch 'em?" asked Miles.

"Got a few of them," said his dad. "The FBI's still hunting down a few more."

God, they were still out there. What if they came back?

"I can't fight them like this!"

"Miles, you're not fighting anyone!"

"They tried to kill us!" And he'd never felt so much like there was an 'us' and a 'them' as in that moment. "They want us dead! They won't stop."

"They've run to ground, Miles. The FBI's on the case, and those jerks get a bone in their mouth, they don't let go. Not ever. And the way their plot went, no one's going to want anything to do with these psychos. Two of their guys are dead of exposure, another's in worse condition than you are, and one of them's still recovering from multiple gunshot wounds. That psycho that put them up to it? He's been in federal custody the last two days, and he's facing a hell of a lot of charges. He probably wanted to be a martyr, but everyone's seen what a miserable joke he is."

Miles sniffled. He felt like he should be crying, but nothing seemed to be coming up. Maybe he was crying, and he couldn't feel it?

"Anyone else get hurt?"

"Yeah," said his dad. "Not from the bomb. You kept everyone else from being hurt by the bomb. But yeah, the security guards at the construction site, and someone from the construction company doing a site inspection. They were killed."

"I should have…" he paused to get his breathing under control. There was definitely something wrong with his tear ducts, because he knew he was supposed to be crying. "I should have been there!"

"Miles, mijo, how could you have been there?" asked his mom.

"My spider sense. It was going off all day! If I'd just gone when I first felt it…"

"You stop that, Miles!" his dad said harshly. "You were supposed to be in school. You were never supposed to be near any of this!"

"I'm Spider-Man! I'm supposed to stop these things!" He didn't care how much talking hurt. It was supposed to hurt, right now.

"It almost killed you, Miles."

"It didn't! Because I'm Spider-Man. And you!" he said, remembering something he was still angry about. "You volunteered! You would have died! How could you do that?! After we lost Uncle Aaron, and you just volunteered, like it was nothing!"

"You what?!" asked Rio.

"You think I didn't know that?" his dad asked him. "I knew exactly what I was doing, and what it would mean. And it would have been worth it to keep you safe!"

Miles shook his head.

"Please stop," said his mom, "both of you, please. We're all together, and we're all alive."

"This family doesn't run away from anything," said Miles.

"Oh, mijo. I never meant for you to turn that into a battle cry," said his mom.

"No, you said it to me exactly when I needed to hear it," said Miles.

"What did you say?" was his dad's quick response.

"After Peter Parker died," said Miles, uncertain by his dad's sharp reaction. "I knew the city was in danger. And I asked if you guys would ever think of leaving. I needed to hear that. It helped me. And when you came to my dorm, Dad. You didn't even know if I was there, but you told me you believed in me, that everything I needed was inside of me. I was lost then, and I couldn't have done what I did that day without you."

"Miles," said his dad, and…Miles had never heard him sounding so defeated.

"We just want you to be safe," said his mom.

"How can any of us ever be safe?" asked Miles. They lived in a world of monsters both mundane and extraordinary.

"Shhh, mijo, there have always been people in this world who wanted to hurt us. That has never stopped this family from thriving, and we're not going to stop now."

It would be easier to believe that if Miles in any way felt as though he was thriving. But he was blind and weak, and everything hurt.

!

Jefferson rang the doorbell with a buzzing thrum seeming to suffuse his body. He'd been wanting to come out here for days now, to have this reckoning, but he'd had no intention of leaving his son's side until he'd woken up. Officer Biggs had taken over the 'protective detail' past the quarantine points, keeping it to only people in the know.

A frowning and contemplative face greeted him when the door opened.

"You here as a cop, or is this a social visit?" she asked.

A nasty part of him wanted to say he was there as a cop. A part of him wanted to make her sweat.

But he wasn't here as a cop, and he had compromised himself enough for one lifetime.

"I'm here as a father," he told her.

She nodded, her expression softening just a little. But all she said was, "Then come back when you're dressed like one."

Then she shut the door in his face.

He stood there fuming for a minute. Surely she knew why he was there. Surely she had some remorse? Some sense that she had done wrong?

Why was he still in uniform?

He huffed a breath, and turned back to his car. He secured his sidearm and his taser, took off his belt, and then took off his uniform shirt. He had a dark long-sleeved t-shirt on underneath. With tactical pants and boots on, he supposed he still looked like a cop, but this would have to do.

This time, she held the door open for him and waved him in.

"What do you take in your tea?"

"I'm not here for tea," he told her.

"Look, we're both upset, if for different reasons. But you're not here as a cop, so we're keeping things civil, aren't we? And there are rules to civility. Now, do you take cream or sugar?"

He huffed. Again.

"Both," he said.

She showed him to her couch and disappeared into the kitchen. He spent the grace period practicing what he wanted to say in his head until she brought in the tea service. He eyeballed a familiar but uncommon brand of cookie.

He took a sip, for politeness's sake. At least it was good tea.

"Five extra spider people came to this universe through the collider experiment. Security footage from Fisk's collider shows that they all returned to their home universe, taking their costumes and their web-shooters with them. So that leaves me with one place that he could have gotten his equipment. And this," he said holding up a cookie. "This is his favorite brand."

"Yes," said May Parker, "I have in fact had your son over for tea. He's delightful company, by the way. You know, he always has this very poppy art to show off when he comes."

"How could you enable him like this? In secret?"

She sighed, and he was instantly aware of the heavy sadness that cloaked her. Had cloaked her since he had arrived. Likely had been present for the last three months.

"I won't lie, and say that I had no ulterior motive, the night of super collider. If he hadn't gone, then an alternate reality version of my boy would have stayed behind and died to save a universe that wasn't his. Because Miles wasn't ready. It was clear as day all the while they were plotting out the mission. He wasn't ready, so he was left behind. But then he showed back up at my place, and I wasn't the slightest bit surprised; I know how this whole thing works, by now. Of course he came, and he had that spark in him. That spark that said he was ready; that he didn't just have spider powers, but that he was Spider-Man. So I gave him the web shooters I'd prepared for him, and he prepared his costume, and then he saved us all.

"But the real answer to your question is: What makes you think any of us ever had any choice in the matter?"

"What does that even mean?" Jefferson asked, out of frustration more than a lack of understanding. Because he had a sinking feeling he already knew where this was going.

"It means that Miles was bitten by that spider the day before my boy died, Mr. Davis."

"You're going to tell me it was fate?"

She scoffed. "Fate, destiny, as though there's some benevolent deity taking care of us. I don't believe in fate. No, there's just a power in this multiverse that has a vested interest in keeping things steady, and it picks its acolytes to fight its cause unknowing."

"Just because a spider bit Miles a day before-"

"Do you know where the spider came from? Where Miles was? When my boy was shoved into the stream of the supercollider, and summoned a squadron of spider people, a spider came through as well, twenty-four hours in advance. And there was Miles, ready to be bit, because his uncle had taken him down into the tunnels to put up some art. Tunnels he knew about because of his work for Fisk. A job that perfectly positioned him to die in your son's arms. Just as Ben died in Peter's. Just as many Ben's have died in many Peter's arms in wildly different universes. No, I don't believe it's a coincidence."

"You really think it was all planned out?" asked Jefferson. "Like some, some, being, is playing chess with our lives?"

"I think that your son returned to the tunnels to find an extra-dimensional glitching spider, just as Peter was fighting his last battle. I think the structure of multiple universes was threatened, and Peter wasn't quite up for the challenge, and so Miles was in just the right place at just the right time to inherit his mantle, and then he was in just the right place at just the right time to receive his mission. And then he visited Peter's grave, just in time to meet an alternate universe version of him, who was able to show him the ropes. And then you visited him at just the right time to tell him you believe in him, allowing him to find himself."

"And you're okay with all this?!"

"They replaced my boy instead of saving him," she said, with hatred dripping in her voice. "They sacrificed my husband. I would burn it all to the ground if I could."

"So why enable him?"

"Because he'll do it anyway. That's who he is. He might think he can give it up at times. Peter had his own crises of faith. He'd always get drawn back in; feel the weight of responsibility. But for years, my boy did this on his own. He was alone with his burden. I helped your son because I didn't want him to do it without me. Because I can help him, and I have. I know this business inside and out by now, and I'd like to think I've done well by him."

"You didn't tell him not to go into triad territory."

"No, I told him about the bounty, so he'd know. But he wouldn't be Spider-Man if he let that stop him."

"No, see, you have this idea, no matter how much you hate it, you have this idea in your head of who Spider-Man is, and who he's supposed to be, like Miles is some sort of knight in shining armor. But he's a kid, and he's spent the last four days in critical care from radiation poisoning. Someone should have stopped him," said Jefferson.

"And who do you suppose would die to get him back on track? Or would he just be replaced as callously as my boy was?"

"I can't…I can't accept that we're powerless in this. I can't accept that someone else made me go and talk to my boy. I talked to him, those were my words!"

"Of course they were your words," she said. "Just as Ben once gave his own words to Peter. No one put them into your mouths, I don't think. You just happened to say them exactly when they needed to be said."

"But-"

"You want to hear about another coincidence, Mr. Davis?"

"Alright," he said, feeling as powerless as he had claimed not to be.

"Do you know how Peter was bitten? It wasn't a displaced extra-dimensional spider. It was a lab specimen from Oscorp. It escaped containment from its lab on the same day Peter's school had a field trip there. Just happenstance that Peter and his class were there that day, the right place, the right time. Except, that that was also the lab Peter's father used to work in. It was Richard's project that eventually became the experiment they were conducting. It was Richard's DNA that went into that original project. Peter eventually figured out, that if that spider had bitten literally anyone else, they would have died, Mr. Davis."

"So why did Miles survive?"

"Maybe because out of all the radioactive spiders in all of the multiverse, the right spider with the right DNA came through for Miles," she said. "Or maybe all radioactive spiders are not made equally, and there was no genetic key to this one. I don't know. The point is, we all make our own choices. We're still ourselves. But there's a spider weaving it's web around us, nudging us down the paths that suit it."

"So where does that leave Miles?"

"It leaves him with a job to do. One he's chosen himself, no matter the how's and the why's. It's not a terrible job, I don't think. It's hard, and demanding, but it meant everything to Peter. He did good. He did so much good, more than you'll ever know. Saved this world more times than anyone's known. And Miles will too. It'll help if he has you in his corner. You called it a chess game; that would make Miles the queen, powerful and mobile. I guess that would actually make you the knight in shining armor. A little rigid, perhaps, but also a powerful hidden defender."

Jefferson huffed. "Ma'am, my son's seen more death than some combat veterans at this point. I suppose I understand where you're coming from now. I understand why you've accepted this. But I have to try to save my son."

"I hope you can," said May Parker. "And I hope it won't cost you everything."

!

"So, what's going on out in the city?" asked Miles.

"Things are settling down," said his mom.

"But like, there was so much chaos that day. Is everyone alright?"

"Everything's fine, Miles, don't worry about it," said his dad.

Don't worry about it? He'd disappeared from the city right when it got thrown into a huge panic. There had to be ramifications to that, crime was probably up, stress was up, racial tensions, drug use, domestic violence, suicide. Here Miles was laying in bed all day.

He felt like he'd abandoned the city.

"So…does everyone know I'm Spider-Man?" he asked, abandoning one stressful topic for another.

"A lot more people know now than used to," said his dad.

… "Okay," said Miles.

His dad sighed.

«Just tell him,» his mother said.

"There's been a coverup."

"There has?" asked Miles, more than a little confused by the simple statement.

"Part of it is, no one wants to deal with an unmasked Spider-Man. Not the police, not the district attorney. Not even the Feds, though fortunately you shouldn't fall under their jurisdiction anyway."

"And you're okay with that?" Miles asked tentatively, because if there was a word he would never associate with his dad, it was 'coverup'.

"Of course I'm not okay with it, Miles. But this is the only thing we figure can keep you safe."

"Oh," said Miles.

"If you didn't have dozens of dangerous enemies, then I'd say 'no.' I'd say I could deal with the scandal of being an officer who didn't realize his son was a vigilante. I'd say you could deal with delinquency court and probation. Hell, I'd slap a GPS cuff on you myself."

Miles was ambivalent about the fact he was having this conversation when he couldn't see anything. On the one hand, no awkward eye contact. On the other hand, he had no idea what expression was on his dad's face right now, and just how bad was it? He still had no idea how much trouble he was in with his parents.

"I'm sorry," he said, because he did understand. His dad was sacrificing his integrity for him, and that wasn't nothing.

"I can't lose you, Miles. I won't."

"And we haven't," said his mom. «We're all here together.»

Miles considered that he was recovering from his second New York-wide existential crisis.

A wave of pain hit him then. It seemed to flare up whenever he got himself worked up.

"Ssshhhh, mijo, I've got you," said his mom, rubbing at his shoulder.

Miles just tried to breathe through it. He knew he was maxed out again on his pain medication, even though they'd upped that max again.

"Would your music help, Miles?" asked his dad.

Miles nodded his head, and his dad slipped earbuds in for him. Miles was prepared to have to walk his dad through his Spotify login, but it only took a few seconds for one of his playlists to start playing.

It did help.

"Is that my phone?" he asked after the first song.

"Yeah," said his dad. He put it down by Miles's hand, for all the good it would do Miles in his current state. He could turn the volume up or down, he supposed.

"I bet you got my homework from Visions too," said Miles. The pain was receding again, and it was easier to be a little cheeky when everything wasn't pain.

"Haven't been, though we'll have to at some point," said his dad. "Ganke brought this by the night everything happened."

"Oh," said Miles. "So, um, you've talked to Ganke?"

"Is that your way of asking if I realized Ganke was in on it the whole time?"

"I mean, not the whole time," said Miles.

"Oh, excuse me, 99% of the time you were out superheroing," said his dad. "You should give him a call. I'm sure he'd be relieved to hear from you.

Miles used the voice assistant on his phone to call, since it was nice to be at least a tiny bit autonomous.

"Dude!"

"Hey, Ganke," said Miles.

"You're alive!" said Ganke. "I mean, I knew you were alive, but like, it's good to hear you, being alive, and whatnot."

"Aw, you weren't worried, were you?" asked Miles, well aware he was treading on thin ice to talk so flippantly about it with his parents in the room.

"I was a little worried," said Ganke, "but I knew you'd pull through."

"Well, if I could pull through a little faster, I'd be a lot happier."

"Any idea how long you'll be down for?" asked Ganke.

"Bro, I don't know. They haven't even taken the bandages off my eyes yet."

"Are your eyes okay?" asked Ganke.

"All I know is there's a lotta soft tissue damage to my face, and my face might be like, very temporarily, very ugly."

"I mean, you looked pretty rough on the footage," said Ganke.

"There's footage?!" asked Miles.

Why hadn't anyone said anything? His dad said there was a cover-up!

"Yeah, but it's like I was saying, you can't even tell it's you," said Ganke. "There was a news helicopter, it couldn't get too close because of airspace restrictions and the angle, but it got footage of you walking out of the tower with your mask off. But like, even me looking at it knowing it's you, I can't hardly tell. You were super jacked up, man."

"Thank god for spider healing," said Miles.

"I still feel like you can't call all of your powers spider powers if they don't have anything to do with spiders," said Ganke.

"Man, whatever, dude," said Miles. "I'll be back in no time, just you wait."

"Looking forward to it," said Ganke. "You know half the school's wondering who you kissed."

"Kissed?" asked Miles.

"Everyone thinks you have mono," said Ganke.

"I mean, is anyone else home with mono?" asked Miles.

"Nah," said Ganke. "That's why everyone's speculating about those exchange students that just left."

"Nice, yeah, let everyone think I was kissing hot foreigners," said Miles.

He could practically hear his parents rolling their eyes.

"And dude, you should see how many people are repping Spider-Man around the school these days."

"Nice," said Miles. "Hey, you get the castle you were talking about?"

"My guy, the city just barely opened up again. I haven't been to the Lego store. But I got that thing reserved, don't you worry. Hogwarts is mine."

"City was on lockdown and you didn't go loot the Lego store? You really must have been worried about me."

"Just a little," said Ganke.

"Well, you can get Hogwarts in peace, now you know I'm on the mend," said Miles.

"Maybe I'll let you help build it if you get better fast enough," said Ganke.

"I'll be there in no time," said Miles.

They talked a while longer about craziness of everything around them, before saying their good byes.

They might have talked longer, but Miles was so tired. Never mind that he'd only woken up again an hour ago.

Everything was exhausting right now.

"You know, you need to stop talking about your healing like it's always just going to fix everything," said his dad, and it was the tone of voice that said he was really upset, but he didn't want to start a fight with Miles.

"I mean…it's been pretty reliable so far," said Miles, not really sure where his dad was coming from.

"Except for when it wasn't," said his dad.

Miles furrowed his brow (or at least he thought he did, it was hard to tell under the bandages), he couldn't think of what his dad was talking about, unless he was talking about Peter Parker. Which wasn't fair, because Miles had never acted like nothing could kill him. He'd gotten that lesson before he'd ever put on the mask.

"You almost died, mijo," his mom told him.

"I know," Miles said gruffly. "And my spider healing saved me. You guys basically said so yourselves."

"She's not talking about your initial exposure, Miles," said his dad. "Yeah, your doctors were fast to tell us about how incredible it was, wounds practically healing right in front of them. We were pretty hopeful, at first. Until it was all too much for your body to take, and you just stopped healing. Next thing we knew, your white blood cell count was next to nothing, and an infection set it fast."

"Oh," said Miles. It was really weird being told about something so big that had happened to him, that he had no memory of.

"We didn't think you were going to make it, Miles! They were pouring treatment after treatment into you, and you were fading right before our eyes."

"What happened?" asked Miles.

"They managed to get your immune system to rally faster than the infection was able to run through you," said his dad. "You're still not healing as fast as you were when you first came in."

"Your body is playing catch-up, mijo," said his mom. "It has limits. It's going to take some time to get your strength back up."

"How long though?" asked Miles, feeling so frustrated. The feeling returned again, that he was supposed to be crying, but no tears were coming. He hated that feeling.

"We don't know, Miles." said his mom.

"Well, isn't there anything that can jump start everything? Get me out of here faster. Its…Everyone knows I'm here! I know you don't want me fighting anyone, but what if…"

"No one's getting to you here," said his dad.

"You don't know that! I'm completely defenseless, like this! I want to take the bandages off. I want to at least be able to see, so I can…I don't like this! I'm not…"

Everything hurt, oh, but did everything hurt, and he curled up on his side to help relieve some of the tension.

His parents were trying to soothe him, calm him down.

"Let me take these off," said Miles, his hands going to the bandages that were around his eyes.

"Miles, mijo, we'll talk to the doctor about those in less than an hour," said his mom. Her hands taking his and holding them firmly.

"Unless I fall asleep again, like I did last time," said Miles.

"We'll wake you up if you do," said his dad. "Just breathe, Miles."

"Why didn't you wake me up last time?" asked Miles.

"We'll wake you up this time," said his dad. "I know this is scary right now, but we don't want to do anything that can jeopardize your recovery."

«Take a deep breath, mijo,» said his mom.

"It hurts!" said Miles.

"Hyperventilating hurts," said his mom. "Slow it down, and ride it out."

Miles tried to take a deeper breath, to limited success.

"And I'm not scared!" he said, before trying to take another breath. "I just want to see…in case anyone comes in here."

"That's why I'm here," said his dad. "That's why there's so much security here, to keep you safe."

"I don't…"

«You're safe, mijo. Listen to your papá. It's going to be okay, and the doctor's going to look at your eyes in just a little bit.»

"Wait," said Miles.

"Deep breaths, sweetheart," said his dad, rubbing his back.

"Why's the doctor looking at my eyes?" asked Miles. "I thought it was just blisters and stuff they didn't want to get infected." He hadn't wanted to think too much about why his tear ducts might not be working.

«We're a little worried about your eyes,» said his mom. «We're not sure how well they've healed after their exposure.»

"But, they'll heal with everything else," said Miles.

"That's the hope," said his dad.

"Why are you saying it like that?!" asked Miles.

«Mijo, it's too soon to worry about it. Now that you're awake, the doctor will be able to take a good look at your eyes, and then we'll know more.»

"What if it's bad?" asked Miles.

«Then we'll keep in mind that it could be a bad that can get better,» said his mom.

"If it's bad, then your spider healing can help take care of it," said his dad.

"I thought you didn't want me to over rely on my healing," said Miles.

"Yeah, well, now I'm trying to make you feel better," said his dad. "I don't want you trying to take every kind of risk because you think you can heal from anything, but whatever it is that heals you is still amazing. It's why you're still with us now. And Miles, whatever shape your eyes wind up being in, your mom and I are right here with you, and we'll figure it out together, okay?"

Miles nodded.

"You want me to turn your music back on?" his dad asked.

Miles nodded again. He knew he should say something back, thank his dad for his thoughtfulness, or apologize for spazzing out on them. But he was too exhausted to form the words. He sunk himself down into his music.

He tried not to fall asleep again.

!

He fell asleep again.

A/N: Warnings (SPOILERS) - This story deals heavily with Miles being severely irradiated while foiling a white-nationalist terror plot. Content warnings in particular for horrifying bloody medical problems. A big section of this fic involves Miles being bedridden in the hospital and dealing with the numerous quiet indignities of being dependent on others for his basic functioning.

Another part of this fic deals with Miles processing having footage of himself being decontaminated, nude, leaked to the press. The leak boils down to and is addressed in the fic as revenge porn of a child.

There is canon typical violence.

There is heavy use of the police in this fic. I took steps to minimize their role in the narrative, but it's still there. I'm hoping I've found a good balance of acknowledging that Jefferson is a cop and a good man, while not quite ignoring that ACAB. The fic on its own isn't pro or anti-cop.

Child Protective Services plays a role in this fic.